by Edward Izzi
“No. We had a fallout a couple of days before the explosion and I haven’t heard from her at all.”
“She had to have heard about your injuries and the explosion fatalities all the way from Detroit. It was national news for a while. She didn’t even try to contact you?”
“Nope. Not even a ‘Get-Well’ text.” The disappointment in my voice was more than apparent.
“Well, I’m sure she was using you for information regarding those homicides, so you’re far better off.”
The traffic was light that afternoon as he was driving me to my loft in the West Loop. We began discussing some ‘Ivory Tower’ politics before I started to ask some specific questions regarding the church explosion and the “Pedophile Priest Murder’ case.
“So how many victims were in that explosion, again?” I asked, although I was told and read about it in the media several times.
“Chicago Fire and EMS recovered ten bodies, including Paul Russo’s. Most of the victims were charred beyond recognition and had to have their dental records sent to the morgue before making a positive ID on the rest of them,” Morton replied.
“Ten bodies?”
“Yeah, ten of them. Some of them were still wearing tuxedos and name tags with their biblical names on them, and some of the burn victims were burnt beyond recognition. We had a hell of a time figuring out their identities. Thank God for dental records,” he replied.
I began counting the number in my head, and the number ‘ten’ didn’t make any sense. From what I had researched, the Society of the Rose Crucifix consisted of twelve members plus the Grand Knight, which was modeled after Jesus and His Twelve Apostles.
“Was Marrocco one of the victims?”
“No. He was interviewed by the Twenty-First District after the fire, and Intel figured they didn’t have enough evidence to hold him accountable or to bring any charges against him. He denied being a member and ‘alibied’ out on the same date and time of the explosion.”
With the suicide of Bartell at our district lockup, I figured there were two more ‘SRC’ members that were not a part of that fire. If Marrocco was an SRC member, that meant that there was still one missing and outstanding.
With the death of four pedophile priests and the church explosion, ’Ivory Tower’, along with the rest of Chicago’s politicians and media pretty much declared these homicide cases closed. But with one unaccountable member of the ‘SRC’ still out there, I wasn’t buying it. To finally conclude that the ‘SRC’ was finally dead and destroyed was still a hard sell for me.
I was ordered by Commander Callahan to stay home and relax for the remaining part of that week, but I was restless and bored by the third day I was home. There was only so many walks and playing ‘fetch’ with Ginger that I could do during the day, so I decided to go back to work at the precinct later that week.
The day I had arrived back to work, there were ‘Welcome Back Phil’ signs and balloons surrounding my desk in my office, along with a small chocolate cake and several of my favorite Dunkin’ Donuts eclairs and jelly donuts. I had lost over fifty pounds and was down to a thirty-two waist while I was in the hospital. Eating all of those decadent goodies would still be very difficult for me, as I was still wearing a bag.
Several precinct workers and patrolmen came into my office to congratulate me, giving me their good wishes on my healthy recovery. Even Commander Callahan come into my office to welcome me back to work, as he gave me an emotional embrace. It felt great to be missed and appreciated by everyone there in the Sixteenth District, which was something I wasn’t feeling much of while these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’ were being investigated.
I later received a visit later that morning from my favorite news reporter. He was speechless at first, as he entered my office, only giving me an intense embrace when he immediately saw me. There were tears in his eyes as he seemed to be grateful to see me well and back at work.
“Should we get a room?” I joked, as I was finding it difficult to pull away from his powerful bear hug.
“Shut up, Philly! It’s so great to see you again,” Chaz Rizzo said, as he invited himself into my office and made himself comfortable.
“We’re so glad you’re feeling better,” he exclaimed, as his comments and well wishes sounded totally genuine. He then began to tell me of the number of well-wishers at the Channel Eight news station that were praying for my speedy recovery from the stabbing injury.
“Congratulations on solving the ‘Pedophile Priest Murders,” as he popped an unlit Marlboro Light cigarette into his mouth.
“How do you figure?”
“Come on Philly. You did some great detective work out there, tracing those parking tickets and all, and figuring out that ‘secret society’ cult that was going on in that abandoned church. I was almost positive there was only one serial killer doing these murders,” Chaz explained.
‘I’m impressed, Philly. For an old detective, you’ve still got it,” he jokingly exclaimed, shaking my hand at the same time.
“Looks like you’re going to have to start scrounging elsewhere for your news reports, Riz. Hopefully, we won’t be having anymore ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’ anymore.”
“Yeah, Philly. Thanks to you and Morton, the ‘pedophile priest’ community can start breathing easier again, now that the society of ‘sick, psycho-bastards’ has been destroyed.”
The way Rizzo had made that statement just didn’t make me feel very triumphant or victorious. I felt empty and unrewarded. I felt unbelievably hapless.
Chaz Rizzo’s statement made me feel remorseful and sympathetic towards the Brother Knights of the Society of the Rose Crucifix. This was an ancient brotherhood of men, who were trained as killers and executioners, supposedly ‘appointed by God’ to deliver justice for those many young, helpless victims of the Catholic Church. They stood on behalf of the many young children, whose young lives had been ruined by these sexual deviants, who had been able to escape justice for so many years, thanks to institutions like the Archdiocese of Chicago, the Vatican and perhaps, the entire Roman Catholic Church.
Maybe, these ‘SRC’ brothers, as demented as they were, had the right idea. These were the brother knights, who felt it was their obligation to deliver and bring justice to those many sexual deviants, who hid behind the vestments of their priesthood. To bring reckoning to those servants of the Church, those pedophiles who preached the gospel to their flocks at holy mass, then raped and sodomized their helpless young victims when no one was looking.
For all those pedophile ex-priests, now living comfortable lives while their young victims grew up to a cruel, unsympathetic world, the ‘SRC’ stood for the defense of those poor, innocent children. Those grown-up victims who have now turned to drugs, alcohol and very often, suicide to ease their pain. All the lawsuits, all the publicity, all the shame directed towards those sexual deviants, can never replace the stolen innocence that was taken from these young children for so many, many years.
For several long moments, I thought to myself, these gallant knights of the Rose Crucifix were the executioners and the deliverers of their own brand of justice. These ‘brothers’ put themselves in charge of carrying out formal ‘death sentences’ on behalf of those young victims whose lives have been forever ruined by the trusted servants of the Roman Catholic Church.
With all the shocking injustices of a hypocritical Vatican, the dioceses of the world now have a fraternity of red hooded men whom they must now answer to. Their fraternity was an ancient society of brothers, created to deliver righteousness on behalf of the church’s many innocent victims. Theirs was a brotherhood of men, exuding a form of indictment against those sick, sexual deviants who have hidden behind the Lord’s altar, within the hallowed halls of the church’s sacristy, for way too long.
Perhaps, I thought to myself, the destruction of this ‘secret society’ in Chicago may not have been such a good thing.
“Phil? Are you alright?” as I must have drifted off into a tra
nce.
“Oh, yes, I’m okay.” I was having a lot of trouble concentrating and staying focused lately.
“Good, I came by to drop these off to you and your partner. Just a little token of our appreciation at the news station,” he said, as he placed four Chicago Blackhawks tickets to next month’s opening hockey game against the Detroit Red Wings.
“For what? Being a pain in my ass?” I joked.
“Consider these tickets a gift from a grateful station, Detective. Besides, I hear the Blackhawks have put together a great team this year, so the opening game will be a good one.”
The Channel Eight Eyewitness News crew had season box tickets to all the Chicago sports teams, and it was a great way to get the Chicago coppers to ‘play nice’ with the news media. Seems like the nicer we were to their reporters, the more tickets we were ‘comped’ to Chicago sports events and games.
“Thank you, Chaz,” as I gave him a hug. “You were a huge help,” I replied.
He made that girlish giggle that still got on my nerves and walked out of my office, with that unlit cigarette still in his mouth.
I called Tommy and let him know that he had a hot date with his wife at the United Center next month on October 4th. Not having a significant other anymore, I invited my seven-year-old granddaughter, Brianna, to come along to the hockey game. She said that she would check her schedule and let me know.
That early fall weather could not have been more perfect, as my granddaughter was dropped off in front of United Center on that warm autumn evening. The crowds of hockey fans that were lined up at Gate Three were overflowing onto Madison Street. I tightly grasped little Brianna’s hand as we entered the famed, United Center with all its revered statutes of hockey and basketball heroes.
“Ever been to a hockey game before?” I asked her, already knowing the answer to my question.
“No, I’ve been too busy with homework and dancing recitals to bother with hockey games,” she replied, using her normal ‘seven-year-old going on twenty-nine’ tone of voice.
“Well, you’re in for a treat,” I said, as we made our way through the throngs of people and up to our lower box seats. Our tickets said we were in Section 117, just five rows away from front glass near the goalie net. With the proximity of the Chicago Blackhawks players in their designated benches near the penalty box, I could tell that even my sophisticated little granddaughter was impressed. Tommy Morton and his wife, Clara, were already waiting for us at our designated chairs.
“You know, maybe your buddy Rizzo isn’t such a bad guy after all,” Tommy mentioned, even though I could tell he still had a sliver of contempt for the pushy news reporter.
“It pays to be nice sometimes,” I smiled, as I was enjoying the interaction between Clara and my little Brianna.
We were all enjoying the hockey game, up through the third period, when I decided to get up and appease my granddaughter, who had been bugging me the whole time for ‘cheesy French fries’. Tommy and I both needed a beer as well. Seeing that we hadn’t had dinner that night, I decided to go to the concession stand and see what kind of food was available.
I walked up to the concession stand and stood in line for about five minutes, when I heard a familiar voice calling my name from behind me.
“Hello, Phil.” It was Olivia.
I must have had a shocked look on my face, and I was momentarily, speechless. She was wearing a Detroit Red Wings white and red jersey and a red hat displaying the traditional Red Wings logo in front of it. She had on a pair of tight blue jeans and her dark, brown hair was in a pony-tail. Of course, she looked amazing.
“How are you feeling,” she managed to say, as I was still at a loss for words. “I heard you were injured.”
“Eh…yes, I was. Stab wound in the gut, no big deal,” as I tried to make light of it.
She looked at me intently, her eyes starting to well up with tears as I was having difficulty responding. My heart was beating out of my chest, and my hands were starting to perspire.
“Surprised to see you here, of all places,” I mentioned.
“I’m in town on business. I’m just here with an associate from my company,” as she pointed to her seating area not very far from mine.
I placed myself out of the concession line and walked over towards the other end of the hallway, as I had a distinct feeling that an intense conversation between us was going to develop.
“I tried to call you,” I bluntly said. “You blocked my calls.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was hurt,” she managed to say, as I noticed her eyes welling up even more.
“Then you heard that the ‘Pedophile Priest Murder’ cases have been solved?”
“Yes, I did,” she managed to say. “Congratulations…a job well done.” A few more silent moments.
“So now, your office can finally settle these life insurance claims for the Archdiocese, correct?” I inquired.
“We have a few for more details to resolve, but that’s how it’s looking.”
There were a few more silent minutes, as we continued to awkwardly stare at each other and make conversation.
“When did you get out of the hospital?”
“Last month, Olivia. Were you going to call me?” I asked, knowing that I was now walking into an emotional hornet’s nest. I’m sure she denoted a tone of anger in my voice.
“I wanted to, Phil…believe me, I did. I wanted to contact you when I came into town the other day. I was just so afraid of how you would react. You’ve been on my mind.”
“I see,” as there were more awkward moments.
“Who are you here with?” she inquired.
“My granddaughter, Brianna, Tommy and his wife. I should be getting back to them. They’re going to wonder what happened to me.” She continued to look at me intently, only now there even were tears streaming down her face.
“Can I call you tomorrow? Maybe we can have lunch?” she inquired.
“I’m still pretty jammed up, Olivia. I was off work for quite a while, and I still have a ton of paperwork that I’m trying to catch up on.”
“I understand,” she replied.
I was about to walk away when she tightly grasped my hand and placed a wet kiss on my right cheek. By now, her face was completely drenched with her tears streaming down her face. She was acting as though she didn’t want to let me go.
“Phil?” I looked at her, trying hard not to respond.
“I love you,” she managed to say. I went into shock.
Her mascara was running, and she was wiping her moistened face with her left hand. At that moment, she looked like she was struggling not to have an emotional breakdown.
I just stared at her, as I was totally stunned. She had never said that to me before. For that moment, I was without words. I wanted to tell her that I loved her back. I wanted to tell her how much I had missed her and how hurt I was. I wanted to apologize for the way it all ended at the restaurant. I wanted to make love to her right there at the United Center and pretend that nothing had ever happened.
But then, my sixth sense, my ‘voice of reason’ started talking. I thought about the way she had run out of that restaurant last summer, and how she blocked my phone calls and never contacted me. Olivia knew I was involved in that fatal church fire, and she knew that I had been injured and barely escaped that fire explosion with my life. It was in social media, the national evening news broadcasts and in all the major newspapers. My hospital room was filled with get well cards, flowers, and get well wishes from almost every police department across the country and almost every politician in Chicago.
And yet, I didn’t hear from her. Not a phone call. Not a text. Not a get-well card. Nothing.
While she was in Chicago, she stayed at my house and worked on her insurance claims and met up with other Chicago P.D. detectives behind my back. She even hired a private investigator to work around me on the ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’. She opened a safe deposit box on the same day as her ‘visit’ fro
m an alleged ‘SRC’ member, posing as a Chicago attorney. I never did subpoena or verify the contents of that box, and it was probably better that I didn’t know.
And then finally, when I asked and inquired about her covert activities, she made me feel as though it was none of my business. She had successfully crumbled that concrete wall that took me years to construct around my already broken heart…only for her to break it all over again.
I looked at her intently and shook my head. I silently let her know that she wasn’t excused for her actions, for walking out of my life that night at the restaurant, and for hurting me the way she did.
“I see how you love me,” I coldly replied.
I then pulled my hand away from her, now trying to physically run away from the emotional prison she was trying so hard to lock me back into again.
As I was recovering in the hospital from my injuries and my broken heart, I promised myself that I would never fall so hard, so quick, for someone so lethal and so self-serving…ever again. Olivia obviously had her own agenda, and whatever it was, I wanted no part of it. I took one long last look at her, emblazing her image into my memory.
“Have a great life, Olivia,” I loudly said.
And then, I walked away.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Labadee
The hot, setting sun began to dip under the clouds as the calm blue water appeared to be a sheet of glass on that early evening. The calendar said November, but the Caribbean sun never let the temperature get below eighty degrees. A man wearing a white fedora hat, a pair of white shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt sat on the beach in a comfortable lounge chair, enjoying his Manhattan under a grass hut overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The sunsets of the remote island of Labadee were breath taking, the man thought to himself, as he took another long swallow from his alcoholic beverage.
The white, untouched sands of the island beaches were pristine, surrounding the large white, blue clay shingled villa sitting at the foothills of the remote island. The retired gentleman had been renting the 4,175 square foot mansion for the last several months and was relieved that he was able to finally close on the opulent villa for the negotiated purchase price of $1.7 million yesterday. The traveler had spent the last few days settling into his newly owned home, which he now had the pleasure to enjoy.