Archbishop Charles Cullen has issued the following statement:
“The sudden and tragic death of Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison has deeply saddened the Catholic Church of Baltimore. I ask the faithful of our archdiocese and all the people of our community to keep Archbishop Gunnison in their prayers. We commend our brother Wilfred to our merciful and loving God.”
Cullen and Martin read the statement again. It had its strengths.
“Let’s see your draft, Bryn,” Cullen said.
Martin slid copies across the table to Cullen and Kempe.
For Immediate Release
The Catholic Center, Archdiocese of Baltimore
Sunday, February 25, 2007
From the Office of the Archbishop
It is with deep regret and a heavy heart that I announce the sudden death of my predecessor and friend, Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison, the eighteenth archbishop of Baltimore.
On Saturday, February 24th, Archbishop Gunnison was celebrating his fiftieth anniversary as a priest. The celebration included a Mass at the Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary and a fundraising dinner for Catholic Charities. In the short time between the Mass and the dinner, Archbishop Gunnison was found dead in his reserved suite at the Inner Harbor Sheraton Hotel.
The cause of his death remains to be determined by the county medical examiner. However, we have reason to believe the archbishop took his own life.
I can report one consoling note. Archbishop Gunnison made a brief spiritual retreat at St. Mary’s Seminary in Emmitsburg just days before his death.
I ask the good people of Baltimore, especially their civic, religious, educational, and business leaders, and in particular the faithful of the archdiocese, to keep Archbishop Gunnison in your thoughts and to remember him in your prayers.
May God strengthen and comfort us all in this time of sadness and loss.
Cullen looked up at his two advisors. “These are both good, but I need to put my own mark on the statement—more or less.” Cullen offered a slight smile. “I’ll be drawing on your drafts, though. I tend to agree with you—at this time it’s best not to allude to Margaret’s accusatory petition. Let’s hope the media does not pick up on it. But we need to be ready if it does.”
“If you two don’t mind,” Cullen went on, “I’d appreciate it if you would stay close by for the next hour or so. I’ll call you when I’m ready to send the release to our Communications Department. The two men got up to leave when Cullen added, “You both look tired. Try to get some rest.”
Kempe let his guard down only after returning to the sanctuary of his Catholic Center office. He locked the door behind him, walked to his desk and lowered himself into his high-backed chair. So Cullen and Martin believed Wilfred committed suicide. Of course they would. So would everybody—everybody except M, Giorgio Grotti, and the chancellor of the Archdiocese of Baltimore. But could M and Giorgio really get away with it? God help the Brotherhood if they couldn’t. He suspected Cullen would draw more on Martin’s draft than his own. Cullen had never really trusted him, at least not the way he trusted Martin. But there were bigger concerns weighing on his mind than the press release about Wilfred’s death. Am I really an accomplice to murder? Might I go to jail? And the two other thoughts that were vastly perturbing—what else did Comiskey know, and how did she come to know it?
The maddening questions brought his anxiety back full force. Kempe had to call M, though he dreaded it. M, more than ever, held his career in his hands. And more than that—Aidan Kempe was now afraid of the man. There was no doubt now that M would sacrifice him in a minute for the good of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple. His fingers trembled as he tapped the numbers of M’s mobile phone. There was no answer to the first rings. He checked the desk clock. Almost two p.m.—six hours later in Rome. M was probably at dinner. Just as he was about to hang up, there was a connection.
“Yes?” M said in English, recognizing the U.S. country code.
“It’s me. I take it you have heard?” Kempe asked, assuming Giorgio had reached him before his call.
“Yes. What a shame, what a shame. Who would have thought the archbishop was so profoundly depressed?”
“Yes,” Kempe said hesitantly, almost choking on his words. “Who would have thought his Excellency was so depressed?” Their faux surprise, cloyed with starched formality, bordered on the obscene. But it meshed seamlessly with the unreality of their clerical world. They played their game with little awareness that a game was being played.
So, Kempe realized, they would proceed under the illusion that Wilfred’s death was a suicide. Of course, there could be no other way. Kempe waited for some allusion to Giorgio, but none came. He understood now, with frightening clarity, that M held in his hands not only his career, but his life.
“I need to inquire about this woman,” M continued, “the woman who offered the Prayer of the Faithful at the Mass.” He knows about Comiskey! “She is your secretary, is that not right? How is it that she believed our friend misbehaved?”
“I don’t know,” Kempe answered lamely. “My files contained only a few references to the allegations against the archbishop, a few notes. I am most scrupulous about their security. I am sure neither she nor anyone else ever had access to them. I have been very careful.”
Not careful enough, Kempe imagined M thinking.
“Is it possible that this woman knows about the Brotherhood?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. She knows only that I meet monthly for dinner with a small number of priests. Friends. She thinks it’s for fraternal support—an evening that’s social in nature.”
M remained silent looking out at the lights of Rome, trembling in deep twilight. He was not convinced. Oh Aidan, you disappoint me. How do you know what she thinks? “I assume she is no longer your secretary.”
“No. I mean yes,” Kempe stammered, “she’s no longer my secretary. She left a letter of resignation on my desk when she left work on Friday.” Kempe said nothing about Comiskey’s citation of Daniel 5:7, did not admit she may have accessed his personal computer. “She has terminated her relationship with the archdiocese,” he added definitively.
“We shall see,” M said vaguely. “Do everything you can to distance our deceased friend from the Brotherhood. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Yes, Bishop,” Kempe said emphatically. “Yes, of course.”
“Good evening, then, Monsignor.” M broke the connection.
Kempe, with M’s voice still in his ears, called Tom Fenton.
“Tom, it’s me.”
“Christ Almighty, Aidan, what the hell is going on? Herm and the others and me—we’re in shock. We can’t believe what Wilfred did.”
Kempe ignored him.
“I just got off the phone with M, with Murex himself. It’s necessary that we keep the monthly meetings suspended indefinitely. More than ever, we need to distance ourselves from Wilfred.”
“Well, that’s what you said at our last meeting. So, we don’t meet until you give us a signal. I’ll call Herm, Eric, and Paul.”
“Good. Do that. I’m up to my neck in dealing with the media and the funeral plans.”
“Aidan,” Fenton asked directly, too directly for Kempe, “how did Comiskey find out about allegations against Wilfred? I thought you had his past mistakes under wrap, under control?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” Kempe went silent for a few seconds, then added, “Tom, we have to assume she might know about the Brotherhood. Call Herm, Eric, and Paul right away.”
“I spoke briefly with Eric and Paul in the sacristy after the Mass. They were really shaken. I didn’t get a chance to talk to them at the hotel. I’m afraid they may be coming a little unglued. But I’ll manage them.”
Kempe knew he could confide his secret with absolutely no one. Not even Tom Fenton or Herm Volker. Nor could he say anything about Comiskey having the password to his computer. “Wilfred’s suicide has us all shaken.” He
paused, trying to think. “It would be a good idea to call Paul and Eric regularly, even every day. We don’t want them breaking down and talking to their classmates—or to anyone else.”
Giorgio closed his mobile phone and started planning how to execute his new assignment.
As soon as M had concluded talking to Kempe, he had placed a call to Giorgio.
“Yes,” he had said in response to M’s question. “I know who she is. I know where she lives.”
“Unfortunately, this woman has become a threat,” is all that M had to say.
Giorgio had his instructions. This, too, would be a delicate and challenging operation, though definitely less dangerous than the last. This time he was free to choose the time and place. But M’s tone had made it clear. He was to act soon…for the good of Holy Mother Church.
36
The Monday morning following Gunnison’s death, Mark Anderlee and Margaret Comiskey sipped coffee at her kitchen table. “I think I’m feeling a little better,” she sighed.
Mark didn’t believe her. She certainly didn’t look any better.
“It was good of you to spend the last two nights here, but I’m going to be all right.”
“Promise you’ll call me if the media hassles you,” Mark said. “Just say you have nothing to say. And let me know if anyone from the Catholic Center calls. I can afford to get you a good lawyer if they threaten you with legal action. Don’t be afraid of them.”
Margaret tried to smile a thank you. But Gunnison’s suicide had hit her hard. From the moment she heard the news in her nephew’s parking garage, her will for revenge had melted into a swirling pool of regret. But her will for the truth to get to Archbishop Cullen and Bryn Martin hadn’t. They needed to know why she did what she had done.
“Aunt Margaret, it’s not your fault Gunnison took his life. The stuff he did would have come out sooner or later.” Margaret really doubted that Gunnison’s abuse would ever have been discovered. But Mark was only trying to comfort her. She nodded, as if in agreement.
Mark got up to leave, bent down and kissed his aunt on the cheek. “I’ll be calling every few hours,” he said, moving for his coat and the duffle bag resting on the living room chair next to her front door.
“Mark,” Margaret said gently, “that gun of yours. It makes me nervous.”
Mark nodded. “It will be out of your house in a minute. It’s in my bag.”
“And I have a favor to ask. Would you drop the package on the dining room table at FedEx? It’s addressed to Bishop Bryn Martin at the Catholic Center. I’ll feel a little better if Bishop Martin and Archbishop Cullen understand why I did what I did.”
Mark would have done anything to help lift his aunt’s guilt.
“Make sure it’s same day delivery.” She consulted her watch and nodded. “And get a tracking number.”
“Done,” he said. “And don’t think of reaching for your purse. Let me pay for this.”
“Thank you.”
“Love you, Aunt Margaret. Bye.”
Giorgio placed his coffee cup in the beverage holder of his rented Honda Civic, parked four houses from Comiskey’s, and watched Anderlee walk to his SUV. He scribbled the time and Anderlee’s description onto a note pad. He had to be the driver of the vehicle that whisked her away during the Mass. Maybe he was her son? M hadn’t mentioned any family. But how would he know, living in Rome, if Comiskey had family in Baltimore? Giorgio thought of calling Kempe but decided against it. The less contact with him the better.
Returning his attention to the assignment at hand, Giorgio calculated the best opportunity would be early evening, with still some daylight—she would be more likely to let him in—and less of a chance for the media to show up. Giorgio turned the ignition key. Too risky to wait this close to the house. In a few hours he would return to pay this woman an official visit from a Vatican emissary.
Margaret walked back into her kitchen and put her mug of tea into the microwave. She was glad Mark had stayed with her the past two nights but now, to her surprise, she wanted only to be alone. Bryn and Archbishop Cullen would soon be wading through the contents of Kempe’s private files. If they couldn’t forgive her, maybe they might understand a little. The two other copies from Kempe’s files were wrapped and tucked away on a shelf in her basement. She had planned—before Gunnison’s death—to send one set to the Baltimore Sun and maybe the other to the prosecutor’s office right after the jubilee celebration. But now that didn’t seem right. He’s dead already, she told herself. For the first time since Mark had told her of Gunnison’s abuse, Margaret Comiskey felt a need to pray.
A half hour later, Margaret knew it was time to call Ella Landers.
“Ella, it’s Margaret.”
“For God’s sake, Margaret, I’ve been worried sick! I must have called you a dozen times since the Mass. Where are you? How are you?”
“I’m at home. I go from being kind of okay to being a mess. Mark stayed with me the last two nights. He told me to turn off my cell and unplug my land line. I’m sorry. I should have called you. But I didn’t want to involve you in this any more than I have already.”
“I’m driving up to see you,” Landers said emphatically. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Margaret was waiting at the door as Ella came up the steps to her porch. Once inside, they embraced without speaking. As they finally stepped back, both women had tears in their eyes.
“I’m so sorry I got you into this, Ella. It wasn’t fair of me to ask you to do what I asked you to do.”
“One of the things I learned as a Foreign Service officer,” Ella responded softly, “—and, between you and me, as a CIA operative—is that working to get the truth out is always a noble endeavor. We got the truth out, even if it never is acknowledged by the church.”
Margaret squeezed the tissue in her hand and raised a hint of a smile at the most comforting words she had ever heard—a kind of absolution.
“Over the years,” Ella went on, “I’ve come to think it’s more difficult for the church to get the truth out than it is for our government. Both institutions stand ready to sacrifice the truth for the corporate good. We don’t always have to broadcast the truth, but if we deny it, we’re in terrible trouble.”
They sat in Margaret’s living room, small but uncluttered—like a convent parlor. A picture of Mark, taken at the time of his graduation from Loyola Blakefield, rested on the side table next to the sofa. Another, in his army uniform, rested at an angle at the end of the mantel of her fireplace.
“Something happened, Ella, when Mark told me he was abused by Gunnison. It’s like I grew up.” She smiled at Landers. “And for God’s sake, we’re in our sixties. I’m in my sixties!”
“Age really doesn’t matter, Margaret. I’ve seen senior field operators who were literally shattered when they discovered the shadow side of the Agency. Some came unglued. Some resigned. Some just disappeared…and one lives in Silver Spring.”
Margaret sat stunned. “Oh Ella. You haven’t judged me.” She wanted to cry. “And I have no idea what you have endured, what you’ve been through. I’ve always idealized your life overseas…so very different from my maddeningly routine life at the Catholic Center.”
“Not so different, really,” Ella said thoughtfully. “I worked for the most powerful government in the world. You worked for the most powerful church in the world. We both worked for empires. And empires don’t work anymore—secular or religious. If I am sure of nothing else, I’m sure of that.”
“Still,” Margaret said, “what I did at the Mass was wrong. And now the archbishop is dead. I should have just sent the papers from Kempe’s drawer to Archbishop Cullen. I should have let Cullen deal with Gunnison.”
Ella shrugged as if to say, “Maybe.”
“When I found out Gunnison abused other boys as well as Mark, I discovered my own shadow side, as you put it. I discovered I could hate. I wanted revenge, like I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.” Her eyes fill
ed and she reached for a tissue. “I couldn’t think of anything else. Revenge, only revenge.” Ella sat still. But her silence held its own message. It seemed to fill the living room with a quiet wave of compassion. Margaret let her friend’s warmth wash over her like a second baptism.
“You know what I want to do right now, Ella? I want to go to confession.”
37
Ian Landers took his place at the seminar table and opened the manila folder with his notes on the Council of Trent. He felt a chill in the room, a tension unusual for this point in the seminar. Then he noticed him. Joe Constanza sat rigid and red-faced with what Ian took as a simmering anger.
“Dr. Landers, I saw you at the Jubilee Mass for Archbishop Gunnison last Saturday. I was one of the seminarians serving.”
“Yes, I saw you.” Landers looked around the table, unsure how many of the students were aware of the retired archbishop’s fiftieth anniversary Mass and his tragic death. “Some of you know that soon after the Mass that Joe served for the archbishop, Archbishop Gunnison took his own life.”
Most of the students nodded.
“Why,” Constanza blurted, “would someone do what that lady did?” His speech was clipped, like the ra-tat-tat of machine gun fire. “That was calumny! She tried to destroy the archbishop’s reputation during his ordination anniversary Mass!”
The high drama had the students on the edge of their chairs looking from Constanza to their professor and back. Ian had to acknowledge the tension and passion in the room beat anything he could say about the Council of Trent.
“The archbishop was so mortified that he couldn’t face the people at the dinner.” Constanza realized some didn’t know about the dinner, so he added, “There was supposed to be a fundraising dinner for Catholic Charities after the Mass.”
The clarification gave Landers an opportunity to intervene, but he let Constanza finish his rant.
“I don’t believe Archbishop Gunnison did anything wrong,” Constanza barreled on. “Even if he had done something wrong, you don’t use the Mass to accuse him!”
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