Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  “Father, I had to follow my conscience.”

  “Not when it conflicts with Church law, Father. And not in my church!”

  Shanley made no response.

  “Well, Father,” Porter half-turned his chair, indicating the conversation was at an end, “I do not know whether you will accept the Archbishop’s discipline. But I do know one thing: you will have to find another residence.”

  “Father!”

  “I’m sorry, Father. I would never be sure if you were validly administering a sacrament or following your conscience. I am truly sorry, Father. I thought we could be …friends. But my mind is made up on this.”

  “All right, Father. Whatever else happens, I’ll make arrangements to move as soon as I can.” Shanley went to his room and sat at the writing desk.

  His small world had tumbled around his ears. He tried to think of how he might have done things differently. From earliest memory, he had never seriously planned any calling other than the priesthood. Yet, shortly after he was ordained, he knew he could not enforce the prescripts of canon law. He then decided to supplant Church law with the law of Christ as he understood Christ’s law. He could not believe he had done any wrong save in one thing—getting caught practicing Christ’s law.

  A new thought occurred. There was an alternative. He did not necessarily have to choose between accepting or rejecting the penalty of suspension. He could leave the priesthood.

  God, what a choice!

  His only blame lay in having followed his conscience. Nor could he fault Father Porter’s reaction. That dear old man was, after all, to the bone a loyal son of the Church.

  Shanley found it difficult even to blame Lee Brand. He was a man of the world getting what he wanted any way he could. Besides, Brand had an irrefutable argument of reverse discrimination if Shanley had refused to witness the marriage.

  Then there was Thompson. There had been no purpose in Thompson’s presence the day before except that he had pressed the Archbishop into levying this extreme ecclesiastical punishment.

  No doubt about it: of all the roles in this scenario that had brought Shanley down, Thompson’s was the one most freely and deliberately exercised.

  There should be some way of making Thompson answer for his un-Christian reprisal even before he met God in judgment.

  Shanley sat at his desk and thought.

  Three A.M., Friday, August 3.

  It was time.

  Angela Cicero had not retired for the night. She sat in a fairly uncomfortable chair near the phone. She had spent the past several hours rereading Edgar Allan Poe, a particular favorite among the mystery writers. She had fought to stay awake, and she had succeeded.

  It was now 9 A.M. in Rome. Angela visualized the Vatican routine. Up around six; Mass, prayer, breakfast, preparation for the day, and now at nine about ready to leave.

  Carefully, she dialed Rome’s area code, followed by the Villa Stritch number. The phone rang, seemingly interminably. With each ring, her level of self-confidence further waned. Could this be the wrong time? Had she waited too long? Was it too late to make the round-trip?

  “Pronto,” a deep baritone said.

  “Hello?” Angela tried.

  “Oh, hello,” the voice, now sounding very American, responded.

  “Hello. Is this Villa Stritch?”

  “Yes.”

  Thank God, Angela breathed. Now to push my luck one step further. “May I please speak with Father Patrick Cammarata?”

  “Speaking.”

  Thank God. It was becoming less an expression and more a prayer. “My name is Angela Cicero—Mrs. Leo Cicero—and I’m calling from Dearborn, Michigan. That’s a suburb of Detroit.”

  “I know where Dearborn is, Mrs. Cicero. You’re very fortunate. I was just heading out the door. A few minutes earlier and nobody would have been in this room. A few minutes later, and I would have been gone for the day.”

  Thank God. Now it was a prayer, pure and simple.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Cicero?”

  Angela detailed her problem. Father Cammarata asked her to repeat the case’s protocol number. He must be taking notes, she thought. She finished her explanation by emphasizing the fact that her daughter’s wedding was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. There was no hiding the element of pleading in her voice.

  “Mrs. Cicero, anyone who would call me at—what time is it there?—three in the morning deserves my best shot. If the papers on Dale Worthington are as well prepared as you say—and there’s no reason to think they’re not—then they have to be in the files somewhere. I’m headed for the Sacred Congregation now. I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll find the papers and personally make sure that Cardinal Mangiapane takes them with him. He’s scheduled to see the Pope today. All that’s needed is for the Pope to give his approval. And that, once the Cardinal presents the documentation, is routine.

  “Now, Mrs. Cicero, this next part is very important. Tell your officialis—who is the head of the matrimonial court there, do you know?”

  “Monsignor Thompson.” Instinctively, she feared his involvement, especially now when triumph seemed so imminent.

  “Oh, yeah, Tommy Thompson. O.K., tomorrow is Saturday, so we can’t use the office. I’ll get his residence number from the Catholic Directory. Tell Monsignor Thompson that he is to hold himself in readiness for a call from me at any hour tomorrow. He is to consider this an order from Cardinal Mangiapane himself. Once I have all the papers properly prepared and signed, I’ll call Monsignor Thompson, and he can get in touch with your parish, and you can have your wedding.”

  Angela Cicero was nearly beside herself. “You’re sure everything will be all right?”

  “I can’t see any hitch. By the way,” Cammarata sounded as if he realized he was running late and had to move along, “where’d you ever get my name and number?”

  “Father Koesler.”

  “Bob Koesler! Is he still editing the paper?”

  “No, Father. He’s a pastor now.”

  “Give my best to him, Mrs. Cicero. And I’ll get on your case right away.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  She was too excited to sleep. She decided to stay up and continue reading until it was time to call Monsignor Thompson. She could hardly wait to make that call. This time she held all the trumps.

  “You’ve been in a blue funk since Monday,” complained Joe Cox.

  “I can’t help it,” protested Pat Lennon. “It was one thing when I just took it for granted I couldn’t get married again in the Catholic Church. I told you I was afraid of how I’d feel if my worst suspicions were confirmed. But,” she said with a combination of grin and grimace, “I’ll get over it. Just give me time to get back on an even keel.”

  The two were breakfasting in their jointly leased apartment in Lafayette Towers on the fringe of downtown Detroit. Breakfast, as it was generally, was cold cereal, self-served.

  “It’s not a fait accompli, Pat. It’s just one dirty old man’s opinion.”

  “Something more than that when the dirty old man is the head of the court.”

  “I’ve already offered to punch him out for you.”

  “It’s not going to do either of us any good to have you locked up for battery.”

  They munched in silence.

  “Thompson’s not going to be in that job forever,” Cox said finally.

  “Fine. We can get married in wheelchairs right after I locate our teeth.”

  “No, really; I’ve been asking around. That’s not the kind of job a guy dies in.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I’m serious.” Cox poured each of them a cup of coffee. “The average term of duty as head of the matrimonial court is from ten to fifteen years.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means, my despondent beauty, that Thompson figures to leave the court in from one to six years. After which, the post may be occupied by a human.”

  Lennon sp
ooned the last of her Wheat Chex. “One to six years. Sounds like a prison term.” She shook her head. “No, Joe, I’m not going to psych myself up again. It’s over. Waiting for the right person to inhabit the right office—that way leads to insanity.”

  “Maybe God’ll get him.”

  “More likely the devil.” Lennon began putting the breakfast things away and the dishes in the dishwasher. “It’s not so bad for us. We can go on with business as usual. But Thompson is messing up the lives of a lot of people.” She added thoughtfully, “Something ought to be done about him.”

  “Speaking of business as usual, I know you want to get to work on time, but you’re getting me into bad habits. My punctual arrival each morning is baffling poor Nelson Kane. And it doesn’t help city editors to begin their mornings in a state of bafflement.”

  Lennon began to smile conspiratorially. “Didn’t you mention last night that you have to start today at the City-County Building? And they don’t know what time you check in there.”

  It was fortunate they had not yet gotten dressed.

  Nine A.M., Friday, August 3.

  It was time.

  Angela Cicero dialed 371-7770.

  “St. David’s,” Mrs. Dealing, the housekeeper, singsonged.

  “I’d like to speak to Monsignor Thompson.”

  “Just a moment; I’ll see if he’s still here.”

  Angela suffered a sinking moment. What if he was gone? What if he couldn’t be reached? Could Thompson, even in this passive role, still ruin all her plans?

  “Hello.” It was the unmistakably resonant voice of Tommy Thompson.

  “Monsignor, this is Angela Cicero.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m the woman whose daughter’s fiancé’s marriage case was lost someplace in Rome.” She paused.

  There were an abundant number of cases like that, the Monsignor thought.

  “Protocol number 47956/79,” she intoned.

  Does this crazy broad think I memorize protocol numbers, he wondered.

  “It’s a privilege of the faith case,” she further clarified. “I’ve been in to see you a couple of times. The case was prepared by Father Cavanaugh, but the marriage is scheduled for St. Anselm’s parish. As a matter of fact, tomorrow.”

  Remembered and noted. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Cicero. Lucky you called when you did. I’m leaving for the weekend in just a few minutes.”

  God really was smiling down on her, Angela thought.

  “I’m sorry,” Thompson continued, “but to the best of my knowledge the papers have not been returned from Rome. So I’m afraid there won’t be any wedding tomorrow.” He sounded smug.

  “You may be wrong,” said Angela in muted triumph. “I’ve been busy.” She went on to tell him of her call to Rome and the affirmative response she had received. She concluded by explaining his part in all this. Her explanation was followed by silence wherein Thompson attempted to assimilate the disconcerting details of her story.

  “Are you sure?” was his initial response. This was not the Rome with which he was familiar. Rome did not react to hysterical phone calls nor, ordinarily, to situations deemed by their victims to be emergencies.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “But that can’t be.” He was slipping close to a state of shock. “I’m supposed to be on the Costa Smeralda tomorrow. Today, in fact. That’s where I was headed when you called.”

  He sounded near tears. That pleased her.

  “I can’t help that, Monsignor. I was told to tell you to be available at all times for a call from the Vatican. This was to be understood as a direct order from Cardinal Mangiapane.”

  “Whom did you say you spoke with?”

  “Father Cammarata.”

  All the names were correct. Could she possibly have actually pulled this off?

  “And what number did you call?”

  “537-8734.”

  He checked it in his directory. It was the number for Villa Stritch.

  “Who gave you that number?”

  “That’s not important, Monsignor. What is important is that you remain here and are available to the Vatican call.”

  Thompson evaluated the alternatives. It didn’t take long to arrive at the least common denominator. If he were to continue climbing the ecclesiastical ladder toward a bishopric and beyond—and he fully so intended—there could be no question of his fidelity to Vatican demands. Costa Smeralda might come and go, but a personal call from the Vatican was no diurnal occurrence. He would be attentive when the Vatican called, no matter the reason.

  “Very well, Mrs. Cicero. I will be available throughout tomorrow and when the call comes through, I’ll relay the information to the appropriate parties.”

  Angela hung up. She had won, but she was surprised: she felt no exhilaration. And she sensed that in battles with Monsignor Thompson the underdog rarely emerged victorious.

  But somehow, this wasn’t enough.

  Harry Kirwan was abidingly angry. At the moment, he was trying to determine the proper target of his anger. As to the cause, there was no doubt.

  It was as Father Neiss had told Mary Ann. On the occasion of her marriage she should be deliriously ecstatic, overjoyed, at least extremely happy. Marriages might, and frequently did, deteriorate. But by and large they usually began on an upbeat note.

  However, Mary Ann’s attitude as she approached her wedding, now only a week away, might be optimistically described as guardedly pleased.

  There was no question of her love for him. But the fact that her marriage would be outside the Catholic Church was more than a fly in the ointment. It was more like an important contest she had not only lost, but had barely survived.

  More than once, empathizing with Mary Ann’s unhappiness, Harry had wavered from his objection to the Tribunal’s insistence on questioning his former wife. However, his vacillation was met by unexpected resolution on Mary Ann’s part. Yield to this arbitrary regulation, she argued, and where do you draw the line?

  Independently, she had arrived at the opinion that it would be intolerable to allow the Church, or any third party, to control the private areas of one’s life. As fervently as she desired a Catholic wedding, she was just as determined that Harry not give in to the Tribunal.

  Harry perceived himself squarely in the center of Mary Ann’s dilemma.

  And who was to blame? Surely neither of them. They had fulfilled every legitimate Church requirement in good faith. Surely not Father Neiss. Harry was convinced the priest felt as bad as they did about this turn of events. He was no more than a functionary. In his position, he could do no less than carry out the orders of his superior, no matter what Neiss thought of those orders.

  Ah, but the superior, the one who originated the Polish regulation, he was the responsible party. Single-handedly, he had managed to all-but-completely ruin their wedding. He had refused to budge even after Father Neiss had explained their special circumstances. Mary Ann’s misery at what should be the happiest moment in her life was a monument to Thompson’s bullheaded intransigence.

  Harry had taken it upon himself to investigate the life and lifestyle of Monsignor Thomas Thompson. It was remarkable the amount of information that could be gleaned about a person by someone at Harry’s level in the telephone company. Calling in his markers, Harry termed it, from well-informed people he dealt with in the police department and in city and state government.

  Harry had no specific purpose in gathering this information. It was just that when contemplating evening a score, it is good to know as much about the object of one’s potential retribution as possible.

  Omnia parafa—all was in readiness—as canon law would put it.

  The foyer of St. Anselm’s had become a staging area for chaos. Guests for the Worthington-Cicero wedding collided with bridesmaids, attendants and, of course, the proud parents. Anna Maria Cicero, a picturebook bride in white Empire gown and ten-foot train, made last-minute touchups in makeup, assisted by her maid of honor. These latter
two were ensconced in the ushers’ room off the foyer. Outside, the groom, the best man, and several ushers nervously made poor but ribald jokes.

  Earlier in the day, a game of ecclesiastical Australian tag had been played out. The Pope had consented to the protocol 47956/79 case. Cardinal Mangiapane had so informed Father Cammarata. He had phoned Monsignor Thompson. Who had phoned Father Cavanaugh. Who had phoned Father Koesler. Who had told Deacon Schroeder. Now, within the hour, an invisible miracle would take place. At the moment Dale Worthington exchanged consent with Anna Maria Cicero, Worthington’s former marriage would be dissolved in favor of his present endeavor in “the faith.”

  There would be no Mass, just a simple wedding ceremony embellished by several songs, a couple of readings from Scripture, and a homily. Since there was to be no Mass, Deacon Schroeder was competent to conduct the wedding without benefit of higher clergy. Nevertheless, Father Koesler had come over to the church to make certain that all was properly prepared. Deacon Les was not noted for attention to detail.

  It was 2:45. Fifteen minutes to nuptial ignition and counting. All seemed well. The candles were lit, flower badges attached to pews, white runner at the foot of the sanctuary rolled and ready, and a couple of dozen guests clustered in noisy cliques. In the choir loft, a soprano, utterly bereft of vibrato, was giving “We’ve Only Just Begun” a whirl. It was just about what a wedding should be, Koesler thought: vaguely happy, a curiosity, clichéd, and pretty much an echo of all the weddings that had preceded it.

  Someone touched his arm and brought him, somewhat startled, out of his reverie.

  “I beg your pardon, Father.”

  Angela Cicero was stunning in a sleeveless aquamarine chiffon dress that nicely set off her dark, gray-flecked hair.

  Koesler smiled. “Congratulations. Your day of triumph. You’ve conquered the highest level bureaucracy. Not many have pulled that off.”

  Angela returned the smile, though there was a hint of nervousness in it. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Father. So, thank you.”