by Edward Izzi
“I’m sorry we’re late, Father Ouellette. I asked Monsignor Kelly to join us at this meeting this morning,” Fr. Gabe said.
As the two of them sat down at the other end of the conference table, the principal asked Scotty to recite the events from the day before again, in front of Monsignor Kelly, from the Library to Senopoli’s office. As they all sat around the conference table, Fr. Gabriel took charge of the meeting.
“As you well know, Father Ouellette, I have complained to you on many occasions regarding the harsh and somewhat ‘violent’ corporal punishment actions which Fr. Senopoli has administered to our students in the past. I have also heard many students complain about the whipping sessions that the Dean of Students has aggressively incorporated in disciplining the students here at St. Peter’s,” Swann recited, sounding almost like a prosecutor from the “Perry Mason” show.
“But something has recently come to my attention over the last twenty-four hours that prompted me to ask Monsignor Kelly from the Archdiocese to join us here this morning,” Fr. Gabriel continued.
He was focusing on the red photo album and the whipping device placed at the end of the conference table, which was now in the possession of Monsignor Kelly.
Mr. DeSantis sat silently with his son, as Father Ouellette listened intently to Fr. Gabriel. The old, aged principal, well into his eighties, seemed to be totally clueless to the harsh beatings that his Dean of Students was so liberally prescribing to the students. He also had no idea what was inside of that red photo album.
“We cannot allow you to harshly beat up and assault any more students, Fr. Senopoli, at either this institution or any other school within our Archdiocese,” Monsignor Kelly explained.
“Needless to say, this will not go on,” he sternly insisted.
There were several moments of silence in the room, as the Dean of Students realized that this “Principal’s meeting” was turning into a civil trial, with himself as the defendant. He only glared at Fr. Gabriel in total silence, steaming with total anger and contempt. He figured out that Fr. Swann must have gotten permission to go into his office when he wasn’t there. He probably rummaged through his office until he found the proof the he was looking for. The “red photo album” confirmed the suspicions Fr. Swann had long suspected.
“Father Senopoli, we are going to play a game this morning,” Monsignor Kelly stated.
“We are going to call it, ‘Let’s Make A Deal’”.
“I am going to ask you to sign your letter of resignation, effective immediately. I will in turn, keep this ‘red photo album’ for safekeeping at the Cardinal’s office, and we can end any other discussions regarding your harsh methods of discipline at St. Peter Chanel High School right here and now,” the Monsignor proposed.
Fr. Lucas Senopoli began turning several shades of red while Monsignor Kelly was still speaking.
“Or…” the Monsignor continued. “I can turn over this red photo album to Mr. DeSantis here, for him to do whatever he wishes.”
There was a look of shock and confusion around the table, as Father Gabriel gleefully stared down at the Dean of Students. Fr. Senopoli was appalled and livid over the Monsignor’s proposal. He started to angrily voice his opinion.
“I do not appreciate the means or your methods in demanding my dismissal here….”
Fr. Gabriel stood up and angrily pounded his open hand on the conference table, startling everyone in the room.
“You’ve lost your right to say anything here, Lucas,” he angrily screamed. “A thousand deaths into the burning halls of Hell wouldn’t be good enough for you, you son of a bitch! And this ‘red photo album’ only proves it.”
There were several moments of silence as everyone quietly focused on Fr. Senopoli. He then stood up from the conference table.
“I will honor your wishes and leave St. Peter’s this afternoon.” Fr. Senopoli said as he began walking towards the exit door. At that moment, Mario DeSantis stood up and walked towards the disgraced priest, blocking the exit.
“Sit back down Father. You and I haven’t squared up yet,” the boy’s father said.
As Fr. Senopoli begrudgingly sat back down at the table, Mario DeSantis took over the floor.
“I want everyone to leave this room, except Fr. Swann,” he directed. “I want him to witness what I am going to say.”
Scotty, Fr. Ouellette and Kelly slowly exited the conference room, with the Monsignor taking the red photo album and the Dean’s rider’s crop with him. When the door was closed behind them, DeSantis glared at Fr. Senopoli with total contempt as he began speaking:
“If what’s in that red photo album is what I think it is, you and I have a problem, Father,” DeSantis began.
“There had better not be any photos of my son in that album. Because if there are, no angel from Hell will protect you from the fucking beating that I’m going to give you right here and now,” he threatened.
Fr. Gabe interjected, “There are no photos of your son, Mr. DeSantis. Although he did take some pictures yesterday, they are not in that album and are in my possession.”
DeSantis angrily stared down at Senopoli.
“You sick fuck! It’s a good thing you didn’t touch my kid with that whip yesterday,” he continued.
“I would have immediately come here, gauged out your eye balls and skull fucked you, you sick bastard.”
Fr. Senopoli started turning several shades of red, as Mario DeSantis continued to berate the former Dean of Students.
“In all the years at this school, I’m surprised no one has taken that rider’s crop and shoved it up your ass”.
Senopoli sat there silently as DeSantis delivered his poignant statement.
“Pray to God that I never, ever see you again, Father. Because if I ever do, may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
With that, Scott’s father rose up from the conference table and left the room with Fr. Gabe, leaving Fr. Senopoli to sit there at the conference room table, alone. As they all walked out of the principal’s office, Fr. Gabriel smiled at Scotty as he put his arm around him.
“I’ve been looking forward to this day for many, many years,” the burly priest said.
“You have no idea what a wonderful service you have done for this school,” Fr. Gabe gleamed.
At that moment, they all shook hands outside of the Principal’s office and everyone went in their own directions. Scotty had another final exam to study for, while his father had to go to back to work and Fr. Gabe had a final math exam to administrate.
Although Fr. Senopoli never set foot at St. Peter Chanel High School again after that faithful morning in May 1966, he was unfortunately, only reprimanded by the Archdiocese of Chicago. After a brief sabbatical and some ‘very intense therapy’, Fr. Senopoli was reassigned as the assistant principal to Marist High School on the south side for several years, and then to Notre Dame High School in 1975. In both instances, his abusive methods of corporal punishment and his “red photo albums” caught up with him, and Cardinal Brody quietly forced him to resign and leave the priesthood in 1979.
No assault or child pornography charges were ever brought up against him.
Chapter Eleven
Death of Fr. Senopoli
The elderly man was pulling into the alley of his modest, Jefferson Park bungalow where his garage was located on that bright, Friday afternoon. It was the beginning of the Memorial Day weekend, and the old man was looking forward to the bocce ball tournament at the Mazzini Verdi Club which was starting at seven o’clock that evening. He needed to get himself cleaned up and ready before his friend from the club came over to pick him up.
At the age of 78 years old, Lucas Senopoli did his very best to stay active. With the onset of diabetes and two heart valve stints that were installed a few years ago, he struggled to remain active and in good health. He walked five miles every day with his golden retriever, Rocco, around the local neighborhood, and always tried very hard to stay energetic. Since leaving the pr
iesthood in 1979, he worked for the maintenance crew for the Archdiocese of Chicago, doing mechanical repairs and landscaping for its various churches and schools. He had enjoyed his work until his recent retirement. Mr. Senopoli lived alone, and he preferred it that way, as he kept to himself and didn’t socialize very much. He didn’t have many friends, other than those he had made at the Mazzini Verde Club. Most considered him a loner, and he enjoyed his privacy.
Senopoli unloaded the groceries from his 2007 Buick, and walked from the back door of the garage, through his back yard and entered his house. His modest, red brick bungalow was tidy and well kept, as he did his own maintenance and landscaping. He had just planted some flowers along the front of the house, and the scent of the freshly cut lawn reminded him of the grass clippings that needed to put out for garbage pickup next week.
Although he enjoyed being in his home, he was beginning to get despondent over Jefferson Park area. There had been a significant number of Latinos that were starting to move onto his street on North Menard Avenue.
The annual Cinco de Mayo celebrations were fast becoming a major holiday on his block, and he was beginning to realize that he was very much a minority in his own neighborhood.
Very few people knew about Lucas Senopoli’s past as a Catholic priest. It had been many years since Cardinal Brody had forced his resignation to leave the priesthood. Although he was grateful to have a job working for the diocese, he was always bitter about his pension and social security package, as he strained to live on his minimal retirement income.
He was forced into leaving his job after turning 75 years old a few years ago and didn’t appreciate having to pay all the insurance premiums that he was required to pay in order to keep his employment. He tried several times to stop paying the required five-million-dollar whole life insurance policy which he was obligated to pay every quarter but was told by the Archdiocese that his position would be terminated if he did so.
Senopoli was on a very strict budget since his retirement, and the $2,400 in monthly income from his pension and social security didn’t go very far. After paying his utility bills, prescriptions, insurance and taxes, there sometimes wasn’t much left for groceries. The old man had to save and cut corners wherever he could. He had a large container in his garage for plastic and aluminum cans, which he cashed in at the local Jewel grocery store every month.
He was grateful for the New Hope Food Bank, where he would pick up some packages of pasta and cans of tomato sauce when his cupboards were bare. St. Malachy, his neighborhood parish, had a ‘soup and salad’ dinner every Friday, which he frequently attended, along with the Knights of Columbus Spaghetti Dinners once a month. There was a goodwill store in his neighborhood, where he would occasionally buy whatever clothing he could afford.
But Lucas Senopoli was a tormented soul, and his biggest problems were not his finances. The former priest was in constant battle with his inner demons and spent a tremendous amount of time coping with his manic depression. He was a life-long insomniac, and often woke up in a cold sweat most every evening, battling the evil spirits that fermented inside of his brain for so many years.
He was often wide awake by 2:00am and was frequently seen walking Rocco around the neighborhood in the middle of the night, trying to escape his horrifying nightmares.
The local police knew of his bad sleeping habits, and Senopoli took his evening walks as though he were running away from his nocturnal demons. He always regretted his decision to enter the priesthood as a young man, and only entered the seminary as a vehicle for hiding his immoral, sexual deviances. He had been in and out of psychiatric therapy almost all his adult life and would often negate taking the high dosage of Lexapro which he was prescribed but could barely afford. When his sexual ‘urges’ became uncontrollable, he had a large collection of illegal ‘kiddy porn’ magazines, which he kept in a double locked, wooden truck in his bedroom.
The old man was in his kitchen putting his groceries away that afternoon, when realized he had forgotten a grocery bag of vegetables from his car. He walked back to the garage and grabbed the last bag of groceries, located in the back seat. He closed the car door and walked towards the garage exit.
But hiding behind the garage door, a stranger was lurking. The former priest suddenly felt a hand cover his mouth and a sharp blade rubbing up against his throat. He tried to scream and began to gag as he dropped the bag of groceries onto the garage floor. As he began to struggle, the assailant pushed the aged man up against the garage wall, his sharp knife still touching his throat. Struggling for air, the elderly man was starting to turn blue. As he inserted the pointed dagger into his victims’ throat, he whispered these final words into the old pedophile’s left ear:
“May Jesus grant you mercy, Father Senopoli.”
Chapter Twelve
Funeral For A Friend
Throngs of people were beginning to gather inside of St. Peregrine Church in the Portage Park neighborhood, as Chicago Police Department Sergeant Paul Russo arrived on that cold, Saturday morning in January for his best friend’s funeral. Joseph Campisi had committed suicide that prior Tuesday evening by standing in front of the Big Timber Westbound train at the Western Avenue train station.
It was the rush hour going home, and Russo couldn’t understand why any of the bystanders didn’t rush to stop Joey Campisi from calmly walking onto the railroad tracks in front of an oncoming train that early evening. Witnesses said that at 5:56 pm Tuesday night, he parked his car at the nearby park-ing lot, and then leisurely walked past the train depot onto the railroad tracks. As the Metra train began feverishly sounding its horns, he only stood still, looking away towards the other direction as he was hit by the force of the train head-on. His body was instantly dismembered and dragged over twenty feet across the tracks, as bystanders and passengers looked on in horror. Several Chicago EMT ambulances were called to the scene, as two older witnesses fainted at the sight of Campisi’s decapitated and mutilated body scattered all over the railroad tracks.
As everyone filed past the closed casket, all his friends and family were still in shock as to why the 61-year-old construction worker, who was divorced with three grown children, would so tragically, and yet so publicly, end his own life. But Russo, having been on the Chicago Police Intelligence Unit over at the Old Maxwell Street Station for over thirty years, had seen more than his share of tragic suicides and needless deaths. He was extremely close to his lifelong friend since their days at St. Rosalia’s Catholic School and Notre Dame High School on the north side of Chicago.
Sergeant Russo was aware of Joey Campisi’s enduring, horrific demons that embattled him his whole life, and was afraid a tragedy like this would happen. Campisi was a full-time alcoholic and part-time drug user. He took whatever he could take, and whatever was available to him, to alleviate his mental anguish and help ease his inner pain.
As he knelt before the casket at the vestibule of the church, Russo began crying uncontrollably, remembering all the horrendous incidents of Joey’s childhood that eventually, put him over the edge. He remembered the incident at St. Rosalia’s church as altar boys, when they thought they were going to be punished for switching the mass wine at Fr. Marquardt’s mass and Joey instead, being raped and molested by the priest that day. Although he eventually figured out what had happened to his best friend on that day in 1964, Joey Campisi absolutely never, ever talked about it.
Ever.
Sgt. Russo remembered having drinks at their local watering hole, the Glenwood Lounge in Wicker Park, where they usually met on Friday nights. He remembered bringing up the altar boy incident to him, asking him what had happened almost fifty years earlier. Joey turned red and became extremely violent, almost attacking Russo outside for bringing it up. He totally denied that the molestation ever happened.
There was another incident at Notre Dame High School. Fr. Lucas Senopoli, the head principal at the time, maliciously whipped young Joey with his ‘rider crop’ for smoking in the bathroo
m, until he drew blood across his buttocks. The young freshman then witnessed him masturbating under his desk while Joey, standing there naked, was forced to watch. Paul had only found out about it because Joey had confessed the incident to him while they were both inebriated during a high school football party. Russo knew that his best friend had endured childhood experiences that no young boy should ever have to endure.
He had helplessly watched Joey become an alcoholic, leaving his wife and children home alone and without money while he went to the bar almost every night after work until one o’clock in the morning. He remembered getting phone calls from his wife, Suzanne, pleading with him to ‘fish Joey’ out of the bar and to bring him home in one piece.
Joey had several DUI offenses and was without a driver’s license for a few years until hiring a high-priced lawyer to retrieve it back for him. His alcoholism and cocaine use contributed to the failure of his marriage and the destruction of his family.
And yet, Joey Campisi would never admit that he had an alcohol or drug abuse problem. Russo pleaded with him many times to get help. He once waited for Joey to come out of the bar one night and purposely arrested him, locking him up in a jail cell over the weekend until he agreed to get help for his problem.
His former wife, who was still totally devoted to him, only ended the marriage to force him to realize his drug and alcohol problem, and to get the psychological therapy he needed to overcome his addictions. Suzanne would call Russo at all hours of the night, begging to know why Joey was so mentally tortured and so emotionally demonized. Russo, out of loyalty to his best friend, said very little to his former wife, fearing that she would turn that information against him in a divorce. Because Sgt. Russo was probably the only person in the world who knew about Joey’s child molestations as a kid, he was limited as to how much he could help his best friend.