Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  There was the familiar square face of Ven Marshall with a beaming Lee Brand. “And here,” said Ven, “is the proud father of the bride, Mr. Lee Brand, president of First Standard Bank and Trust. How do you feel, Mr. Brand?”

  “Great, just great,” said the grinning Brand. “I guess every father thinks there is no one good enough for his daughter. But …” He winked. “…Richard comes close.”

  “And here,” another shot of Ven Marshall, now with an obviously bewildered Shanley, “is the priest who performed the ceremony. Any comments, Father Shanley?”

  “Er …no. Please, I’ve got to leave now.”

  “Well, that’s it, Diana. The reception will be at the Detroit Athletic Club. But I can tell you this,” added Marshall, “there is a special sense of pride that a wedding of such magnitude could take place right here in a core-city area instead of a posh suburban setting.

  “This is Ven Marshall, Channel 7 Action News, at Our Lady of the Rosary church in the heart of the city of Detroit.”

  Koesler, conscious that his mouth hung open, closed it. He gave a long, low, all-but-inaudible whistle.

  Shanley’s ecclesiastical ass, Koesler concluded, is in a sling.

  He was internationally known as “The Reverend Charles E. Coughlin, controversial radio priest of the ’30s.” Although in his New York Times obituary, he was identified as “the ‘radio priest’ of the Depression who was ultimately silenced by the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church…”

  To some of his confreres, he was known somewhat irreverently as “Twelve-Mile Charlie.” So closely was he linked with the church he had built on the corner of Twelve-Mile Road and Woodward Avenue. Shrine of the Little Flower and Father Coughlin had a uniquely symbiotic relationship. Coughlin financed the building of his avant-garde church largely from the earnings of his broadcasting and publishing empire. An empire that had required the combined clout of the Vatican, a Detroit Cardinal Archbishop, and the U.S. government to halt and silence it.

  Although Coughlin had been retired for more than a decade at the time of his death, Shrine still bore his imprints. Some of those imprints were exiting the church following the Sunday noon Mass.

  Each bore, tucked firmly under an arm, the latest issue of The Wanderer, a wildly conservative national weekly newspaper that regularly appealed from a weak-kneed Pope (who was, in the editor’s eyes, constantly slipping toward Godless atheism) to The Wanderer’s God, who, by damn, knew the value of capitalism and the vital importance of the National Rifle Association.

  Tight-lipped and beady-eyed, Coughlin’s crew strode toward the parking lot where, if one were not careful, one could get killed by autos that played at Dodgem without the playfulness of rubber bumpers.

  Frankly, Monsignor Thompson enjoyed helping out at Shrine on weekends. He had done so for several years.

  He had just finished offering noon Mass, the final Mass scheduled for Sunday at Shrine. He was “up,” with the peculiar exhilaration that comes from having invested a sizable measure of effort in offering Mass and delivering a well-spoken homily.

  He stood outside the Church, greeting the parishioners, at least those who would speak to him.

  Some of these people reminded him of Coughlin’s, instead of Frankenstein’s, monsters. Old Charlie had gone a bit far in developing a paranoid community, Thompson thought. Thompson preferred people who, while maintaining a healthy reverence for the cloth, still could be civil to priests. Some of the younger parishioners at Shrine were all right, especially those who had moved in since Coughlin’s retirement.

  After the final Wanderer-bearing couple had passed, Thompson returned to the sacristy, divesting as he went. Having declined an enticing brunch, he drove back to St. David’s, his parish of residence on Detroit’s east side. If he was lucky and the threatening weather held off, he hoped to get in a little golf.

  As he was changing into golfing togs, Thompson reflected on what a seller’s market the archdiocese had become. When it came to large metropolitan areas, the priest shortage was at least as critical in Detroit as anywhere else. Thus, instead of receiving assignment letters that began, “For the care of souls, I have it in mind to send you to …” priests now could pretty well pick their ministries.

  Thompson had selected Shrine in which to donate weekend help partly because the Royal Oak area held a generally wealthy and educated populace, and partly because of its mystique as The House that Charlie Built.

  He had chosen St. David’s as a place of residence because it was reasonably close to downtown, it was in a mixed but stable neighborhood, and the facilities—downstairs office, upstairs bedroom, sitting room, shower and toilet—were excellent.

  But, he thought, as he adjusted his golf cap, if these things change, so can I.

  He was passing through the living room en route to his Eldorado, in the trunk of which were his golf clubs and cart, when, for the first time, he saw the front page of Sunday’s News. He did a double take and stopped dead in his tracks.

  On the left side of the front page was a three-column photo, which would not, of itself, have attracted Thompson’s attention. However, the related headline read, “Brand Nuptials in Downtown Detroit.” The photo displayed Mr. and Mrs. Lee Brand, Mr. Richard Warwick and the new Mrs. Warwick, all grinning merrily.

  In the background was a churchlike structure Thompson thought he recognized. Fervidly, he read the account of the wedding. On the jump page were more pictures.

  Thompson could not recall when he had been more furious. Brand had got his goddamn way and screwed Thompson in the bargain. As he studied the photo, it seemed to Thompson that Brand was not merely smiling at an auspicious occasion. It seemed Brand was laughing outright at the head of the Tribunal who could not control his troops.

  Thompson felt a mixture of humiliation and frustrated fury. He tried to think of some—any—form of revenge. He could not. Brand appeared to hold all the cards. He’d gotten his damned Catholic ceremony, and on the chance the marriage didn’t work out, they would have no trouble proving it was invalid, and Bunny would be free to try again. With another damn Catholic ceremony.

  Well, that was the bad news. The silver lining was the sacrificial lamb who had performed the ceremony. Thompson referred to the story once more. Father Norman Shanley. The name didn’t ring a bell. That didn’t matter. What did matter was he finally had one of the inner-city boys under the microscope. Thompson knew those guys were playing fast and loose with canon law, and now he had one of them dead to rights. He had the bastard now! He would make sure the bastard was skewered and left to dangle in the wind.

  Golf forgotten, Thompson dialed the private number, known to few, of the Archbishop’s residence in Palmer Park.

  After a few rings, a soft-voiced Monsignor Joseph Iming answered.

  “Joe,” said Thompson, “I want to talk to the Boss.

  “Yes, I think it’s important enough to wake him from his nap.”

  Thompson, adrenalin still surging, sat waiting, drumming his fingers on the desk. Archbishop Boyle had a tendency to treat such matters as lightly as possible. Thompson was determined to follow this case right through to its conclusion. He would make certain justice was done.

  If he couldn’t reach Brand, he was sure as hell going to squash this Shanley upstart.

  “Hello, Archbishop? I’m sorry I woke you, but this is a matter of utmost importance. Have you seen today’s News? No? Well, let me tell you…”

  On this partly cloudy Sunday, Angela Cicero couldn’t decide whether to put on more suntan lotion.

  She and her husband, Leo, were relaxing in deck chairs by the side of the pool at the Dearborn Country Club. The high humidity had been the deciding factor in Leo’s choice to stay poolside rather than use the club’s manicured golf course.

  “So what do you think, Leo,” Angela asked, “do you think I need more lotion?”

  Leo looked up from his book and over his reading glasses. “You’ll be O.K.” He admired the fact that his
wife had preserved her figure so well. Even after twenty-three years of marriage and three kids, she weighed the same and did not look much different than when they were first married. She was neither thin nor fat, but firm. And she looked great in a swimsuit.

  She had done much better than he, thought Leo as he rubbed his tonsure and glanced at the potbelly suspended over his trunks. He again promised himself that one day soon he would get back into shape. He returned to his book.

  Angela looked on as their daughter Anna Maria, youngest of the Ciceros, frolicked in the pool with her fiancé, Dale Worthington. A frown crossed Angela’s face. Anna Maria, no less than the rest of the family, wanted a big Catholic wedding. Her parents had done everything possible to ensure that event. Now, all their hopes were resting on some bureaucrat’s desk in Rome. The wedding was but six days away. Good fortune or an extremely lucky and well-timed phone call was all that stood between the Cicero family and disaster.

  Angela retrieved her copy of Sunday’s News. Her frown was replaced by a puzzled expression.

  “Rosary church,” she said, “isn’t that in the middle of the ghetto?”

  “Practically,” Leo answered.

  Angela reread the wedding article. “Why do you suppose the Brand wedding was held at Rosary?”

  “Beats me.”

  “It couldn’t be because Rosary is near the DAC where the reception was held, could it?”

  “Nah. What’s a few miles to a guy like Lee Brand?”

  The silence was broken only by the shouts from the pool.

  “Maybe we’ll end up down there,” said Angela, a trace of discouragement in her voice.

  “What—at Rosary? Don’t be silly.” He reached over and patted her arm. “Don’t you worry about a thing. If worst comes to worst, you’ve got that number at the Vatican. You can call good-old Father what’s-his-name.”

  “Yes,” said Angela, “it’s all a matter of timing.”

  She put down the paper, pulled on her swim cap, stepped to the pool, and dove flawlessly from the board.

  Great figure, Leo thought. One of these days, I’m going to have to do something about getting mine back in shape.

  His worst suspicions were confirmed. Archbishop Boyle was disposed to merely slap Shanley’s wrist instead of throwing the book at him.

  Monsignor Thompson had arrived a little early for his 9 A.M. Monday appointment with the Archbishop. This appointment, as well as the one to follow at ten, with Father Shanley, had been granted only at Thompson’s adamant insistence.

  Thompson had been arguing with Boyle for forty-five minutes and had won no solid concession. There were only fifteen minutes left before Shanley would have his day in court, and the judge was far from being in a hanging mood.

  At no time during this argument had Thompson mentioned his own involvement with the Brand affair. On the one hand, Brand’s victory was still too galling a memory and, on the other, Thompson did not wish to cloud the issue with any personal digressions. There was no doubt whatsoever of Shanley’s crime. What was at stake was his punishment.

  “But Excellency,” said Thompson, “it’s not only the fact that what Father Shanley did is a flagrant abuse of canonical procedure but that this lawbreaking was flaunted before the public in both our metropolitan newspapers and on radio and television.”

  “I’m sure, Monsignor, that Father Shanley—from all I know of him—that Father Shanley did not intend to receive such public coverage for what he did.” Boyle was unsure how he had come to be placed virtually in the role of defense attorney. Except that Thompson’s inability to settle for any but the harshest penalty for Shanley’s act seemed to demand a spokesperson for the defense.

  “Excellency, it is not a matter of what Father Shanley did or didn’t intend. The fact is that his lawbreaking is now as common knowledge as anything could be. Even if he did not intend such publicity, the inescapable reality is that he got it. Everyone in this archdiocese, and with wire services, people throughout the country—the world—know that Father Shanley violated almost the essence of canon law. And they rightly expect a public response from you.”

  Boyle began toying with the gold chain of his pectoral cross, one of his mannerisms when ill at ease. “Perhaps then, a publicity release or a press conference at which time I could explain the canonical procedure and publicly disavow what Father Shanley did.”

  Thompson shook his head vehemently. “Not enough, Excellency. You and I both know that this sort of thing is more than common in the core city. The priests there feel free to run roughshod over canon law. They feel that no one in authority will know what they’re doing, and, with deference to you, Excellency, they are sure that no one in authority wants to know what they’re doing. This is practically a God-given opportunity to get the, attention of every priest in this archdiocese by enforcing the strongest ecclesiastical sanctions.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Enforced laicization.”

  “Taking his priesthood from him?” Boyle was genuinely shocked. “No, Monsignor, that is out of the question.”

  “Then suspension.”

  Boyle did not reply.

  “Excellency, permit me to be perfectly frank.”

  Boyle, index fingers pressed against his lips, bowed his head in acquiescence.

  “Your reluctance to level ecclesiastical sanctions has led to a popular but unanswered question on the part of some Detroit priests. It is a question that has been bandied about behind your back. It is asked only half-jokingly: ‘How much can you get away with in the Archdiocese of Detroit?’ You will never be in a better position than now to provide the much-needed answer to that question: suspension, at the very least.”

  At this point, Boyle’s secretary announced Shanley.

  Neither Boyle nor Thompson rose when he entered, so Shanley simply took a chair opposite the Archbishop.

  Shanley was genuinely embarrassed at being summoned to appear before his archbishop, whom he deeply admired, under these circumstances. Thompson’s presence simply confused him.

  “Needless to say, Father,” Boyle began, “I am deeply disappointed in what you have done.”

  “I am sorry for that, Excellency.”

  “Do you have anything to say in your own behalf?”

  Shanley shifted uncomfortably, as if he were under a spotlight. “Only that the one responsible for that wedding promised me there would be no publicity.”

  “Father,” said Boyle, “to make matters clear from the beginning, you are the one responsible for that wedding.”

  “I mean the one who asked me to perform the ceremony promised. He betrayed my trust.”

  “And,” Boyle leaned forward, “you in turn, Father, betrayed the Church’s trust.”

  Shanley said nothing.

  “Church law has not been abrogated,” Boyle continued. “And you as a priest have the duty to apply and enforce this law, Father. You have no authority to change or violate canon law. Is that clear, Father?”

  Shanley did not raise his head to look at the Archbishop. “Yes, Excellency.”

  “Do you have anything else to say, Father?”

  “No, Excellency.” The Archbishop’s words had a familiar ring. What was tacit was, “…before sentence is passed.”

  “Very well, then.” Boyle toyed with the episcopal ring on the third finger of his right hand. Another of his mannerisms when ill at ease. “Father, I must suspend you from priestly functions for one month.”

  Suspension! Shanley was devastated. He had expected a dressing down but not this punishment. That seemed to answer the question going around the city’s priestly circles: how much can you get away with in the Archdiocese of Detroit?

  One month’s suspension, Thompson thought. Not long enough! Not nearly long enough!

  “During this month,” Boyle continued, “you will, of course, continue to be a priest. But I will remove my permission for you to function as such. You may not hear confession, offer Mass, preach, or administe
r any of the sacraments except in cases of emergency.”

  There was a lengthy pause during which Shanley tried to absorb the ramifications of this unexpected punishment.

  “Do you intend to announce my punishment publicly?”

  “Ordinarily I would not,” Boyle replied. “But in this instance what you have done was so thoroughly publicized…”

  There was another pause.

  “Suspension, Excellency,” said Shanley falteringly, “suspension is like excommunication, a special penalty for sin.”

  The Archbishop, his penetrating blue eyes almost hidden beneath bushy soot-colored eyebrows, nodded solemnly.

  “But,” Shanley protested, “I do not consider myself guilty of sin.”

  “Father,” said Boyle, “we are not dealing exclusively here with matters of conscience. This is not a matter of the internal forum of the confessional. What you did was in the external forum. And so must be the punishment. If you do not know it is sinful to witness the attempted marriage of a person already in a presumed valid marriage, then you very well should know it.”

  Shanley thought of all those he had helped by discarding canon law. He thought of Leroy and Elvira Sanders, their canonically hopeless marriage now miraculously healed. How happy they were. If he were to accept this penalty, what would all those people think about their own condition? Would they be thrown back into the nightmare of fear and self-torture laid on by the un-Christian strictures of canon law?

  “Excellency,” said Shanley, “I must have some time to consider before accepting this penalty.”

  It was Boyle’s turn to be surprised. He began pulling and pushing his episcopal ring off and on his finger. “Time? Very well, Father. One week. No more than that. Your decision must be made,” Boyle consulted his desk calendar and made a notation on it, “no later than August 6.”

  Thompson could have kissed Shanley. Or, at least demonstrated his gratitude in some manner. He could not have prayed for more. At worst, Shanley would be suspended and the punishment made public. At best, Shanley would refuse the penalty, and Boyle would then have no recourse but to laicize him.