Murder in the Vatican

by Lucien Gregoire

  So let us take these one by one. Let us give them each a chance.

  Ecclesiastical motive

  When one is dealing with men who would kill for doctrine one is dealing with men of faith, not men of reality. They live and die for what they believe in. When Luciani was elected much of what his ecclesiastical enemies stood for had come to an end and handwriting on the wall was telling them even the positions of rank in the Church many of them held were also about to come to an end.

  Yet, what gives ecclesiastical motive such great credence in John Paul’s case has been the Vatican’s methodical destruction of the controversial man he actually was and the fabrication of the man it has made him out to be. That it has gone out of its way to destroy the ecclesiastical motive for murder is compelling evidence its leaders believe—or perhaps know—the plot came from within the Church. Yet, just what made this man so dangerous to his enemies?

  Luciani was not a great orator. Never did he speak in encyclicals deeply steeped in canon law or ancient and medieval theology to hypnotize his congregation. Never did he tap the scholarly voice of his intellect or academic acclaim to mesmerize his listeners. Never did he drive his listeners to dictionaries. Never did he raise his voice in towering eloquence. Never did he rock the chandeliers.

  Yet, what he did do—from the time he challenged his teacher at the minor seminary at Feltre to the time he chatted with the boy Daniele in his final public audience the day before he was found dead, was reach the most brilliant of scholars and the slowest child in the same sentence and be understood by both.

  This is what made him so dangerous to his enemies. Unlike his ecclesiastical adversaries who with intimidation and philosophical innuendos preyed on their gullible congregations, he spoke in simple conversation everyone could understand. What’s more, all of what he had to say made sense. It made sense because, unlike his peers who entranced their audiences with the make-believe world of yesterday, he spoke of the real world of today.

  Regardless, ecclesiastical motive, to say the least, would have been widespread. Any man-of-the-cloth who had an intense passion to resist change would be on the list.

  Those who knew of his loathing for Moses would be on the list. Those who could not accept Moses and the Israelites had never been in Egypt would be there too. Those who feared he would reduce Moses to a fairytale someone once told would be there also.

  Most dangerous of all, there were those who feared he would destroy the idolatry of Christ and restore the ideology of Christ. He would pull the crucifixes down off of the walls and drag their spellbound spectators up onto their feet and put them to work helping others. He would change the Church—he would change the world—back to what Christ had intended.

  He would expose the modern myths of Lourdes and Fatima and the Shroud and others like them.

  Too, there would be those who enjoyed spending their Saturday afternoons listening to the sins of the flesh of eight, nine and ten year olds and teens. These were also about to end. Particularly, high up on this list would be those Vatican cardinals who took pleasure in hearing the confessions of the beautiful Maltese altar boys.1

  Most numerous of all, would be those who didn’t want to give up their pretty dresses and pomp and ritual. These men in women’s clothes would be threatened by his warning, “…We, the clergy and our congregations, who substitute regal attire and gold and pomp and ceremony in place of Christ’s instruction, who judge our masquerade of singing His praises to be more precious than human life, will have the most to explain.”2

  Then there were those who feared the threat he posed to the regency of Rome—the Vatican Museum, the Sistine Chapel, the Castel Gandolfo and other royal assets of the Vatican Empire, including possibly Vatican City itself might be liquidated to help the poor. He would turn the property in the center of Rome—among the most valuable real estate in the world—over to developers and establish modest quarters in the countryside.

  There were those who believed the Church could not survive without its monarchy, something John Paul was bent on destroying. Those who believed it is the regency of the papacy that controls the populace—in spiritual matters the people need a king who lives in a palace. There was consternation among many a pope with a Christ-like image would be unable to rule—the Church would fall to ruin.

  Most of all, when one considers ecclesiastical motive, those who were in high positions and controlled the ecclesiastical destiny of the Church and were about to lose their jobs would top the list.

  Men who thought morality—right from wrong—was defined by sex. Men who thought there was something wrong with sex—so much so they believed it made them holier-than-thou to give it up.

  As a seminarian, as a young priest, as a bishop and as a cardinal, he had many times told his audience, “We have made of sex the greatest of sins, whereas, in itself, it is nothing more than human nature and not a sin at all.” Until now, he had been just another man-of-the-cloth talking through his hat. Yet, if he were to utter this same sentence as Supreme Pontiff, it would change the definition of morality in the Roman Catholic world, it would become canon law.

  In a single a swoop he would destroy the ecclesiastical position of right wing factions in the Church who waged an ongoing war against born-out-of-wedlock-children, women parity, contraception, genetic research, sanctity of remarriage, homosexuality, transsexuality, and a host of other issues driven by the natural biological composition of man.

  The Last Supper 3

  So there were many inside the Vatican who may have had a motive to kill this pope and there are others outside the Vatican we will speak of. Yet, when one considers opportunity the list narrows; there were a limited number of people who had access to John Paul’s chambers on the night he died.

  In addition to those who were in the Papal Apartment—the four nuns and Lorenzi—we must consider those who lived on the other floors as they may have eluded the guard. There were eight in all.

  Cardinal Villot, Cardinal Confalonieri, Bishop Casaroli and his cousin Bishop Caprio lived on the floor below the Papal Apartment. These were the Cardinal Secretary of State, the Dean of the College of Cardinals, the Foreign Minister4 and the Undersecretary of State.5

  Paul’s secretary John Magee, who was serving in transition, had his rooms in the attic just above the Pope’s bedroom. Three other nuns also had their rooms in the attic.

  All except one of these arrived in the dining room at about seven-thirty the evening before the Pope’s death. Confalonieri didn’t show up. He had left a message with the guard he wasn’t feeling well and would be retiring early.

  Other than the Pope, there were twelve at dinner: the secretaries Magee and Lorenzi, Villot, Casaroli, Caprio and seven nuns. It was that the valet was away on funeral leave that made for the hallowed count. Also, Paul’s second secretary Macchi, though he would show up to help out with the mail during the day, had been relocated elsewhere in the Vatican to make room for Lorenzi.

  Again, we have to dispel rumors. Some authors imply Luciani brought the Guzzo brothers from the Veneto region to live with him in the Papal Apartment. Whereas these brothers were brought to work in the apartment they lived elsewhere in Vatican City. They had their rooms in a small building near the Vatican supermarket.6

  Regardless, with women among them, this gathering was a bit different than those who had gathered at another table two thousand kilometers away and two thousand years before, yet, nevertheless, every bit as clandestine—perhaps, a traitor or two among them.

  John Paul arrived early. Concerned for the aging Confalonieri, he asked Sister Regina to bring the cardinal a bowl of soup.

  He pointed to a chair as each of the others came into the room.

  As the last one took a seat, Sister Regina came back into the room. John Paul asked her how the cardinal looked.

  “He looked suspicious,” she joked. “He made me taste the soup.”

  Everyone roared. The aging cardinal did not approve of Luciani. He also knew it wa
s that he and seventeen others had been prevented from casting their votes by Paul who had excluded those over eighty from the voting conclave that had made Luciani a pope.

  The soup had been sent by the man the aging cardinal considered his greatest enemy, John Paul. Reared in a Mafia family, he would have been a fool not to have required the nun to taste the soup.

  Confalonieri had a long association with the press. It may be providential coincidence more than he envisioned anything would happen to the new pope, when Luciani was elected, he referred to him as the ‘August Pope.’ When Luciani lived into September, he referred to him as the ‘September Pope.’ If he were to survive into October, he would have to rename him again—the ‘October Pope.’

  It was an austere room to say the least. It had poverty written all over it. It was John Paul’s favorite room in what was otherwise a lavish palace of feather pillows and golden vessels and priceless works of art. He felt most at home here. It reminded him of when he had grown up in an impoverished village in the Italian Alps.

  Its walls were graying and its unadorned windows looked out over the courtyard. There was an old table as one might find in a workshop. It was made of old planks of wood set upon two beat up wooden workhorses. Although its surface was worn from time there was no significant damage except for a few old stains here and there. It was the kind of thing that would be the first thing one would throw out once one would climb out of the cellar of poverty. Twelve rickety chairs surrounded it, that is, to the extent it is possible to match a few old planks of wood. An old rug hung on one wall.

  Everyone in the household had a secret, a secret they kept to themselves. John Paul did not know of this secret. If he knew of it, this room would suddenly become much less a home to him.

  The table he was about to sit at was a first century piece of oak taken out of an eighth century monastery and would easily reap ten million dollars at auction. The old rug which hung on the wall could easily garnish a few million more. It was the carpet that had lain in the church which once stood where St. Peter’s stood now. Any one of the chairs could easily be traded in for a new Mercedes.

  John Paul and twelve at supper

  Sister Maria Elena sat at the head of the table. Who’s she? She was the nun one would pass scrubbing the floors in the palace halls. At the other end sat Sister Vincenza, the mother nun. Most of the men present were not happy about it. Yet, they had to put up with it.

  They did not understand this man who would have a simple maid at the head of his table. It was not necessary they understand him. All that was necessary was that he understood himself.

  Magee and Lorenzi were bringing out the breads, the meats and the vegetables. The other men at the table cringed a bit, wondering when it would be their turn to take up the role of servant.

  One of the nuns started to get up. John Paul motioned her to sit down, “You have worked all day. I have not done much more than talked.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a pitcher of water in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other and went around the table filling glasses.

  The Pope gestured to Sister Maria Elena to begin grace.

  In the fifteen years of Paul VI’s reign, and in the five years of John XXIII’s reign, and in the nineteen years of Pius XII’s reign, and in the fifteen years of Pius XI’s reign, and in the eight years of Benedict XV’s reign, and in the eleven years of Pius X’s reign, and in the twenty-five years of Leo XIII’s reign, only two people had ever said grace in this room; the Pope, and in his absence, the Cardinal Secretary of State. What kind of pope was this who would have a mere woman, a scullery maid, lead the prayer?

  The conversation was light. The Pope was laughing and joking.

  He toyed with his new watch as does a boy with a gadget he found under a Christmas tree. Macchi had delivered the watch to the pope—it had arrived by special post that afternoon.

  At quarter to nine, Casaroli said he had an appointment and left. It was likely he had no appointment at all; it was obvious he wanted to get out of helping with the dishes. He had done the same thing the evening before and the one before that and the one before that. He even carried a briefcase to cover for his leaving early. He just did not intend to yield to this latest rule of the house.

  Concerned with Confalonieri’s illness, John Paul asked Sister Genevieve to drop in on the cardinal and see if he needed anything. As she left the room, he winked after her, “Tell him Sister Regina couldn’t make it, she has been taken to the hospital…” He drew another round of laughter, this time followed by a bit of applause.

  He vanished into the kitchen together with the nuns. The others lingered at the table, chatting away. Just before nine, Caprio claimed to have an appointment and left. He, too, carrying a briefcase.

  Villot joked with Magee and Lorenzi, “He must be training these nuns to be altar girls.” He liked the idea a pope would do these things. What he didn’t know was that John Paul was not training them to be altar girls. He was training them to be priests. It was likely Casaroli and Caprio had already guessed this.

  Mother Vincenza and the other nuns remained finishing up in the dining room. The men followed the Pope down the corridor and stopped outside his door chatting a bit before retiring. A phone rang in the secretaries’ office and Lorenzi left momentarily to answer it. Returning, he nodded to his boss, “Cardinal Colombo.”

  Villot went down the hall and past the guard and down the stairs. Magee, followed by a trilogy of nuns, went down the hall and past the guard and up the stairs to the attic above.

  John Paul disappeared into the office—for the last time.

  The next day the cardinal of Milan would give the press the last words of his long time ally in the war on poverty, “Sadly, Giovanni, when we have finally finished our work, and everyone has enough, there will always be those who want too much!”

  Those in the Papal Apartment

  When one considers those who had unlimited access to the Pope’s bedroom that night, one is narrowed to six people, Lorenzi who slept in the secretaries’ office while his rooms in the attic were being painted and the four nuns who slept along the San Damascus side of the building, and the guard, himself.

  Anyone coming from the floor below or from the attic above would have had to pass by the guard who was stationed at the entrance to the Papal Apartment.

  To seal our conclusion—the Pope was murdered by professional killers by lethal injection—we must eliminate these six who shared the rooms with John Paul. So let us look at these six, these six who were in the Papal Apartment on the night of John Paul’s death.

  The guard

  There was the guard who sat at the entrance to the apartment in full view of the elevator, the staircase leading from the lower floors, the chapel door and the stairs leading up to the attic. This could be either of two guards or both guards who rotated the post that night.

  It is possible that either of these guards could have entered the Pope’s bedroom during the night. If anyone chanced by, of course, the guard’s absence would have been noticed. There was always the chance the rotating-guard might show up on his random rounds.

  One has to consider the guards because according to reports7 the Vatican police assigned one of their men to the 3-6AM post in the Papal Apartment when the guard normally assigned the post fell ill.

  One has the providential coincidence a human fighting machine of the Swiss Guard—in the optimum of good health—would fall ill, without foul play being involved in his illness, at the precise moment in history a Pope is murdered. Yet, there has survived no record to suggest foul play in the case of the displaced guard in the press.

  The Swiss Guard is very limited in number—at the time one-hundred-and-twenty. These are entirely committed to assigned posts. There are no spares. In those very rare instances a guard falls ill or for some other reason is unable to fill his post, the vacancy is filled by the Vatican police which supplement the Swiss Guard.

  As a rule, Vatican police recruit
s are on loan from the Swiss Army—young officers who aspire to the Swiss Guard. It is normally a requirement one serve a brief apprenticeship with the Vatican police sometime in the years preceding induction into the Guard.

  The police, if called upon, fill off-hour spots that are away from the general public as they do not wear the attire of the Swiss Guard. If a vacancy occurs in a daytime shift, a guard is reassigned from a nighttime post which is away from the public eye and his nighttime post is filled in turn by one of the Vatican police.

  It is not unusual for a rookie to be assigned the post closest to a pope in the wee hours of the morning because it is the furthest from the public eye. This does not endanger a pope as there are three perpetual seasoned guards at the palace entrance on the ground floor.

  In the case of guards, like any other suspect, one has to consider motive. The only motive a guard might have would be promise of rank or money. Although a long shot, it is one we must consider.

  If the rookie guard who was assigned to the post closest the pope had been part of a conspiracy, the deputy commander who assigned the guards would have had to have been involved. Yet, it is possible most any cardinal or bishop could have influenced this officer, particularly, one who might become Secretary of State—the position the Guard reported to—if anything happened to John Paul.

  Although second in command, it is rare for a deputy commander to succeed to the top job, commander of the Swiss Guard. Yet, the promise may have been made in exchange for his cooperation.

  Ronald Buchs, the deputy commander at the time of John Paul’s death, acceded to the top job, but not until 1982 when the incumbent commander fell ill and died.

  Though a pope has unilateral authority to make any changes he sees fit, not being a political appointee, no pope has ever replaced the commander of the Swiss Guard upon taking office.

  The promise could have been made the deputy commander would accede to the post when the incumbent commander died or retired.