The Shepherd's Calculus

by C. S. Farrelly

  The minute he’d gotten off the phone with Monsignor Behrend from Rochester, his instinct was to call Feeney up and taunt him. But he wanted to do more research first. By piecing together publicly available biographies from Feeney’s many media appearances, he was able to create a poor-man’s timeline of the events surrounding Hartnett’s arrival in and departure from southeastern Pennsylvania. When Hartnett arrived in Claremont, Feeney had been a monsignor for a couple of years. He was appointed to the title just prior to serving at the Vatican. That he had become very well connected during his time in Rome was clear. By all accounts, he may have returned to the American Church with the same title he had when he left, but he wielded significantly more power and influence than before. News articles featuring information on the Philadelphia archdiocese almost always quoted Feeney more often than they did the archbishop himself.

  The Cardinal Mulcahy connection from Feeney’s time in Chicago also spoke volumes. Peter called around to journalists from Mulcahy’s previous parishes. They were happy to share truth, rumor, and everything in between about Mulcahy and his considerable influence. Since his early days in Baltimore, Mulcahy had developed a reputation as a “cleaner”: someone who fixes problems in a parish, whatever those might be. When the Baltimore archdiocese was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy (moral and financial), Mulcahy was handpicked to replace the current leadership. He moved quickly, closing struggling schools and reducing operating expenses by consolidating parishes and auctioning off property to the highest bidder, which in this case happened to be McIntyre Industries, a defense contractor. It was generally accepted, but never explicitly stated, that Mulcahy’s personal connections to the McIntyre CEO, a bullish man who grew up in Mulcahy’s South Boston neighborhood, had come in handy.

  At his next stop, Chicago, Mulcahy trained his sights on restoring the reputation of a parish on the North Side, where a monsignor had been charged with accepting monetary kickbacks in exchange for recommending that the church purchase property that directly benefited the man who paid him off. “They were gifts,” the monsignor had maintained. “Perfectly legal under IRS law.”

  “But not under mine,” Mulcahy had supposedly told him. “You’re going to donate every penny of it to a charity, and I’m going to make sure you don’t go to prison.” And he did. At least, according to people Peter spoke with who’d worked in the office at the time. He was aware that if he’d tried this even two years ago, parishioners, employees, and believers wouldn’t have talked to him. But by now, everyone but the church leadership was talking.

  Like a good little foot soldier, Mulcahy had moved to Boston just after his predecessor was whisked away to Rome to avoid further investigation into what he knew about the amount of sexual abuse in his archdiocese or, more importantly, whether he had contributed directly to covering it up. In exchange for taking on the least desirable jobs, Mulcahy banked IOUs with anyone he spared from embarrassment and aggravation.

  William Hartnett was transferred to Claremont from Parkchester when Mulcahy was with the Chicago archdiocese. Then he was transferred to Rochester just weeks before Mulcahy arrived in Philadelphia to be keynote speaker at the annual United States Conference of Catholic Bishops symposium.

  Six months to the day after the archbishop of Philadelphia approved Hartnett’s transfer, Feeney was promoted to bishop. Peter knew he was drawing specious conclusions that probably couldn’t be substantiated. Not at this stage. But there were just too many coincidences, and deep down, he knew someone had struck a deal along the way. He just didn’t know which one of them initiated it or why.

  The rudimentary flowchart he made following all these connections sat in front of him as he stared at the phone, preparing to dial Feeney. On paper, it made him look like a crackpot conspiracy theorist. He was beginning to feel like one, too. Even if he was, he felt no doubt that Feeney played a role in Hartnett’s overlap with Ingram. And that whatever had transpired before and after, it prompted Ingram to spend the rest of his life reaching out to people who never understood why he felt responsible and for whom his apologies may have come too late. Taking up that mantle, continuing with Ingram’s mission—that alone was worth a phone call to the Bishops Conference.

  Feeney’s assistant, an unpleasant woman named Sister Anne Marie, didn’t so much speak as she did cackle. The sound was so harsh that at first he thought it was a digital recording gone awry. He couldn’t quite place her accent. It was somewhere between Brooklyn and the Furies. After two minutes of limited success with her, he concluded it was probably the latter. She didn’t budge until Peter mentioned that he was hoping to speak with Feeney for a magazine piece he was writing about the late James Ingram, SJ.

  While her voice remained the hard, shrill nightmare it had been from the moment she answered the phone, her demeanor did soften. She expressed her sympathies and agreed to transfer the call. When Feeney picked up, it was obvious he had been prepped for the conversation. “Mr. Merrick, lovely to hear from you. I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances.” They exchanged a few pleasantries, Feeney complimented him on the Economist series, and then Peter shared a few memories of Ingram to break the ice.

  “I want to thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

  “Of course, of course. Anything I can do to pay tribute to James.”

  “I was hoping you could help me flesh out something I’m looking at for the article.”

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  “James, you recall, was an avid letter writer.”

  “Yes. He was.” From the way Feeney said the words it was obvious he was looking at or reading something else. Peter could probably have said Jesus was a Muslim and gotten the same response.

  “Well, he sent a series of letters to people in different states. Pennsylvania, Illinois, Wisconsin.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Feeney said dismissively.

  “And I’ve been trying to figure out the connection between them. But the only thing I can find is someone named William Hartnett.”

  That got Feeney’s attention.

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “A Father William Hartnett. Actually, you might know him.” Peter was kind of enjoying playing dumb. “He spent some time outside of Philadelphia when you were with the archdiocese there.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Your Excellency?”

  “The name does ring a bell, but as I’m sure you know, Mr. Merrick, the business of an archdiocese involves a lot of faces and names in a short amount of time.”

  “The business.” Peter repeated the words, thinking about how much the Church in America had begun to resemble a corporation with the way it downsized, sold off pieces of itself for profit, and covered up mistakes. “Yes, I understand. This one might perhaps have stood out more than the others.”

  “Why is that?” Feeney asked coolly.

  “Well, he arrived to replace James when he finished at the University of Pennsylvania.”

  Feeney’s voice picked up immediately. “Yes, of course! Father Hartnett.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He wasn’t with us for long, Mr. Merrick. I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics, but he wasn’t an appropriate fit for our parishioners. He was removed as quickly as the archbishop could effect a transfer.”

  Peter decided to take his lead. “That’s a shame, really. He wasn’t an appropriate fit, you say?”

  “Unfortunately,” Feeney said breezily. “No. He wasn’t.”

  “Very helpful, Your Excellency. That helps clear up a lot. If I can trouble you for one more clarification?”

  “Certainly.”

  “If Hartnett wasn’t an appropriate fit, then why did you recommend him to the monsignor in Claremont in the first place?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And why did you recommend him to the archbishop in Rochester after?”

  Silence again greeted him.

  “What do you want, Mr. Merrick?” Feeney said a
fter some time. He was all business now.

  “The same thing we all want, Your Excellency.”

  “Money, I suppose,” Feeney said wearily.

  “Answers,” Peter corrected. “About why you let this happen.”

  Feeney spoke after a pause. “Ah, Mr. Merrick,” he started, his baritone voice oozing condescension. “That’s the source of the confusion, I’m afraid. You see, I don’t answer to you. Not now. And not ever. ”

  Peter was dumbstruck. He opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t.

  “That’s all for today, Mr. Merrick. And for the foreseeable future. But thank you so much for calling, and may God’s peace be with you.”

  Peter was still holding the phone to his ear long after Feeney had hung up.

  The next day he called back. The secretary would not be moved this time. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

  He didn’t really know why he kept calling. Maybe it was to get under Feeney’s skin a little bit. Or maybe he wanted to tell him what a failure he was next to James Ingram and always had been. He threw some clothes in a backpack and headed for his car. He was going to have to go back to DC. If Emma disapproved, this time she didn’t say anything. Since the blowup before Milwaukee, he’d been making an effort to clue her in, and she’d been making an effort to keep some distance.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he assured her.

  “I’m not sure you do,” she said, not unkindly.

  “There’s more to the backstory with Hartnett and Ingram. I need to find it.”

  She stood up on her toes to kiss him. Her hair smelled like lemons. “Just manage your expectations,” she said, giving him an extra squeeze. “And try not to get arrested.”

  She stood in the driveway waving to him until she’d dwindled into a speck in his rearview mirror.

  His first two days following Feeney around didn’t yield much useful information. Feeney liked to swim in the morning, although Peter didn’t want to think about what style of swimwear he wore. He used his chauffeur service to travel four blocks to a CVS. And in a turn that seemed contrary to everything else about him, he was a resolute Dunkin’ Donuts man and could not be tempted by Starbucks despite its closer proximity to his office.

  On day three, Feeney exited his office building in the middle of the afternoon. It was the first time he wasn’t flanked by at least two assistants. Peter decided this might be his only chance to catch him one-on-one. Feeney’s sedan traveled down Rhode Island Avenue, cutting down R Street and onto Sixteenth until, eventually, it came to a stop by the Pembroke Hotel on P Street. There, Feeney exited the car, pausing to smooth the folds of his simar, and headed for the entrance. Peter had been hanging back a bit and didn’t want to approach the hotel until the sedan pulled far enough away. His only hope was that in jeans and sneakers he moved slightly faster than a sixty-five-year-old in a dress.

  He slipped past the reception desk and rounded the corner to the elevators in time to see the doors closing on the carriage with Feeney in it. He stood for a moment watching the floor marker tick up. It stopped on the fourth floor. Peter sprinted up the fire stairs and slowly opened the door on four. The elevator had already closed, but Peter could hear the rustle of clothing as someone, Feeney he assumed, moved down the hall. He waited a few seconds to establish a safe distance before stepping into the hallway and looking around the corner.

  There was no sign of Feeney. Just a series of conference rooms with pompous naval names like “The Admiral” and “The Waterloo.” He had no idea how he was going to figure out which room Feeney was in short of interrupting the meeting and causing a scene. He paused outside the first room, pushing his ear up to the door in an effort to detect Feeney’s absurd speech pattern within. He couldn’t discern the voices. After a few minutes he resigned himself to the failed effort and headed for the elevator bank. A loud chime announced the arrival of the elevator. The person exiting bumped into Peter, and when the man spun to apologize, Peter saw it was Milton Casey. For a moment he panicked, unsure what he should say or if Casey even remembered him. Casey answered the question for him.

  “Mr. Merritt, is it?”

  Peter’s heart jumped into his throat.

  “Uh, it’s Merrick, actually. Peter Merrick,” he managed.

  Casey shrugged apologetically. “Merrick, of course. I read your article after we talked. Excellent work. What brings you to Washington, DC?”

  “Nothing much.” He scanned his memory for any plausible explanation. One finally presented itself. “I’m on the selection panel for a journalism scholarship.”

  “That’s great,” Casey said with a broad smile. “It’s important to mentor young people at the start of their careers. A word of advice, though.” He leaned in. “Don’t try to steal our Ms. Larkin away. Not until after the election.”

  The laughter that spilled out of Peter’s mouth was 80 percent relief and 20 percent amusement. “Oh no, Mr. Casey. I won’t. She’s all yours.”

  Casey patted him on the back. “Good man. Now, do you know which one of these is four thirteen?”

  “Third one on the right.”

  Casey gave him a nod and turned down the hallway. Peter was about to press the elevator button again, but gut instinct told him to hold off. He heard Casey’s muffled steps slow, followed by the click of a door handle. He peered around the bend, careful to keep out of sight. Casey slipped into the conference room. As the door swung shut, Peter saw it: the floor-length black fabric of Owen Feeney’s simar.

  *

  He got back to his car mere moments before a traffic cop would have caught him with a long-expired meter. When he was safely away from being ticketed, he turned down a side street in Dupont Circle and pulled up to the curb at the end of the block. He searched through his phone and dialed the number he had called to arrange the meeting with Milton Casey. He asked to speak with Ally Larkin and was redirected. Ally’s line rang three times before she picked up.

  “Ms. Larkin?”

  “Yes,” she said with a trace of suspicion.

  “This is Peter Merrick. We met a few weeks ago at your office. The reporter and Ignatius University grad.”

  Her voice popped up an octave with recognition. “Yes! Hello! What can I do for you?”

  “I’m in town for a day and wanted to take you to lunch. Maybe talk about your interest in journalism.”

  “Right now?” She sounded confused.

  “If it’s possible.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  The phone clacked a bit as she moved it away from her mouth. Her voice murmured through whatever she covered the speaker with, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  “Okay—that’ll work,” she said when she returned.

  “I’ll be at your office in a few minutes. Meet me out front.”

  Soon they were seated at a casual café a few blocks from her office. Peter put in the requisite fifteen minutes of small talk before bringing up what he really wanted to discuss. He’d asked her to lunch, he explained, because he had an awkward question to ask her. She frowned and leaned back into her seat, looking at him as though she were scared he was going to hit on her. It would have been entertaining if she hadn’t seemed quite so terrified. He corrected her misconception, explaining that he was trying to find out about the connection between Milton Casey and Owen Feeney. She frowned again. She didn’t know what he meant.

  “I really don’t, Mr. Merrick. I mean, they’ve met at social functions, of course, but I don’t know what kind of connection you’re asking about. And even if I did, I’m not sure I could tell you. I’d lose my job.”

  Peter tried again. He didn’t need her to reveal any sensitive information necessarily. He just wanted her to think back and see if she remembered Feeney in the office. She didn’t. Did she have any recollection of Casey meeting with Owen around the same time as significant developments in the campaign?

  “No,” she said. “But again, Mr. Merrick, if I did, I couldn’t te
ll you. It’s not just that I’d probably lose my job. I wouldn’t want to do that to Mr. Casey. He took a chance on me and offered me work when I couldn’t get anyone else in this city to hire me. And he did it entirely because Owen Feeney and my old mentor from Boston asked him to.”

  “Who was your mentor?”

  “Cardinal Mulcahy,” she said, unaware the name would make Peter sit up and listen.

  “You worked with John Mulcahy?”

  She nodded. “The summer before my senior year I worked with his outreach office. So you see, I’d love to help you. But I can’t betray the trust these men put in me.”

  Peter reclined slowly into the plush bench of the restaurant booth. “I can understand that, Ms. Larkin. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to ask you these questions. I stumbled on it entirely by accident.”

  That seemed to pique her curiosity. She wanted to know what this was all about—he could tell. She leaned forward with an expectant pose.

  “I can’t tell you anything about Milton Casey,” Peter started. “I’ve only met him in passing, and he seems like a nice enough guy. And I’ve never met John Mulcahy. But Owen Feeney is someone I do know a lot about. And I think you deserve to know what kind of man you’re dealing with.” She didn’t reply, but she also didn’t try to leave. He took it as encouragement to continue.

  “Feeney’s been around the block, and he’s been a leader in the Church for a long time now. He’s also a man who deliberately covered up the sexual transgressions of a priest who served under him in Philadelphia and then recommended that same priest to parishes in other cities without uttering a single word about why he was being removed. Quite the opposite, in fact. He wrote glowing letters of introduction about what an asset this priest would be to his new parish.”

  Ally sat in silence, her mouth slightly open in shock.

  “Oh, and he did it, most likely, in exchange for a promotion to archbishop. Now, I don’t want to tell you what to think or what to do. As it happens, I know that your boss and Feeney are meeting this very moment at the Pembroke Hotel. But this is who these men are, Ally. I just thought you should have the full picture before you decide whether you have anything you want to share with me.” He pulled some money out of his wallet and put it on the table, enough to cover lunch for both of them. “Think it over. I’m going to be in town for another few days. If you remember anything, you have my card.”