The Only Good Priest

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Smith knew,” I said. “I’d bet the rent that smug shit at the chancery killed him. I’d bet the penthouse I’m right.”

  He rolled on his side and looked at me. “The priest did it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know yet.” In my excitement I’d forgotten my painful ribs. I twisted quickly to get up. A sharp jolt brought me up short.

  “Easy,” Scott said. “I think he’s a shit, but that doesn’t mean he committed murder.”

  “He’s a shit and a murderer.” I got up. “We’re going over there now.”

  “Shouldn’t we call Turner in the morning? You have no proof he even had access to any medicine. Others must have known. Come back to bed.”

  “Very few people knew. Sebastian was real close-mouthed. I want to do something about it now.” I began to get dressed. With some reluctance he followed suit.

  Outside, the cold snap that normally follows snow in Chicago in winter had arrived on schedule. We took a cab to the cathedral rectory, arriving just after ten forty-five. “They’re probably all asleep,” he mumbled as we drove over. The place blazed with light. A fairly drunk priest opened the door. He cast a more than appreciative glance at us as we stood in the hallway. I couldn’t imagine how gay priests could live with themselves and speak for a church that feared and hated them. He swished his pudgy form up a flight of stairs and returned with Bishop Smith, then left. Smith wore his black pants, suit jacket, and Roman collar. He’d drunk far less than his recently departed brother of the cloth.

  He ushered us into the study and offered us a drink. We said no.

  “It’s late for a social call, gentlemen. I’d like to get back to the party upstairs.”

  “You’re the murderer,” I said. As I explained, the priest’s gray eyebrows gathered in a condescending frown.

  “That’s absurd,” he said when I finished. He stood up. “I’ll thank you to leave.”

  “We’re staying,” I said. “You could have tampered with his medicine at any time, maybe on a visit to the rectory. Who would be suspicious of a bishop?”

  “I’ll make allowances for the trauma you’ve been through,” Smith said. “However, you are beginning to try my patience.”

  I said, “Tomorrow morning we’ll see who else knew about the medicine. Somebody must have what was left of his pills. We’ll find out who in the police department had them, or is supposed to have them. We’ll find a trail that leads to you.”

  He laughed. “You boys had best take your vivid imaginations and go.”

  Eventually Scott led me out, sputtering and defiant.

  “He did it,” I kept repeating as we took a cab home.

  “We can’t prove it,” Scott said.

  “Drive to the Twenty-third District police station, Clark and Addison,” I ordered the cab driver.

  “Now what?” Scott asked. “It’s late. You’re still recovering from the accident. You need rest.”

  “I want to know who’s got the medicine now, and who knew he was taking it.” To the police station, up the stairs from Halsted Street, through the door, to the front desk, where we asked for Turner. He wasn’t in. The cops recognized Scott and offered to help us. One cop said somebody else had called for Turner only a few minutes before.

  “Smith,” I guessed.

  “I could tell you from the central computer downtown tomorrow,” the cop said. We described Smith’s voice, but he wasn’t sure it was the same one.

  I asked about tracing the medicine. It was late, but for Scott Carpenter, they’d do what they could. After fifteen minutes of phone calls a cop came back to us.

  “I had somebody in the evidence lockup check the records in the case. No pills or medicine checked in at any point.”

  I was on my way out the door. I heard Scott thank the cop for his help. Slowed by my ribs, I eased toward the curb. I wanted a pain pill. I hailed a cab. Scott joined me.

  “You’re going to have to slow down,” Scott said. “We have no proof there were any pills. You’re convinced it’s the priest. It could be any number of people. Let’s go home.”

  I said, “One more stop: Roscoe’s. Let’s see if we can’t get the bartender to identify the therapist and Bishop Smith.”

  “What for?” Scott asked.

  “Humor me, please.”

  He shrugged agreement.

  We found the bartender who’d recognized Sebastian’s picture. An unusually large crowd and loud noise from the videos made it difficult for us to talk to him. Finally, Scott pulled him aside near the back of the bar. I leaned close enough to hear. Scott gave him two descriptions, one of Smith, the other of the psychologist Kramer.

  The bartender shrugged. “Could be either guy. Even if I saw them together, I doubt I’d be sure. In fact it could have been both of them, now that you mention it, on the same night in here. Lots of people stopped by to talk to the priest because he wore the outfit.” Several patrons tried to get his attention. “Look, I got to get back. Sorry.”

  “What did that prove?” Scott asked.

  “It establishes a point of contact,” I said.

  “Don’t take this wrong,” Scott said, “but big fucking deal. You’re being stubborn and not looking at this logically.”

  “I don’t care.” I felt unreasonable and put upon. “I’m going out to the rectory to look for those pills. You don’t know for sure they aren’t there.”

  He slammed his fist down on the bar. Nearby patrons stared. A few moved away. “Will you stop and think?” he demanded. “You want to go running around the city and suburbs on some wild chase after what very likely doesn’t exist?”

  I stared into those deep blue eyes. He put a hand on my arm. “Think,” he said calmly.

  I turned and placed my elbows on the bar. He moved close and placed an arm gently around my shoulders. I could feel the warmth of his closeness.

  “It’s late,” he said. “We can talk about this more quietly at home.”

  “I guess.” As we turned to go, I grabbed his sleeve. “Monica’s source, the old guy, Father Stuart!” I said.

  “Now what?”

  “The Weber sisters said he’d been one of the ones who came to clear out Sebastian’s room at the rectory.”

  “The old guy didn’t do it,” Scott said.

  We bickered and argued out the door and in the cab, all the way back to the cathedral rectory. The lecherous drunk at the door told us where Father Stuart’s room was. The sounds of a party still echoed on the second floor. Up on the third floor we marched to Stuart’s room. Light came from under the door, but I got no answer to my knock. I opened the door. Smith sat on the bed with his head in his hands. Stuart sat at a desk, a dark brown prescription bottle in front of him.

  “I’ve been expecting you gentlemen,” Stuart said.

  We sat down in chairs opposite the bed. The room had a large oriental rug in the center, with polished hardwood around the edges. A window looked out onto State Street. On one wall Stuart had a collection of Victorian miniature paintings, all elegantly framed. Other than a cross over the head of the bed, these were the only decorations. Only one light was on in the room. The lamp on the desk shone on Stuart’s hands on the desk and on his eyes.

  Silence built for several minutes.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Smith pulled his hands away from his head. He stared at the tips of the fingernails on his right hand while he spoke. “We were so close when we were in seminary. A year ago I’d begun meeting him every Sunday to talk over the life we had. I’d watched his career. He’d become a dedicated, brave man, defying the diocese and not hiding his homosexuality. I’d finally learned how much I needed love. In the seminary I rejected his advances. I’d let him hug me chastely. He wanted passion. I wouldn’t respond. I was terrified. I almost turned him in. I’d have ruined a good priest’s life.” He sighed. “I’ll never forget that time we flew to Selma together.”

  “Father Stuart told us about it,�
�� I said.

  He finally looked up. “Probably not everything. We went to Selma to march. I took one look at the situation and got on the next plane back to Chicago. He stayed. He cared. He had commitment and drive. He deserved the honors and placement that were coming to me.

  “I wanted his love. I told him so. I told him that after all these years I loved him.” He drew a shuddering breath. “He rejected me, very kindly, very gently. He said I’d have to find my own person to love. Then he told me he had AIDS.”

  A tear formed at the corner of his eye and began to trickle down his cheek. “I’d gotten everything I’d ever wanted in my life. I’m clever and competent, and I became a very powerful bishop. Now I realized the one thing I wanted more than anything else was his love and respect. I saw I’d never have either. I also felt incredible guilt. If I’d loved him all those years ago, he wouldn’t be dying. I wanted to hurt him.”

  He took out a hankerchief and wiped his face. He continued dry-eyed. “God, how I hated him! I wanted to kill him. Who knew when he’d die from an opportunistic infection? I began trying to poison him. I tried it a few times with his drinks at Roscoe’s, but the opportunity never came up. If nothing else, that damn therapist was in the way. Sebastian told me he was taking AZT. I figured that was my chance. I visited the rectory numerous times. On one of my visits I went to his room. I emptied the medicine from two of the capsules and substituted cyanide. I wasn’t sure of the amount needed. I didn’t know when he’d take the fatal dose. Eventually he did, and he died. After your visit tonight, I figured I had to get the rest of the medicine back, to see if there were any traces or if the second capsule was left. I came here to ask Father Stuart. I knew he had helped clean the room. Now you know everything.”

  Saturday afternoon I talked to Kramer the therapist. He unbent far enough to tell me that Sebastian had come to him after he tested positive. Sebastian had broken his vow of celibacy once, six years ago. The guilt and self-recriminations had nearly driven him crazy. As far as Kramer knew, Sebastian had told only Smith about having AIDS, so my guess the night before had been accurate. Only Smith could have known to sabotage his medicine.

  On Saturday evening at my place, Glen, Scott, Jerry, and I were eating popcorn and playing Monopoly, as usual.

  “You should’ve seen ’em, Dad,” he said for the tenth time. “Uncle Tom and Uncle Scott were great. They could fight a battalion by themselves.” Such is the faith of twelve-year-olds.

  In the kitchen earlier I asked Glen how the kid had been. “Scared but okay,” he told me. They’d gone to a therapist as a family. He’d told them to come back only if Jerry showed signs of having problems.

  Later, Jerry came in the kitchen while I stacked dirty dishes. Glen and Scott cleaned up the living room.

  “We haven’t had much time to talk,” I said. “How’re you holding up? That must have been awful to go through.” I’d gotten sketchy details of the ordeal from Glen. Jerry talked about it for a little bit, seemed uneasy. Finally he blurted out, “What if you guys hadn’t shown up?”

  I put an arm on his shoulder and he moved into an embrace. Another year or so and he wouldn’t want an adult near him.

  I held him, soothed him. Scott called from the living room. “Jerry, your dad’s in the car waiting.”

  Jerry looked up at me and said, “I love you, Uncle Tom.”

  “I love you too,” I said. With a final squeeze he bounced out of the kitchen. I joined Scott in the living room. As we stood together and watched their car’s taillights move out of the driveway and pull away, I put my arm around Scott’s waist and pulled him close.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Zubro, Mark Richard.

  The only good priest / Mark Richard Zubro.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-07054-3 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PS3576.U225055 1991

  813’.54—dc20

  91-15559

  CIP

  Designed by Dawn Niles

  eISBN 9781466802797

  First eBook Edition : October 2011

  THE ONLY GOOD PRIEST. Copyright © 1991 by Mark Richard Zubro. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.