“Awaiting assignment,” Cullen had said. So, what’s the worst he can he do? Assign me to a parish? No doubt as far away from the Catholic Center as possible. Monsignor Aidan Kempe, former chancellor of the Archdiocese of Baltimore, leader of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple, arch-defender of the church’s orthodoxy, reached for his handkerchief. His eyes were burning. He was unaccustomed to the feeling.
Safe now in the sanctuary of his office, Kempe moved to his favorite window. It was yet another bleak, gray, late February day. Cullen had treated him like some common employee—and in front of Martin. His archrival had witnessed his humiliation. The two would pay for what they had just done to him. But now he must think clearly. There was a time for everything under heaven. And their time would come.
Pushing aside his anger at Cullen and Martin, Kempe understood his real enemy was Comiskey. He hated her for her sacrilegious betrayal. How did she obtain the names of Wilfred’s accusers? And how did she obtain copies of almost everything in his private file? And what if there were other copies? Where might they be? Maybe Martin was behind all this. Kempe thought it was rather unlikely. Martin was too much of a Boy Scout. Only a professional thief would have been able to open that drawer without signs of forced entry. But then why leave the cash? No, whoever opened his file was not looking for money. This enemy was not a thief. And this made him—or her—all the more dangerous.
Comiskey was the key to it all. Kempe knew she had been shocked and upset by the scandals. Most Catholics were. And most Catholics would have been shocked to find out their retired archbishop had been accused of abuse himself. But there had to be something more, something else going on for her to do what she had done. He thought he had had a reasonably good working relationship with her, and Comiskey appeared to have been on friendly terms with Wilfred. Then, out of nowhere, Kempe remembered the name of the first victim she mentioned at the Mass—Mark. Mark Anderlee? Dear God! She knew Mark Anderlee. There was that sudden change in her mood right around the time Anderlee had confronted Wilfred. Had she discovered that Wilfred had abused Mark Anderlee?
Kempe got up from his desk and moved to his outer office, now emptied of Comiskey’s personal belongings. Its stark bareness a silent cry of accusation. He tried to picture her credenza. There had been pictures of her nephew and godson—as a high school graduate and as an army sergeant. Comiskey had mentioned him by name numerous times, but he had never really paid attention. Kempe sat down at her desk and let the realization sink in: Mark Anderlee was Margaret Comiskey’s nephew and godson.
Kempe stood up abruptly and went back into his office, closed and locked the door. He now had Comiskey’s motive. She wanted to destroy Wilfred. But how had she gotten her hands on his files? He would find out. And he would destroy her. Right now he had to call M. Then he needed to transfer the contents of his private drawer to a safe-deposit box. He touched in M’s number, hoping to catch him before his midday siesta. M picked up on the third ring.
“Excellency, it’s Aidan. I’m calling to tell you that we’ve been compromised.”
“Tell me precisely what you mean, Monsignor,” M demanded.
“I’m afraid it’s no longer the case of one woman knowing some names and knowing about the Brotherhood. Someone, somehow, invaded my private file and made copies of its contents. Archbishop Cullen, himself, has copies of what was in this file.”
M stated coldly, “And we have to presume, do we not, that others do too? Do we not have to presume, Monsignor Kempe, that others have information about the Brotherhood, information that was your responsibility to safeguard?”
Kempe’s breathing became shallow as his T-shirt stuck to his damp armpits.
M’s voice remained even but icy. “Might copies of your private file reach civil authorities?”
‘That’s not likely,” Kempe responded quickly. “However the contents of my private file were obtained, they were obtained illegally. Our laws prohibit illegally obtained evidence from being used in criminal proceedings.”
M remained silent, unnerving Kempe all the more.
“Excellency, believe me,” he rushed on, “there’s really nothing to prosecute. I broke none of our laws. The media would only be interested in the priests accused of sexual abuse.”
“And would they not be most interested in allegations against Archbishop Gunnison?” M asked rhetorically. “So, let me see if I understand, Monsignor. It’s not only this one woman, your secretary, who has copies of your private file with information on the Brotherhood. Is that not the situation?”
Kempe squeezed his eyes shut. He had no answer.
M paced in impatience in the ensuing silence. Eliminating Aidan’s secretary would do little good for the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple now.
“Monsignor,” M said speaking slowly but with force, “as far as you and your priest companions know, there is no such thing as a Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple. You have never heard of such a society. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely, Excellency.” He could live with denial with the best of them.
“Bene,” M responded.
Kempe hesitated, then added, “You should know that Archbishop Cullen has relieved me of my responsibilities as chancellor. I am awaiting assignment—probably to a country parish as far away from the chancery as possible.”
“This is your cross, Monsignor. This is your cross.”
M walked to the window of his apartment and found the lighted dome of St. Peter’s Basilica soothing. It was magnificent, ageless, indestructible. So, he believed, was the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide—the secretary! He had a call to make. Giorgio.
40
Margaret Comiskey stood at her sink washing the cups and saucers from her tea with Ella. So, she mused, I was an atheist for a few weeks. Maybe that’s some kind of record? For the first time in almost a month, a smile softened her lips.
Years ago, she had placed a framed copy of the prayer of St. Francis above her sink. She read the first line: “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.” Peace, she now understood, couldn’t keep company with hatred. The exploding hatred and relentless desire for revenge that so surprised her were sinking behind a distant horizon, like a fiery red sunset. In the ensuing twilight, Margaret was finding her religious footing. But she would never again be naïve about the church.
Drying the dishes she thought of Mark. She had told no one but Mark of her plan to expose Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison at his Jubilee Mass. He had reacted strangely, she remembered. He had looked away once he understood what she intended to do. When he turned back, his expression had softened. He looked as if he was calculating something. “Aunt Margaret,” she remembered him saying, “Your plan is so much better than mine.”
Her doorbell’s chime startled her. Margaret finished drying her hands, and moved through the dining room to the front door. Through the side pane of glass that framed the door, she saw a man in a black overcoat. His coat was open, revealing a black clerical shirt with a Roman collar. She knew many of the archdiocesan priests, but this one was unfamiliar to her.
“Miss Comiskey?” he asked as Margaret opened the door.
Margaret nodded, “Yes, may I help you?”
“Good afternoon. Or good evening. The sun is almost down.” He spoke formally, with a distinct European accent. “I apologize for stopping without calling first. But you will understand in a moment why my visit is urgent. I am Monsignor Giancarlo Foscari.”
He handed her a small, cordovan leather wallet framing a laminated Vatican identification card with his picture and the Holy See’s seal. Beneath the seal were two unintelligible signatures with small crosses before each name. Margaret knew the signatories were bishops.
“I won’t take much of your time. I’m here investigating for the Holy See the recent allegations brought against Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison.” Foscari paused, a sign of respect for the deceased prelate. “May I come in?”
Margaret stepped back
and let the Vatican official into her living room, then pointed to the chair Ella had occupied less than an hour earlier. This, she thought, seemed to be incredibly swift action on the part of the Vatican.
Giorgio smiled. This would be relatively easy. The tricky part had been getting into the house without alarming her. Now that he was inside, he would spend only enough time to get her to relax and to accept the story that he was a Vatican emissary. If the house had a basement, all the better. Her snapped neck would be the tragic outcome of an accidental fall down a flight of steps leading to a concrete floor. After a few questions about Gunnison’s reported misconduct with young boys, he would ask for a glass of water. He would be careful not to touch anything, and when Margaret went into the kitchen, he would follow unobtrusively. While her back was to him, he would approach her from behind. She would die quickly.
“Tell me, Miss Comiskey,” Foscari asked, “did you ever see the archbishop display inappropriate behavior at the Catholic Center, or anywhere else, for that matter?”
“No, I didn’t.”
She had expected the Vatican investigator to ask how long she had worked at the Catholic Center, how closely she may have worked with the archbishop, what she thought of him. But no, only this direct but vague question about “inappropriate behavior.” He wasn’t taking notes. He didn’t have a tape-recorder. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable. In all her years working for the church, she had never heard of Vatican investigators operating in the U.S.
“I don’t mean to impose,” Foscari said smoothly, but may I trouble you for a glass of water?” Margaret thought of the wall phone in the kitchen. If she got him a glass of water, she could place a quiet call to Mark.
Margaret forced a smile. “Of course, Monsignor.” She rose from her chair and started for the kitchen. Without turning she heard the priest stand. “Please wait here,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s no trouble.” But he was following her into the kitchen. Margaret shivered. Why in God’s name had she let him into her home? A sudden shock of fear ran through her.
The priest was no longer smiling as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Then, to her surprise, he slowly, devoutly, blessed himself—making the sign of the cross, whispering in Italian. What he was about to do he was doing under holy obedience!
He was wearing rubber gloves.
Giorgio regretted that he wasn’t able to approach her from behind. Still, the terror in her eyes had no effect on him.
Margaret stepped back against the sink counter. She was trapped. As he moved toward her, both were startled by the ring of his cell phone. Giorgio hesitated, trying to decide whether or not to answer. He took a step back and reached into his pocket.
“Yes?” He listened without taking his eyes off Comiskey. Margaret stood frozen, her lower back pressed hard against the sink’s counter edge. After listening for only seconds, Giorgio closed the phone and put it back into his coat pocket.
He took another step—but this time backwards. He held her in his gaze as he took still another step backwards. Then, walking swiftly toward her front door, he said coolly,
“Ah, scuzi.” He caught himself, “I am so sorry, but I must conclude our interview at once. Something quite urgent has come up.”
Running to the door, Margaret locked it behind him, then leaned against it, shaking uncontrollably. Impulsively, she moved the curtain to see if this intruder was really off her porch. She saw him moving quickly but without running to a car parked several houses down the street.
Margaret, her mouth parched and her lungs heaving, ran to her phone. Her first call was to Mark. He would be right over. She reached Ella’s answering machine and asked her to call as soon as she could. Ella would hear the trembling in her voice. Her third call was to Bryn Martin. He, too, would be there as soon as possible. In the meantime, he told her to call a neighbor to come and keep her company—and to turn on all her lights.
Margaret sat at her kitchen table wearing two sweaters and sipping a glass of chardonnay. Her hands had finally stopping trembling, but her eyes bore the strain of the last three hours. Mark and Bryn Martin were seated on either side of her. Her nephew had been polite but reserved when she had introduced him to Bishop Martin. He was cutting him some slack, Margaret was sure, because he was his aunt’s friend. But he would wait and see.
“I’m sorry about what happened today to your Aunt Margaret,” Bryn said to Mark. “And I’m sincerely sorry about what Archbishop Gunnison did to you when you were a boy.” The apology caught Mark by surprise. He had been waiting to hear that apology for twenty-five years. He turned his head away from Bryn, afraid of the swelling behind his eyes.
“Archbishop Cullen will be calling you soon,” Bryn added gently. “I hope you will let him come to see you.”
Mark seemed to signal yes without saying a word.
Margaret, Bryn, and Mark sat at the kitchen table trying to make some sense out of the intrusion by the self-identified Vatican investigator. Two Baltimore police officers had left a half hour earlier, saying that a detective would be calling sometime the next day. In the meantime, they would run a criminal records check on Giancarlo Foscari and place a call to the State Department.
“His identification looked official,” Margaret said. “But as soon as I let him in I felt I made a mistake. He caught me off guard, I guess.”
“I’m interested in the description you gave the police,” Bryn said speaking to Margaret. “On the tall side for an Italian, you thought. Muscular upper body, perhaps in his middle thirties.”
“Yes, and his English was good. Just a slight accent.”
“I think I may have seen him at the Mass,” Bryn interrupted, “There was a man sitting in the back of the Basilica wearing a black coat with a scarf wrapped around his neck. I couldn’t tell if he was in a collar or not. One of our security people saw him leave the Basilica through the main entrance right after you went out the side door. A minute later he came back in.”
Mark looked up. “He might’ve gotten the license plate number of my Explorer.”
Ella Landers arrived and, after a long, silent embrace with Margaret, joined the circle at the kitchen table, feeling like she was sinking into a well of guilt. By agreeing to the Catholic Center operation she had put into motion a process that placed her life-long friend in mortal danger. Now briefed on the details of the intrusion and still fighting through the web of self-incrimination, Ella asked, “Who was this Monsignor Foscari working for? And why did he want to harm you? And who called him as he stood here in your kitchen?”
Both Ella and Bryn were thinking of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple and Ian’s find in the Combier papers. Exposing Gunnison as an abuser had put the Brotherhood in jeopardy. But the file’s other contents, now in the hands of Archbishop Cullen, might be the Brotherhood’s death knell, at least in the U.S.
“If your former boss, this Kempe guy, had anything to do with this, Aunt Margaret, he’ll be sorry,” Mark said evenly.
“I’m going to spend the night here, too,” Ella said firmly.
Margaret nodded. “Thank you. I would feel better with you and Mark in the house.”
Martin was the first to get up from the table. He approached his shaken friend and hugged her. “Thank God you are safe, Margaret. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Ella walked Bryn to the door. “We need to talk.”
“Yes, I know,” he responded. “And soon. I’ll call you in the morning.”
41
This gets more bizarre by the hour.” Charles Cullen said to Bryn. “You’re telling me a man conducting a Vatican investigation, with Vatican credentials, was in Margaret’s home—you believe with intent to kill—but fled after receiving a phone call?”
“Margaret thought she was about to be murdered when his cell phone rang. He put on gloves. He blessed himself.”
Cullen frowned, then asked, “She’s not alone, is she?”
“Ella Landers and her nephew are with her. She’s still badly shaken.�
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“Of course,” the archbishop said.
“You should know, Charles, that the description of the intruder she gave the police matches up pretty close to the man we spotted in the back of the Basilica at the start of Wilfred’s Mass.”
“I need time to piece this together,” Cullen said almost in a whisper. He sat thinking for a minute, then with force in his voice said, “I want to talk to Margaret. Right now. Would you call her for me?”
Martin reached for the phone on Cullen’s desk and called Comiskey’s number.
“Margaret, its Bryn. How are you?”
“Better,” she answered. “Rested.”
“Good. I’m glad you got some sleep. I’m calling from Archbishop Cullen’s office. He would like to speak with you.”
“Just a minute. Just hold for a minute, please,” Margaret said. Putting her hand over the phone’s speaker, she looked across the kitchen table at Ella and Mark. “It’s Archbishop Cullen. He wants to speak to me.”
Mark shook his head. “No way. Just hang up.”
“I think you should, Margaret. Really,” Ella said.
Comiskey took a deep breath, mustering her courage. “Bryn? All right. Put him on.”
“Margaret? This is Charles Cullen. Bryn just told me what happened last night. I am so very sorry.”
“Thank you, Archbishop. I’m still shaking. It was foolish of me to let him in.”
“Bryn mentioned you’re not alone. And you shouldn’t be, of course, until we find out just what is going on. Who’s behind this. Please let Bryn know if there is anything I can do to help you get through this ordeal,” Cullen said gently.
Margaret reached for the box of tissues on the table. She had to wait a moment before she could reply, “I want you to know how sorry I am for what I did at Archbishop Gunnison’s Mass. Something very dark came over me when I discovered that my nephew had been abused by him. I don’t expect you to understand, but I do hope you’ll accept my apology.”
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