Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  His second reservation involved the table talk. He found it too religious-oriented. He preferred the cosmopolitan flavor of Al Braemar, Vice President of Ford Motor Company, or the in-house gossip of Tony Vermiglio, head of P.R. at General Motors. In either case, conversation was spiced with the presence of high finance. Now he found himself liquorless and listening to a conversation regarding dated T-shirts. It was enough to drive a man to drink. Which he vowed would happen later this afternoon.

  “Or, perhaps, “Vatican Council One,’” suggested Shanahan.

  “Or ‘Trent,’” Stirling contributed.

  “Or ‘Council of Jerusalem.’”

  “Or ‘Vatican III.’”

  “What in the world are you guys getting at?” asked an irritated Thompson.

  “Oh,” Stirling, Thompson’s assistant, answered, “Joe and I were talking about some experiences we’ve each had lately.”

  “Yeah,” said Shanahan, “when you meet a priest these days, you have to sort of feel him out to discover which theology he favors.”

  “What do you mean, ‘which theology’?” Thompson growled. “There’s only one theology taught through the ordinary magisterium and protected by the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”

  Cunneen chortled. “That’s the happy gang who brought us the Inquisition.”

  “I wouldn’t put that in the past tense, Bill,” said Stirling. “They’re still chewing up avant-garde theologians.”

  “Yes,” Shanahan said, “and only Henry Higgins preferred a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition to letting a woman in his life.”

  “Somehow, I knew you would get around to women,” Thompson snarled.

  “Not only are they here to stay, Monsignor,” said Cunneen, “but some of them actually want the same rights we’ve got.”

  “There you go again with that equality crap, Cunneen.” Thompson was growing angry. “What women really want is the license to be aborted anytime they feel like it. I knew this would happen when we began to inform them of the rules and regulations of the rhythm system of family planning. Give the laity information, and they’ll abuse it every time. And I’ve said that before!” He looked pointedly toward the Archbishop, seated nearby.

  “Well,” said Boyle, who put a fairly high priority on peace in the ranks, “there is more than a modicum of truth in what Fathers Shanahan and Stirling have said. It wasn’t always as it is. In a former day, nothing but age, and sometimes not even that, separated the clergy. It was easy to move about in otherwise heterogeneous circles and find a warm, unquestioning welcome in rectories throughout the country. Indeed, throughout the world.”

  “Those were experiences you younger guys will never have,” Thompson snapped.

  “I fear that may be so,” said Boyle, with a touch of nostalgia. “Nowadays, there is no age gap such as the one in theology. That is true even to a certain extent among bishops.”

  Thompson, deadly tired of the luncheon conversation, excused himself, prayed a brief, private aftermeal grace, and returned to the Tribunal office.

  “Do I have any appointments?” he asked Mary Alberts, the Tribunal secretary.

  “Yes, Monsignor; there’s a Mrs. Angela Cicero. She has a 1:30 appointment, but she was early. She’s waiting in the outer office.”

  Thompson sighed. An appointment immediately following an uninteresting luncheon. And he was cold sober.

  “Do I have anything after that?”

  Mary consulted her calendar. “No; you’re free after Mrs. Cicero.”

  Thompson needed only a moment to consider the possibilities. Perhaps an afternoon round of golf at the exclusive Detroit Club, of which he was a member. “All right, Mary; have her come in.”

  Mary Alberts seemed a fixture at the Tribunal. She had survived five officiates; she knew where all the skeletons were buried, and she easily could have run the Tribunal by herself. Of medium height, a rather full-figured, gray-haired woman in her early sixties, Mary had never married. Her single state might have been an occupational hazard after witnessing an unending procession of broken marriages pass before her in the Tribunal office.

  Thompson did not rise as Mrs. Cicero entered his office. She hesitated just inside the door. He looked up from a document he’d been reading. His clear blue eyes quickly studied her. A woman about his age, he guessed, perhaps a bit younger. Salt-and-pepper hair nicely coiffed. Perhaps five-feet-five or -six. He was acutely conscious of her full bosom. You never could tell, he thought, whether women really had what their clothing hinted. It was like that song from “Oklahoma!”: only when they began to peel could you know if everything they had was absolutely real. Mentally, he began to peel her, as he did with all attractive female visitors.

  “Have a seat …Mrs. Cicero, is it?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “What can we do for you?”

  “It’s about my daughter’s forthcoming wedding.”

  “Does it involve a marriage case we have?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have the protocol number?”

  Angela fingered through her purse and withdrew a sliver of paper. “47956/79.”

  Thompson communicated the number to Mary Alberts, who brought in the file. He paged through it quickly.

  “I remember this case: privilege of the faith; very well prepared; Father Cavanaugh at Divine Child.”

  “Monsignor, the wedding is only seventeen days away.”

  “Not if the decree is not granted it’s not. Surely a man of Father Cavanaugh’s experience and maturity would never have scheduled a wedding with this permission pending.”

  “The wedding is scheduled at St. Anselm’s.”

  “St. Anselm’s …Koesler? Father Koesler?” He had long suspected his classmate of occasionally bending a rule or two. But he was genuinely surprised that Koesler would fool with a case that awaited a Rome decision.

  “No, not Father Koesler …though he’s taking care of it now. The one who gave us the date was Deacon Les.”

  Lester Schroeder. It all came back to him. Koesler’s call. His brief note to the Sacred Congregation. Now this woman keeping him from what might have been a pleasant afternoon of golf. Hanging by the testicles until dead was too kind a punishment for Schroeder.

  “Father Koesler said he would call you about it,” she continued, somewhat dismayed that Koesler might not have.

  “He did. It’s all coming back to me. A little more than a week ago.”

  “A week ago last Monday,” she clarified.

  “Yes; well, I sent a note to Rome the very next day.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t expect anything to happen. At most, somebody at the Sacred Congregation may have moved this case from the bottom of a pile to the top.”

  “And that’s all you’re going to do?” She was horrified. “If it’s a case of money …”

  These people! Think that money can solve any problem. It’s high time they learned there are some things money can’t buy. Especially when they were dealing with someone who is already quite comfortable.

  “It’s not a case of more money, Madam.” Thompson was eager to end this interview. “It’s a case of time. And the Church, which has been around for some 2,000 years and will remain until the end of the world, has plenty of time. Your case will be processed in its time. Your mistake was in setting a date for the wedding before the Church acted. This whole mess is not the Church’s fault; it’s yours!” Thompson was working himself into a rage.

  “What do you mean, ‘our fault’!” Angela was headed in the same direction. “Those papers are sitting on some flunky’s desk. They can be acted on any time with no waiting. It could happen today if anyone cared.”

  “It might help, Madam,” Thompson leaned toward her, “if you would keep in mind what it is you have petitioned Rome for. It is a privilege, not a right you are entitled to. A privilege! You are, in ef
fect, begging the Church to grant you a privilege. And you know what beggars cannot be. It may be granted, or it may not. In any case, it will be acted upon in the Church’s own good time!”

  “What nationality are you?”

  “What? Oh, I see; my ancestors came from England.”

  “That’s your trouble. You’re the wrong nationality.”

  “What nationality do you think the Pope is?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Everyone around him, the people who get things done, they’re all Italian!”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “We don’t stand around in lines waiting for things to happen. We have a habit of making things happen when we are properly approached. That wedding is going to take place August 4, and we are going to have that stupid privilege.

  “You have not heard the last of me, Monsignor. And if I have my way, your superiors are going to hear about how you have treated this whole matter.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Nothing ever happens to me.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that!”

  She stormed out of his office. He studied her bottom as she left. It seemed nicely rounded and firm. But …who could tell?

  At no time had it occurred to either Mrs. Cicero or Monsignor Thompson that this problem was not essentially hers. Somewhere were her daughter and son-in-law-elect waiting to see how Angela would work out their lives.

  Lee Brand had arrived at the DAC at five past noon for his 11:45 luncheon engagement with Monsignor Thompson. It was now 12:15, and there was no Thompson in sight. If Brand had not had to use Thompson, he would by now have unilaterally canceled the luncheon and settled on the form of vengeance he would wreak on the Monsignor. Since he needed Thompson to clear the canonical path for his daughter’s wedding, Brand contented himself with pacing through the DAC’s cavernous lobby thinking dark thoughts and trying to stay calm. Then, he heard what was unmistakably Thompson’s booming baritone.

  “Al,” Thompson cried, “how the hell are you?”

  “Tommy! Good to see you. You haven’t forgotten our trip to the Costa Smeralda, have you?”

  “ ‘Course not,” Thompson replied. “Leaving August 3, aren’t we?”

  “Right. Going to be a hell of a few days. See you at the airport …or should I have you picked up?”

  “No, no, Al. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “O.K.; see you then.”

  Brand became conscious that his mouth was hanging open. There was no mistaking it; the gentleman Thompson had greeted as a long-lost buddy was Alvin Braemar, a Vice President of Ford Motor Company and probably the most essential and influential man in that entire organization.

  Brand wondered if Thompson had staged the meeting to impress him. He quickly discarded that theory; a man of Braemar’s eminence would never stoop to such a charade.

  “Well, Monsignor, good to see you again.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Lee. A last-minute emergency.”

  Thompson was lying, and Brand suspected as much.

  “Let’s stop in the bar. The heat of the day has parched the old throat. How about you?” Brand led him toward the first-floor bar.

  “Sure thing.” This, thought Thompson, was so much better than St. Al’s dry luncheon.

  In the length of time it took the two men to approach the bar, the bartender had created Brand’s own style martini. Thompson wondered how many barkeeps in the world had the proper formula. Thompson ordered a bourbon Manhattan.

  “Ever been here before, Monsignor?”

  “Sure.”

  After Thompson’s familiarity with Al Braemar, Brand could not doubt the assertion.

  “Ever been shown around the place?”

  “No, I haven’t. Funny, all I’ve ever done here is eat.”

  “How about a Cook’s Tour?”

  “Sure.”

  Drinks in hand, they saw just about all the DAC had to offer. Huge reading rooms packed with overstuffed chairs, some with overstuffed dozing members; showers, bowling alleys, jogging track, pool. And almost everywhere there seemed to be provisions for serving food and drink. They stopped at the pool.

  “Nice,” said Thompson. He noted the basketball backboards at both sides of the pool. “Water polo?”

  “Yes,” Brand replied. He looked rather forcefully at Thompson. “It can be a very dangerous enterprise.”

  Thompson was uncertain of Brand’s import. Whatever it might be, he shrugged it away.

  “What’s this?” Thompson indicated a curiously outfitted room adjacent to the pool.

  “Beaver Club,” said Brand. “Sort of a club within a club.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “Certainly,” Brand said. “And I’m able to get other members into the club.”

  They moved on to the dining room. Seated, each began his second drink. Brand elaborated upon his invitation to Thompson for membership in the DAC:

  “It is, as you know, Monsignor, a somewhat exclusive club, a whit prestigious. Very good place to bring out-of-town visitors. Quite inexpensive. $1,200 initiation fee, $700 annual dues, $30 laundry fee, and $60 athletic fee. And all these expenses can be taken care of.” Brand winked elaborately.

  The poor bastard, thought Thompson. I don’t have to belong to the DAC, the Renaissance Club, or any other exclusive facility. I have friends who are members of all of them, and they are pleased when I deign to accompany them. I belong to the Detroit Golf Club only for the ease of dropping in for a round whenever I wish. No, Mr. Brand, take back your gold. I will not deign to join the Detroit Athletic Club.

  “So,” concluded Brand, “how about it, Monsignor? I would be most happy to sponsor you for membership.”

  “Thank you just the same, Lee. But I don’t think it’s in the cards for me just now.”

  “Well, think about it.”

  They ordered lunch. Brand ordered another martini. Thompson declined. Since each had ordered an Italian dish, Brand selected a Chianti to go with the food.

  They were well into the meal when Brand asked, “How goes the battle?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that will lead to the Holy, Roman, Catholic marriage for my daughter.”

  “Not well.”

  Brand put down a forkful of lasagna. “Not well?” The vertical lines between his eyebrows stretched nearly to his toupée line.

  Thompson had been savoring every moment of this meeting. At their previous luncheon at the Renaissance Club, Brand had put him on the defensive. Thompson was determined that would never happen again. He had been deliriously happy at the chance meeting with Al Braemar. He could not have staged a better entrance. He had enjoyed all Brand’s not-so-subtle overtures to sponsor membership in the DAC and even to pay the freight. His breaded veal tasted even better now that he was primed to drop the bomb.

  “Not well?” Brand repeated. “Monsignor, need I remind you the wedding is only nine days away?”

  Thompson elaborately dabbed asparagus tips in hollandaise. “Lee, you simply have no concept of how many witnesses must be called in a case like this.”

  “I don’t care how many witnesses have to be called. Call them. If you have to hire more priests or clerks, hire them. I tell you, money is of no concern.” Brand had raised his voice sufficiently that nearby diners began to glance furtively at him, and waiters began to be nervous.

  Money again. When would they learn? Money is a telling factor only to those who need it.

  “It’s not a matter of money, Lee.” Thompson sampled a boiled potato. “It’s a matter of finding witnesses and getting their cooperation. We don’t have any power of subpoena. Just some ancient Church sanctions that no one pays any attention to anymore. And, Lee, we are talking about a lot of witnesses. People who may have knowledge that Warwick’s former wife intended not to have children. Witnesses who will testify to the veracity of other witnesses.

  “Then there’s the former wife herself, Laura Warwick. She’s the essence
of the case, and we’ve been unable to get her cooperation.” Thompson paused for another sip of wine. ‘ ‘But I assure you, Lee, we will continue to try. You must understand, however, that this is by no means the only case I’m working on. Though I am giving it absolutely top priority.”

  In fact, Thompson knew that Laura Warwick was living in Chicago, seat of a very efficient and cooperative Church Tribunal. She was reluctant to testify but, Thompson had learned through a private investigating agency on retainer to General Motors, she currently was financially strapped. Apparently, she had spent right out from under her alimony allotment and was deeply in debt. Obviously, there was a good possibility that, for an agreeable sum, she might be willing to overcome her reluctance to testify. That possibility had not been explored.

  Nor was Thompson so essential to the daily operation of the Tribunal that he could not make the Warwick case his sole occupation. A great deal more could have been done to expedite this case. It was, indeed, proceeding at approximately the same snaillike pace as all other cases. At this rate, it almost certainly would not be settled by the July 28 deadline.

  Thompson was determined to bring Brand to his knees. The decision had not been made at first sight. At the Fourth of July party, when the two had first met, Thompson had given serious consideration to cultivating Brand and making him part of his stable of Very Important Friends. However, he was quick to perceive that Brand was a shameless manipulator of people and that a friendship with him would be as fatal a coupling as the worst of broken marriages that crossed his desk.

  Meanwhile, circumstances had forced Thompson to deal with Brand. Thompson saw their relationship as a case of devour or be devoured. Thus, he determined to create the appearance that everything possible was being done, while allowing the case to proceed at a normal snail’s pace.