A Rose From The Executioner

by Edward Izzi

  Father Joe looked at him, now thinking that Little Tony was now losing his mind.

  “Marquardt!” he whispered back.

  Little Tony sat there for a moment, thinking. They were both silent, as Tony was taking inventory of all his recent activities and didn’t recall ever making or ordering such a hit on anyone named Marquardt.

  “Look Joe…whatever you’re talking about, I had nothing to do with it!”

  “What?” Now the Monsignor was even more confused. They both sat there silent, as Tony continued to try and figure out who Fr. Joe was talking about.

  Suddenly, Little Tony burst out laughing, at the Monsignor’s expense.

  “Wait! Are you talking about that old man that got murdered in Albany Park not too long ago?” He remembered reading about it in the papers.

  “Yes….John Marquardt,” the Monsignor answered. “It was your hit, correct?”

  Little Tony started laughing even louder.

  “Joe, I think you’re goddamn losing it.”

  A few more moments passed by until Little Tony could control his laughter.

  “Joe, I would just love to take your money,” as his laughter calmed down. “But that wasn’t our hit!” Little Tony explained.

  “Huh? What do you mean it ‘wasn’t your hit’?”

  “We didn’t do it, Joe. We didn’t order any such hit. It wasn’t ours, Joe.”

  Monsignor Kilbane had a confused and shocked look on his face. He was speechless.

  “As a matter of fact,” Tony explained. “I told Sal your idea when you asked me a few months ago and we both thought you were fucking nuts!”

  The Monsignor was still in shock, not knowing what to think.

  “Joe, I told you that this was a crazy idea and that we didn’t want to get involved.”

  “Well,” said the Monsignor, at a loss for words. “If you didn’t do this, who the hell did?”

  Little Tony took another long sip from his fourth Crown Royal on the Rocks.

  “Beats the shit out of me, Joe. Besides, why would we make such a hit with all the heat from the ‘coppers’ and detectives lurking and snooping around? Aren’t the ‘coppers’ sniffing around your place right now?”

  “Yes, and they know about the life insurance policies.”

  “Good luck with that, Joe,” Little Tony started smirking, twirling his ice cubes around.

  “At least you can say with a good conscience that you had nothing to do with this.”

  “Well, I’ve got a Detective Dorian from the Chicago P.D. creeping around,” Fr. Joe replied.

  “Who? Dorian?” Little Tony perked up.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, he brought me and a few of my guys down to the station once on a potential homicide charge a few years back. He’s a pussy!” he remarked.

  Monsignor Kilbane was still perplexed and confused.

  “If you don’t know anything about this, Tony, who else would take him out?”

  Little Tony finished his drink and called the waiter to bring him the check.

  “Frankly, Father Joe, I don’t know, and I really don’t give a fuck.”

  He passed the black satchel back to the Monsignor, then stuffed a few hundred-dollar bills into the waiter’s billfold.

  “Until this murder is solved, Joe, there is going to be a lot of heat coming down on the Archdiocese.

  You had better call your attorneys and watch your back. These ‘coppers’ have a way of coming out of the woodwork.”

  The Monsignor just sat there, not knowing what to say.

  “I’m going to have Gianna drop those burner phones, so don’t try to contact me.”

  With that, Little Tony quickly rose from the table and gave his friend a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Take care, Joe. I’ll call you when the baby is born.”

  He then quickly left the restaurant through the side exit, leaving the Monsignor sitting there, holding his black satchel bag…alone.

  Monsignor Joseph Kilbane kept turning the facts of this murder over and over in his head: Did Marquardt have that many enemies that someone else had him killed? Who else would murder him? He didn’t know what to say or think, as a cold chill began to run through his body and his hands started shaking. The only thing Fr. Joe could think of, was that if this killer was out there, and this homicide was unsolved, he could possibly, be the only suspect in this murder case. He had better ‘lawyer-up’, he thought to himself.

  The Monsignor took a few moments to gather his thoughts. He didn’t know if his hands were still shaking out of nervousness, or from the three Manhattans he had gulped down during dinner. He pulled out a ten spot to the valet and climbed into his Cadillac, placing the black satchel bag in the backseat of his car. He then began to drive towards his luxury townhouse in Lincoln Park.

  The lights and the oncoming traffic seemed a little blurry as he was driving. He was having difficulty distinguishing his immediate surroundings, and especially, driving on the right lane. He didn’t notice, until it was too late, that he had run the stop sign at the intersection of Aberdeen and Halsted Streets.

  Within seconds, he heard a siren and saw bright, blue flashing lights in his rear-view mirror.

  Chapter Ten

  St Peter Chanel High School

  The library at St. Peter Chanel High School on the west side of Chicago was jammed with students on that warm, spring day in May 1966. It was final exams week, and the boys were grouped together, sitting at various long, wooden tables within the library as several Marist priests were keenly patrolling the crowded study hall. Scott DeSantis and his best friend, Stephan Walker, were studying for their sophomore chemistry finals, and were passing notes to each other back and forth when the keen-eyed monitors weren’t looking.

  Scotty and Steve went to St. Veronica’s Grade School together, lived close by, and had known each other since the second grade. They were trying to be unnoticed and discrete as the two boys pushed pieces of paper back and forth to each other, trying hard to control their laughter.

  The subjects of their notes were humorous and unmemorable, ranging from John Romeo’s ugly, over-weight prom date that prior Saturday night to Tom Keegan’s brand spanking new, 1966 Mustang convertible. Scotty was just passing another note to Steve when Father Senopoli pounded his fist on the table, covering the unread note with his hand.

  “Are you two boys done horsing around?” Father Senopoli said sternly, as he crumpled the unread note with his hand. He was completely uninterested in what the two boys were gossiping about, as their behavior was disturbing the other students trying to study.

  “Yes Father,” Scotty said. He was keeping a straight face, trying very hard to control his laughter by biting his lower lip.

  Fr. Lucas Senopoli was the Dean of Students at the all-boys high school and wasn’t afraid to grab any student by the hair and pound their heads against the wall to get his point across. His methods of discipline went beyond the definitions of corporal punishment. Fr. Senopoli’s violent procedures in controlling his students in those days would raise the eyebrows of many parents and outsiders even then.

  Two weeks prior, three boys were caught smoking in the men’s bathroom, and he made each student eat and swallow a whole pack of cigarettes before administering ‘swirlies’ by dunking their heads into the men’s room toilets. Senopoli kept a “rider’s crop” in his desk drawer and wasn’t afraid to harshly whip the bear ass of any boy who was caught breaking one of the high schools’ many rules.

  After Fr. Senopoli walked away, Scotty and Steve started laughing and giggling again, and Scotty continued to pass more notes to Steve while the monitors weren’t looking. As the two boys continued to entertain themselves and disregard their studies, Fr. Senopoli was standing behind a shelf of books targeting the two boys. As the study hall was starting to conclude, the Dean of Students approached the two sophomores.

  “Mr. DeSantis and Mr. Walker follow me to my office please,” Fr. Senopoli calmly
said.

  The two students began to shudder, as they followed him down the long, darkened hallway and into his office, which was in the far rear of the school. This location of his office turned out to be an advantage for Fr. Senopoli, as his private area was void of outside noise and located remotely away from the school classrooms and the student cafeteria.

  Once the boys entered his office, Fr. Senopoli exploded:

  “Which one of you would care to tell me what is so important that you needed to pass notes back and forth?” as he grabbed both boys by their black ties, pushing them both up against the wall.

  Steve started saying, “Nothing Father. We were laughing about the prom last week and…”

  He shoved the boys even harder.

  “What about your exams?” he asked with intense intimidation.

  “Why aren’t you both taking your final exams more seriously, instead of mocking your teachers and this institution?” he remanded in a very loud, angry voice.

  “But we were not…” Scotty started to say.

  “Shut up! Both of you!” Senopoli screamed.

  He walked over to his desk and pulled out his ‘rider’s crop.’ On the corner of his desk was also one of those new, Polaroid cameras that takes instantaneous black and white pictures. He then demanded both boys to remove their trousers. As they removed their pants and underwear, Father Senopoli took several pictures of the two boys standing side by side up against the bare office wall.

  “These pictures are for your disciplinary school records,” Senopoli remarked.

  Scotty and Steve had never been in trouble with the Dean of Students before. They had heard about his ‘rider’s crop’ bare-ass whippings and his ‘pictures’ from the other students over the past two years, but neither boy had ever been in his office or experienced his excessive corporal punishment. For some odd reason, Fr. Senopoli seemed to target most of his disciplinary actions and corporal punishment on the school’s freshmen and sophomores.

  He then demanded Stephan to bend over his desk. As the young boy followed his orders, Stephan started crying.

  “I’m sorry Father. Please don’t hit me with that. I promise we won’t do it again. I promise I won’t ever disrespect you. I promise, Father. Please don’t hit me,” Stephan begged.

  Senopoli only became more enraged, as he cracked the whipping device against the top of his desk a few times.

  “Take your punishment like a man, Mr. Walker. You should have thought of this while you were horsing around in the library.”

  Fr. Senopoli grabbed Walker by the hair, and forcibly pushed him down, bent over across his desk. He then began whipping the boy as hard as he could, placing his left hand over his body to keep him still. Steve began crying and screaming with pain, as the lashes seemed to come down on his bare buttocks harder and harder. Scotty DeSantis trembled as he watched his best friend get whipped and abused by the Dean of Students, as he was hitting Steve’s bare bottom with all his force and with all his rage.

  Senopoli must have whipped the boy more than a dozen times. When the beating concluded, Stephan’s face was drenched with tears. He painfully grasped his underwear and his trousers, and slowly began to dress himself. As he was struggling to get dressed Scotty noticed the blood and red whipping marks on Steve’s bare buttocks.

  “Now it’s your turn Mr. DeSantis,” as he demanded Scotty to bend over his desk.

  At that point, a combination of fear and hatred came over Scotty. He did something on that afternoon that no one in the history of St. Peter Chanel High School had ever done. As the boy was beginning to bend over his desk, he suddenly stood up and grabbed the rider’s crop away from Father Senopoli.

  “Fuck you! You’re not hitting me with that thing!”

  He pushed the office door open and bolted out of his office with Senopoli’s whipping device in his hand. He was struggling to pull up his trousers, as he began running and screaming down the hallway.

  “Come back here, you little bastard!” screamed Father Senopoli, as he ran out of his office chasing after the sophomore.

  The open commotion and Scotty’s screaming for help down the hallway alerted the attention of several teachers, who peered out of their classrooms to see what was going on. One of them was Fr. Gabriel Swann, who was in the middle of administering his trigonometry finals to his eleventh-grade students.

  Fr. Gabriel was a large, burly man, in excess of six feet, five inches tall, and well over three hundred pounds. He was one of the more popular Marist priests at St. Peter Chanel, as he seemed to have a good reputation and was well loved by his students. He was a great math instructor and spent a tremendous amount of time tutoring students after school. “Father Gabe” was involved in the schools’ drama club, student government, and monitored many of the other student high school activities. He was also the head football coach.

  As Fr. Gabriel stepped out into the hallway, Scotty ran into his arms, screaming and crying for the priest’s help, still grasping the whipping device in his hand.

  “Help me Fr. Gabe, please….” Scotty was crying uncontrollably as Senopoli caught up with the young boy. As he tried to reach for Scott, Fr. Gabriel grabbed his arm.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Gabriel demanded.

  “This little bastard ran away with my rider’s crop!” Fr. Senopoli screamed. Scotty started crying uncontrollably.

  “He beat the hell out of Stevie Walker and he wants to beat me up too,” Scotty explained between sobs.

  Fr. Gabe sternly looked at Fr. Senopoli. Everyone on the staff of the high school was aware of Fr. Senopoli’s extreme acts of corporal punishment. Fr. Gabriel had voiced his disapproval of their Dean of Students’ excessive actions of abuse on many occasions in the past but seemed to always fall on the deaf ears of their aging principal, Fr. William Ouellette.

  As Fr. Gabriel stood between Senopoli and the boy, he boldly ordered, “I think it’s time that we have a meeting in the principal’s office tomorrow, Father.” Fr. Gabriel glared at Senopoli, the two locking eyes on one another with total contempt.

  “Scott, go to your locker and get your things. Return here with your parents first thing tomorrow morning. We will meet at the principal’s office.”

  Scott let go of Fr. Gabriel and quickly walked to his locker, picking up his books and notepads to catch the bus home.

  The two Marist priests just stood there, alone in the middle of the hallway, glaring at one another. As the two priests were beginning their standoff, Fr. Gabriel saw Stephan Walker slowly walking toward his locker. He could tell that the boy was in an extreme amount of pain and was walking with a limp, trying to cover up the pain on his buttocks as he slowly walked. He was still whimpering from the beating.

  “What the hell did you do to that boy?” Fr. Gabriel demanded.

  “They were both misbehaving in study hall. They were passing notes to one another….”

  “Are you kidding me? You beat up a student with that damn whip for passing notes?” Fr. Gabriel screamed. His eyes were filled with rage and anger, as he stood toe to toe with Fr. Senopoli, his face within centimeters of his.

  “I have sat back and watched you physically and emotionally abuse these boys for years. I am waiting for the day when one of these boys grabs that rider’s crop of yours and whips the living hell out you,” he screamed at the Dean of Students.

  “Maybe you would like the first opportunity,” Fr. Senopoli angrily replied.

  “I think the Lord would forgive me for taking one good crack at you,” Gabriel loudly remarked.

  The two priests were screaming and taunting each other in the middle of the hallway, as the teachers and students began leaving their classrooms and gathered to watch the two priests getting ready to go at it. Before there were any blows taken or any punches thrown, the English teacher, Mr. Robert Kelly, interceded in between them.

  “We don’t need to have these students watch the two of you fight like teenagers,” Kelly said, as he pushed himself bet
ween the two of them.

  Fr. Gabriel gave one last dirty look to Fr. Senopoli, as the both returned to their respective corners, Gabriel’s classroom and Senopoli’s office. They both knew there would be quite a standoff in the principal’s office tomorrow morning.

  ________________________________________

  Scotty DeSantis and his father had arrived at the principal’s office just after 7:30am the next morning. Scotty’s father, Mario DeSantis, owned and operated a local bar and pizzeria near Grand Avenue and Noble Streets.

  He was an old school Italian who had arrived from Cassino, Italy as a young boy, and had worked in the restaurant business all his life. He was a well-built, stocky man at five feet, eight inches tall, and had a look of fury on his face as Father Ouellette welcomed the two of them into his office.

  After refusing any coffee or water from the principal’s receptionist, the two of them sat in silence in the adjacent conference room as they waited patiently for Fr. Senopoli and Fr. Swann to arrive.

  As the Dean of Students arrived in the conference room, the elder DeSantis could barely contain his look of rage. Mario DeSantis only glared at Fr. Senopoli when he extended his hand out to greet him. He openly refused to shake his hand.

  Fr. Ouellette walked into the conference room and took his place at the head of the table, with his morning coffee.

  “I believe there was an incident yesterday afternoon, gentlemen, which has brought all of us here this morning,” Fr. Ouellette started the meeting.

  “Would you care to enlighten us as to what happened in the library yesterday, Mr. DeSantis?”

  The principal directed his first question to Scotty. He nervously recounted the library incident where he was passing handwritten notes to his friend, Steve. He also recited the events which occurred in the Dean of Student’s office, and how Steve was mercilessly whipped by Fr. Senopoli.

  At that moment, Fr. Swann entered the conference room along with Monsignor Patrick Kelly, who was an associate from the Chicago Archdiocese and the Cardinal’s office. The Monsignor was carrying a red photo album and Senopoli’s ‘rider’s crop’ along with him. The Dean of Students glared viciously at Fr. Gabriel, recognizing the red photo album immediately.