“What gifts?” Castle wondered.
“His parishioners are beginning to say he is not just absolving their sins but that he is also healing their physical illnesses in the confessional,” Archbishop Duncan explained. “Then yesterday at Mass, Father Bartholomew began to, shall we say, manifest Christ’s wounds of crucifixion.”
“What wounds?”
“The nail wounds in his wrists.”
Castle’s mind raced ahead. He had studied Christianity intensely, even if his curiosity derived from the perspective of a disbeliever. He also loved traveling, especially in Italy. As a result he had a decent command of Italian and could easily order meals in Italian in restaurants and navigate in taxis and trains around Italy without having to rely on English. On his many trips to Italy, Castle took an interest in the story of Padre Pio, a simple parish priest in a small town in southern Italy who gained fame worldwide in the 1950s after he suffered the bleeding wounds in his wrists that the faithful believed were manifestations of Christ’s wounds on the cross.
Castle had always wanted to study Padre Pio, suspecting his wounds were self-inflicted—not that Padre Pio had driven nails through his wrists to produce the wounds of Christ on the cross, but that Pio’s religious fervor had reached the point of becoming equivalent to a mental illness. As a psychiatrist, Castle suspected that Padre Pio’s disturbed subconscious had become sufficiently strong to cause Christ’s nail wounds in his wrists to manifest themselves as the bleeding wounds from which Padre Pio suffered.
Castle understood that Padre Pio himself had always maintained the wounds were mystical, caused by the direct action of God and inflicted upon him as a confirmation of his complete devotion to the crucified Jesus. Truthfully, Castle doubted Padre Pio, or anyone else for that matter, could say exactly what the wrist wounds of the historical Jesus Christ crucified had looked like two thousand years ago. As soon as Archbishop Duncan mentioned that Father Bartholomew had “manifested” the nail wounds of Christ’s crucifixion on his wrists, Castle was excited to realize he was being handed an opportunity right here in New York to study the phenomenon in person.
“Stigmata?” Castle asked the archbishop, using the Church’s name for the wounds of Christ on the cross that a few Catholic mystics have manifested over the centuries. “You’re telling me that this Father Bartholomew has begun to display the stigmata?”
“Not just the stigmata, but also the blood Christ shed on the cross,” Duncan said seriously. “Trust my judgment on this. This case is already drawing attention in the city right now. The pope is worried that Father Bartholomew could become an international sensation if we don’t get on top of this right away.”
“Why wouldn’t that appeal to the Catholic Church? It might get you more believers.”
“I’m in agreement with that sentiment,” Archbishop Duncan admitted. “I’d like more believers, especially if they would come to church on Sunday in my archdiocese. But the pope is worried that Father Bartholomew could be a fraud, or even worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“That’s why we are calling you,” Archbishop Duncan admitted honestly. “If Father Bartholomew turns out to have a psychological disorder, this is not the way the Church wants to get believers, and I don’t want them either, especially not in the Archdiocese of New York.”
“So, you’re confirming to me that Pope John-Paul Peter I is involved in this case already?”
“Yes,” Duncan acknowledged. “He is sending Father Morelli to the United States to work on the case. Morelli is a Jesuit and he’s one of the pope’s most trusted advisors. You’ve spoken with the pope yourself and I suspect you can judge for yourself how serious a man Marco Vicente is. He is the same man as pope that he was as a cardinal.”
Castle listened intently, but he was not yet convinced this was the case for him. “But why doesn’t the Vatican choose a Catholic psychiatrist? I can recommend several right here in New York City who are top-notch.”
“The pope asked for you to take this case,” Duncan said firmly. “The pope was very specific. The pope knows you and he trusts you, and he knows you have the skills we need. You’re a psychiatrist, and you’re also a very accomplished medical doctor.”
Castle appreciated what Duncan was saying. Before he had decided to switch careers and become a psychiatrist, Castle had been a well-known surgeon.
“If you had stayed with surgery, you would today be one of the best in the world,” Duncan insisted. “This case is going to demand more than psychiatry to understand the problem. Stigmata are a complicated medical issue and the Vatican feels we need a surgeon to handle the case. You cover both skills we need—you were a surgeon and you are now a psychiatrist. The Vatican doesn’t know any medical doctor anywhere in the world more qualified to handle this case than you—certainly no one whom Rome trusts as much as the pope trusts you.”
Castle appreciated what Duncan was telling him, and he saw an opportunity in taking the case. He began to sense that analyzing Bartholomew would only end up confirming his suspicion that human beings typically created religious experience to control sexuality and compensate for a lack of meaning in their lives. Besides, his publisher was pushing him for another book and the thought crossed his mind that Father Bartholomew might provide just the inspiration he needed to get started writing. Nothing would be more interesting to his readers than debunking a psychologically disturbed priest who had begun to think of himself as Jesus Christ.
Then too, Archbishop Duncan was an important figure in New York and Castle himself was now at a top level of New York society. So it was better to have the archbishop as his friend than antagonize him by neglecting to help when asked directly by the pope to do so.
“You have to understand I’m close to Bartholomew,” Archbishop Duncan continued. “We go back many years. When Bartholomew was in grade school, he and his mother were parishioners at St. Margaret’s over in Morristown, the first church where I was a parish priest after the seminary. When his mother died, I counseled Bartholomew on his vocation and I’ve been his spiritual advisor ever since. Over the years, Bartholomew has become a personal friend, as well as a priest I supervise in the archdiocese.”
Castle listened carefully. Reading between the lines, he understood that Archbishop Duncan was telling him he was going to be protective of Father Bartholomew. Any attempt Castle might make to discredit the priest on psychological grounds would have to be well substantiated; otherwise Duncan would end up trying to discredit the psychiatrist in order to protect the Church and his friend Father Bartholomew.
“Truly, Bartholomew is a lot like you,” Duncan continued.
“How’s that?” Castle asked, surprised at the comment.
“Bartholomew also changed careers. He was a brilliant physicist at Princeton. You have to know he was brilliant, simply because he was one of the youngest Ph.D.’s ever to be accepted to the faculty of the Institute for Advanced Studies. He went through a personal crisis when his mother died. His mother was the only person he ever was really close to. When she died, he left physics and entered the seminary. I counseled him through the crisis. Now I’m calling you because I need your help on this one, just like I did when we first met.”
Castle figured he might as well stop protesting. “Okay, then tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
“Meet with Father Morelli and hear out the details of the case. Morelli will explain to you why the Vatican is so concerned.”
“Can’t you tell me why the Vatican is so involved in this case, after only one day of hearing about it?”
“Let Morelli explain it. He is the pope’s top advisor on miracles, anything paranormal that affects the Church—appearances of the Virgin Mary, miracles—all that type of thing. He has played the role of devil’s advocate in prosecuting the case against those being considered by the pope to be canonized as saints. Father Bartholomew manifested the stigmata yesterday when saying Mass. There were people in the church who filmed the event wi
th their cell phones. The videos are already starting to show up on the Internet.”
“I see,” Castle commented, making a mental note to look up some of the videos and watch them for himself.
“All I’m asking you to do right now is to meet with Father Morelli. Then, if you decide to take the case, you can meet with Father Bartholomew. The Church would like you to take on Father Bartholomew as one of your psychiatric patients.”
“Okay, so you say Father Morelli is prepared to travel from Rome to meet me here in New York?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“Today is Friday,” Duncan calculated. “If you agree to see Father Morelli, I will call the Vatican immediately. Morelli can take a flight from Rome to New York and be here tomorrow, especially if you can see him on Monday.”
The Vatican doesn’t want to waste any time, Castle realized. “That fast?”
“Yes, first thing on Monday, if possible,” Duncan said firmly. “We need to move on this right now. I sent the details of the case to the Vatican on Thursday night, complete with photos of Father Bartholomew and his wounds. The pope himself was on the phone to me, waking me up this morning at five-thirty A.M. I know I’m pushing it to call you on a Friday morning and ask you to make time in your schedule on Monday.”
“How much time will Morelli need?”
“How much time can you give him?”
Castle quickly reviewed mentally the patients he had scheduled for Monday. “If Morelli can be at my office at eight A.M. on Monday, I think I can push my first appointment back an hour. I know that’s early, but that’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you,” the archbishop said, very pleased Castle had agreed. “Morelli will be at your office at eight A.M. Monday.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday
Dr. Stephen Castle’s office, New York City
Day 5
Castle rose at 6:30 A.M., looking forward to starting off the week by seeing the pope’s mysterious emissary from Rome.
Scrutinizing his face in the bathroom mirror, Dr. Stephen Castle carefully combed into place his ample head of soft black hair, which was now distinguished by traces of gray, as was his closely cropped beard. He was pleased at what he saw, confident he was at the height of his professional prowess.
Standing before the full-length hall mirror on his way out of the apartment, he took a minute to arrange precisely the four-pointed handkerchief in the pocket of his expensively tailored black cashmere sport coat. Taking one last look into his steely blue-gray eyes reflected back from the mirror, Castle was reassured that his exercise routine was working to maintain his muscle tone and control his waistline. At fifty-four years old, Castle found his psychiatric practice to be thriving beyond his wildest expectations. Castle had every intention of staying healthy and productive for maybe twenty more years of active medical practice.
Truthfully, Castle was pleased with what he saw reflected back in his mirrors. His gray-lined pinstripe shirt with a button-down collar open at the neck nicely complemented his sport jacket and his carefully pressed gray slacks. He liked the elegance of his neatly trimmed beard and, while he had to exercise more now to maintain his trim and fit appearance, it was easy with the gym he had built into a section of his living quarters, which had a particularly stunning view over Central Park.
Psychoanalyzing difficult patients was like playing a game of chess in which Castle could lose, despite his advantage of understanding how the human psyche worked. Some of his better patients were also brilliant, more than capable of playing the game of psychoanalysis like chess masters themselves.
He knew Archbishop Duncan was right. If he had never gone into psychiatry, he believed he would have become one of the top heart surgeons in the world; he would have made his millions either way. Returning to medical residency to get his psychiatric training after his wife died cost him a couple of valuable years. Still, he judged it had been worth it. He was a young man in his thirties when he was first board-certified in psychiatry.
Castle got his B.A. degree from New York University, in his native city. He had always wanted to go to Harvard, and when Harvard Medical School admitted him, his decision was already made. He did his medical residency at Mass. General in Boston. When he decided to change careers after his wife died, he did his psychiatric residency at Beth Israel Hospital in New York City, where he was already on staff as a surgeon. Castle enjoyed his time in Boston, but he had always planned to return to practice medicine in New York, the city he loved more than any other in the world.
Though he had never remarried, he considered himself a young fifty-four-year-old and he felt he had plenty of years left to enjoy his money. At this point in his career, he was doing what he wanted to do professionally, especially since he could afford to take only those cases he wanted to psychoanalyze. The thought crossed his mind that he might never retire. He traveled the world as he pleased, always first-class; he managed to spend a month or two a year in Italy—what more did he need? He was happy with his life and he felt fulfilled professionally. At fifty-four, and with his social prominence in New York, he had all the divorcées he wanted for dinner or theater guests. He enjoyed their company, but he had no intentions of remarrying. The complications of maintaining a long-term relationship with a second wife did not interest him at all.
Castle had never lost his enthusiasm for starting his days early and he knew from experience that if he could manage to keep his mind open, each day had the prospect of opening up to him a new and exciting level of knowledge. Confident that Father Bartholomew’s story would form the core of his new book, Castle looked forward to meeting the priest from the Vatican.
Wondering what Father Morelli would tell him about Father Bartholomew that Archbishop Duncan had intentionally left out, Castle walked confidently through his comfortable and elegantly appointed apartment to take the stairway down to his office on the floor below.
Decades ago, when he was dependent on his wife working as a legal secretary to help pay for his residency at Mass. General, Castle had never imagined he would one day have the resources to buy these two top floors of this exclusive Fifth Avenue address, in a prewar apartment building located right on Central Park across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But his practice had grown until his patient list included some of the most prominent business leaders in New York and most powerful politicians in Washington. Castle could easily afford his pricey address. By picking a residential apartment building for his medical practice and getting the co-op board to allow him to locate his office in his home, Castle had managed to combine upscale New York living with a discreet location for his office.
Senators traveled from the nation’s capital to see him here, as did top investment bankers and CEOs from Wall Street. When coming for medical advice, the rich and the prominent could just as easily be visiting friends. Limousines were nothing out of the ordinary in this neighborhood. Yet, with its address and entrance on the cross street, this building was particularly appropriate for his psychiatric practice. Since visitors did not have to enter the building on Fifth Avenue, Castle’s patients could more easily stay out of view from the public and the press, even when their limousines dropped them off at Castle’s front door.
Castle loved his perch on the top two floors, complete with a penthouse roof garden that made a lovely setting for a catered late evening dinner in the summer. It was hard to beat the backdrop of Central Park with its changing beauty through every different season of the year—the lush green of the summer, the array of colors as the trees changed in the fall, the stark beauty of the bare trees in the winter, the promise of spring with the first light green as the trees budded anew. In the judgment of many New York social scene reporters, there was no better apartment in New York to hold a cocktail party for the rich and famous.
When he descended from his living quarters to his sumptuous office space on the floor below, Castle entered his massive, mahogany-lined library. His thousand
volumes encompassed one of the world’s most impressive collections of psychiatric literature in private hands, including signed first editions by nearly every giant in the field. He was most pleased with his collection of Sigmund Freud first editions originally published in German and inscribed by the psychiatrist himself. The library opened onto his treatment room, which filled most of the floor.
Every detail of Castle’s treatment room had been carefully calculated for effect. His chair was centrally positioned in the room, with windows onto Central Park to his back. The buildings lining Central Park South and Central Park West provided a bigger-than-life backdrop, which the psychiatrist felt underscored his important role.
The patient’s chair, a little less sumptuous and a lot less comfortable, was positioned directly opposite him, across from a small coffee table. From the patient’s perspective, Castle was backlit, making it difficult to see all the details of the psychiatrist’s face. In contrast, the light from the spacious windows pouring onto the patient gave Castle the advantage of being able to scrutinize every reaction of his patient in nicely lighted detail. Keeping the light to his back was an unfair advantage in the psychiatric setting and Castle liked unfair advantages when they played to his favor.
Around the perimeter of the room behind Castle were comfortable, overstuffed connecting couches, generously punctuated with pillows and positioned for the occasional group meetings Castle hosted in his office.
Entering the treatment room, Castle stopped to allow himself to soak in fully the dazzling beauty as the morning sun danced across the rich yellow and red leaves of Central Park’s changing fall trees.
Castle worked alone, without a secretary or appointments clerk. That too was a step he took to protect the privacy of his patients. Regardless of how trusted an assistant might be, a second person in the practice necessarily risked a breach of confidentiality, especially when the clients were well-known. When he was expecting patients, Castle simply left the outside door to his waiting room open.
The Shroud Codex Page 3