Extreme Unction: A Lupa Schwartz Mystery

by J. David Core

  "You're not a government sanctioned official," Donatelli said.

  "I am, sir; certainly more so than you are. I'm licensed and trained to perform my duties, and I'm acting as a deputized employee of the city."

  "Well still, my not telling you directly doesn't prove that I suggested it."

  "There's also the timing of the meeting in Philadelphia as well as the fact of the meeting itself. Why wouldn't the bishop simply issue an order unless he'd been convinced that it was important that the significance of the order be stressed? He'd have no reason to assume such a thing on his own. However, this is all idle. Why don't I just put it to you? Did you suggest that the bishop call Mr. Coneely to Philadelphia?"

  Donatelli pulled a sincere face. "No," he said, "I did not."

  "Mr. Coneely," Schwartz said, "I suggest that you ask Mr. Donatelli that question yourself the next time you hear his confession. I suspect that you already know the answer. It would be interesting to know how he would answer in the sanctified confessional."

  "How did you know that I hear Msgr. Donatelli's confessions?" Coneely asked.

  "Now, sir," Schwartz said in answer, "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you hanging."

  ***

  Eventually, Donatelli agreed to wait with the house's women while Schwartz spoke with Coneely. Beverly knew Donatelli already, since he was the new associate pastor at the parish which she regularly attended, but he didn't seem to recognize her at first. Gradually, he claimed to remember having met her, but his protestations were not convincing.

  After Coneely and Donatelli had gone, I asked Schwartz when it was that he had been deputized. "I wasn't ever deputized. You know that it doesn't work that way. I'm working as a freelance independent contractor."

  "Then why did you tell Donatelli that you were acting as a deputy?" I asked.

  "Why not tell him that? If I could have come up with something grander, I would have flaunted that. It's perhaps too bad that we don't allow knighthoods in the United States. It would have been fun to tell him that I had been knighted."

  "But," I began, "impersonating the police is a crime."

  "The police don't have deputies in Pennsylvania. I impersonated a non-existent office. It's like I told him that I was acting as Grand Poobah to the governor or Vizier to the under-secretary of carbonated beverages. If an un-incorporated community like Bloomfield can have an un-official mayor, I submit that I can call myself a deputy, since in most respects that is the function that I am filling."

  I conceded that he had a point, and he sat back content with himself. “Another thing,” I said, “when did you learn that Fr. Coneely hears Fr. Donatelli’s confessions?”

  Schwartz smiled and said, “Coneely told me himself when he asked how I knew. It was also how I learned with certainty that the bishop had instructed him not to hear confessions for the time being.”

  “The cat’s out of the bag?” I said, and Schwartz nodded. I excused myself and went to bed to consider the strange story that Coneely had just told us about his evening with the Hansons the night that he first suggested a plan to poison his anointing oil.

  Chapter 19

  Coneely told the story as well as his memory would allow. He had arrived at the Hanson house just before six, which was when the representatives of the press were supposed to arrive. He was greeted at the door by Mrs. Melhorne, who seemed a little uncomfortable. "Hello, Father," she said. "The people from the news aren't here yet. Would you like something to drink? There's coffee."

  "No, thank you, Marjorie," Coneely said. "I don't want to seem jittery when the cameras are shooting me."

  "Do you think there'll be cameras?" Marjorie had asked. "I thought it was going to be a radio guy and a newspaper reporter. I didn't know the TV was coming."

  "Not the TV," Coneely said as he sat in the living room on the couch. "Sometimes the newspaper reporters carry cameras. Other times, they travel with a photographer. That's what I meant by cameras."

  "You've done this a lot, huh?" Marjorie asked.

  "Me? No, not this exactly. But I have been involved in press conferences before. At my last parish..." He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Marjorie excused herself to answer. As she was greeting the recent arrival, Matthew came into the living room from the open entrance to the dining room.

  "Evening, Father," he said. "Feeling nervous about the big treasonous press conference?"

  "Matthew," Coneely said in greeting. "Yes, I imagine there will be repercussions from the church fathers."

  "Repercussions?" Matthew said. "They're going to sh... — uh — crap bricks. You're coming out in direct opposition to their official stance."

  "I realize that, Matthew," Coneely said. "But I happen to feel strongly that they are wrong about this one. Don't you?"

  Matthew sat down defeated. "I don't know," he said. "I know I never used to. There's a line that you just don't cross, you know? Murder is definitely wrong, but when the person being killed wants it — begs for it to end the pain — well, it's still wrong isn't it? Suicide is wrong, so how is mercy killing right? But what right does the government or the church or even a person’s family have to insist that they go on living when all they want to do is die and end the pain? I know if it was me, I'd want to live no matter what. At least I think that's what I know."

  "Pain is a terrible thing," Coneely said. "Usually, for most of us anyway, it's a fleeting thing. It comes in waves, and we know that it will pass, and that makes it bearable. But when you know that it won't pass, that your life is all over except for the pain, well, it changes the rules."

  "Father Coneely," Carl said as he and Sam entered from the hall with Marjorie, "are you ready? I think the guy from the paper is here. I saw somebody putting a lens on a camera in a car that pulled up just before us."

  "Are the others here? Your husband, Marjorie? Your wives and your other brother?"

  "My husband is in the kitchen," Marjorie said. "I'll get him."

  "The others are in the car following us. That's probably the reporter now," Carl said as a knock at the door was heard in the hall.

  "I'll let him in," Coneely said, and he stood and went to the door. As he crossed the room, he noticed a tense look pass between Sam and Matthew, but Matthew lightened the mood by asking Sam about his wife. "Is Melissa doing OK? I called you earlier and she seemed..."

  Coneely opened the door and greeted the reporter who asked if it would be all right with the family if he just kept shooting random pictures along with the staged ones. Coneely said that he would ask, but he couldn't imagine that there would be any problem with it. As he spoke with the reporter, the second car full of Hansons emptied out and crossed the threshold. Coneely waited as the siblings exchanged hugs and greetings, and when that was all over, the whole clan, save the patron and the oldest sister, was clustered in the living room. "This is Vic Jenkins with the Star-Herald. Would it be all right with everybody if he shot some candid pictures, several actually, during the press visit?"

  "That's what we're here for, isn't it?" Carl asked. At that the door rap sounded again.

  "Excuse me," Coneely said. "That's probably the radio reporter." He stepped back to get the door again, and as he moved, he saw a flash behind him as Jenkins began photographing the candid pictures.

  ***

  Once the reporter from the radio had been introduced, Winston Hancock with WPAN talk radio, Coneely suggested that they proceed to the sick room, and Hancock turned on his recorder. From this point until the reporters left, the record is certain as to what was said as it was all on tape. "What you gentlemen are about to see is disturbing," Coneely said as he stopped at the French doors to the room that had once been the Hanson family dining room, but which had become a makeshift hospice bedroom for the senior Hanson. Through the gauzy sheer drapes one could already see the silhouetted apparatus of the dying; the hanging i.v., the pumping bellows of the mechanical aid to breathing, the blipping green line on the monitoring EKG. Sara, Carl's wife, walked p
ast Coneely as he spoke and placed her hand on the door knob. "Mr. Hanson may not be able to respond to your questions verbally, but he can answer with blinks; one for yes, two for no," Coneely said. Sara opened the door and pushed it wide on both sides so that everybody could see inside. Jenkins flashed his digital camera, and the sound of his whirring motor and charging flash were clearly audible in the otherwise silence of Hancock's tape.

  Coneely escorted the reporters to the bedside, while the family stood in the entrance to watch. "This is Vincent Hanson," Coneely said. "Mr. Hanson, these men are from the local media. They're here about your request to be allowed to end your suffering. Do you understand?" Hanson's eyes pressed closed once. "Mr. Hanson is dying from a variety of ailments. He has progressive bone cancer; Hodgkin’s Disease and leukemia. He is in constant pain, and he has been for some years. He fought for his life for several years, even after he lost his wife three years ago. But now, now he can no longer walk, he can no longer speak, he cannot feed himself, nor can he breathe without the aid of a tank of oxygen. Before his illness progressed — if progressing isn't too ironic a term to use — to this point, he told his sons that he wanted to be allowed to die when it got to the point that his life had no value to him. He wasn't ready at that time, but he has recently indicated that he now is ready. Unfortunately, it is both illegal and against his religion to die by his own hand or to be assisted to the next world.

  "God has declared that thou shalt not kill, which is in fitting with the golden rule; but Mr. Hanson is not opposed to dying. In fact, to a large extent he has embraced the idea. And since God's prohibition against killing wasn't intended, I’m sure, to add to suffering, but rather to prevent it, euthanasia doesn’t violate the golden rule. After all, it's a mercy that we routinely extend to older dogs and wounded deer. Why should we allow a strict adherence to the letter of God's law violate the spirit of that same law? If I was suffering as terribly as I know Mr. Hanson to be suffering, I know with certainty that I would hope for somebody to assist me in ending my pain. However, the law and the church have deigned not to allow me to do for Mr. Hanson as I would have others do unto me." Suddenly Melissa burst into tears and ran for the kitchen with her husband Sam, close behind.

  "Grief," Coneely continued once the fracas had subsided, "is a result of empathy, and empathy has a harsh effect on some. It is especially hard when it is drawn out unnecessarily. Mr. Hanson wishes to die not only to end his own suffering, but to allow the grief process that he knows his passing will elicit to advance to a healthy conclusion in a timely manner for those he will leave behind. In fact, the grieving has already begun; but it is stagnated. It cannot proceed to the next stage. Perhaps medical science can keep Mr. Hanson in this world a while longer, but it cannot save him, and it cannot make him want to live. In this case, the law and the church are wrong. We want them to acknowledge it. Thank you, gentlemen of the press. Now if you have any questions for me or for Mr. Hanson."

  Jenkins raised a finger to indicate that he had a question. When Coneely indicated that he had been recognized, Jenkins asked, "Isn’t it unusual for a Catholic priest to support the idea of mercy killing? I mean, isn’t it against church doctrine? Specifically, in an interpretation of the Pastoral Constitution a Declaration on Euthanasia was issued which says, ‘Everyone has the duty to lead his or her life in accordance...’"

  "…‘with God's plan,’" Coneely interrupted and he finished the quote himself from memory. "‘That life is entrusted to the individual as a good that must bear fruit already here on earth, but that finds its full perfection only in eternal life.’ Yes, but that is not scriptural, and it is not infallible. It is a committee-written document which reads almost like a legal document. It is peppered with vague references to the Bible, including Romans and Philippians, but consider that it was brought about specifically because there was question among the bishops about how to approach the subject of euthanasia. There was dissension in the church ranks at the time. I myself was too young to be involved, but I personally know ... well, let’s just say there were dissenters. Are there any other questions?"

  For a moment there was silence except for the sound of Jenkins scribbling in his notebook; then Hancock could be heard whispering a question to Jenkins which he answered in a loud whisper with the word, "1980."

  "Questions, gentlemen?" Coneely asked again. "Did Mr. Hanson feel this way before he became sick?" Hancock asked.

  "Why don’t we ask him that?" Coneely suggested. He turned to Vincent Hanson, and all eyes were on the dying man as Coneely asked him, "Do you feel that you are violating your Catholic beliefs by supporting the idea of euthanasia, Mr. Hanson?" Hanson’s eyes clasped twice. "Did you agree with the church edict against assisted suicides at the time they became doctrine?" Hanson paused, seeming to think. Finally he clasped his eyes once then once again for no. "Do you believe that God has reason to want you to continue to live in pain?" Two times more Hanson shut his eyes with perceivable conviction.

  "What the hell is going on here?" The shrill voice of Peggy Hanson had burst onto the scene. "Why are you people bothering my father? Are you press? You are, aren’t you? Oh, my God! Get the hell out of here. Fr. Coneely, what the hell are you doing? Get away from my father. Dad, are you all right? Get out of here, now! Put that camera down, and get out of this house."

  Carl had reached her by this point. “It’s okay, Peg. Dad invited them here. He wants to do this, don’t you, Dad?"

  "He’s too sick for this. He can’t invite people over now. Get these people out of here!"

  "Peg, it’s okay," Coneely was saying.

  "Fr. Coneely, get these pariahs out of my father’s house now! Get them out now! You’re all a bunch of ghouls! Get out or I’ll sue your papers! Get out!" She had begun pushing on the reporters and covering the camera lens with her hand.

  "Come on, gentlemen, we’re done here. Let’s leave the lady alone with her father." Coneely escorted the reporters to the kitchen, where Sam had already opened his first beer. Carl asked the reporters not to leave yet, and he excused himself to go and talk with Peggy. Matthew went to the freezer for a bottle of vodka which he kept on ice.

  "This could take a while," Matthew said. "She’s pretty stubborn, and she hates this whole euthanasia thing."

  Sam shushed him, and Matthew shrugged his shoulders. "I’m sure we’ll be able to continue shortly,” Sam said. "Would anybody like a drink in the meantime? We have soft-drinks and coffee." There was more silence on the tape, and then a sudden intake of air by Melissa could be heard as Jenkins’ flash popped surprising her as he fired off a picture.

  "Can I have that coffee with a shot of whiskey?" Coneely asked.

  "Sara," Sam said, "an Irish coffee for the priest. How about you press boys? Care for a wee nip?" Both reporters declined in mumbled tones.

  "You see," Lewis began, “it’s a hard subject. Even within our family, we don’t all see exactly eye-to-eye, but we all understand that it’s Dad’s will. Even Peg understands that, but she’s sort of in denial. That was our sister Peg, who came in all upset. We didn’t want her to know about this press conference until afterward.”

  Jenkins asked a new question, changing the focus. “I understood that there were only two sisters. “Wasn’t that your sister that left the room in tears earlier?”

  “No,” Sam said, “that was Melissa, my wife. She’s not strong that way. These things upset her. She’s in one of the bedrooms now, lying down. I should go check on her. The shouting probably has her upset.”

  There was another silence on the tape during which two more pictures were shot. Finally, Sara spoke. “Would anybody like some cake? I made a cake.”

  Nobody answered, but Jenkins took another picture as heads shook in negative response. Finally, Lewis said, “Too bad you didn’t have rat poison in the pantry. We could just put some of that in the cake and give it to dad.”

  Sara and Marjorie could be heard gasping. Lewis said only, “What? Like you never thought of it?”


  Chapter 20

  One would expect to have heard protestations following such a statement; especially from the women present, but none were forthcoming. Apparently, they had in fact all thought it at one time or another, or at least, something to the same effect. “Lewis,” Marjorie said after a protracted and uncomfortable silence, “don’t talk like that. It’s not right. People will get the wrong idea.”

  “What wrong idea is that, Marjorie?” Matthew asked. “That we might be relieved when Dad finally dies? That he’s such a burden that we have actually embraced the idea of assisting him in his suicide wish? That we’re entertaining fantasies of his passing? Isn’t that the whole point of the press having been invited here? So that we can do our part to get those very ideas accepted in the mainstream?”

  “If you have problems with the idea of euthanasia, Matthew, you shouldn’t have come,” Marjorie said. “There’s not a person here who doesn’t love dad. We all miss him, and wish he could live forever, but not the way he is. He doesn’t want to be like this. He shouldn’t have to be like this. It’s not fair. I know that life isn’t fair, but at least death could be.”

  Coneely had an ugly situation on his hands. The family members were turning on each other right in front of the press, and it wasn’t good for his cause. “It’s perfectly normal to grieve the dying,” he said, “but it doesn’t have to cause rifts in the family. Lewis makes a good point. When a loved one suffers, we all suffer. Who wouldn’t want to help to end that suffering? Matthew, of course you wouldn’t ever dream of using rat poison on your father even to help him over his suffering. Lewis wouldn’t either. Would you Lewis?”

  Lewis slowly shook his head. “No,” Matthew said trying to put a light-if-macabre face on things. “The authorities would suspect that.”

  “Right,” Lewis said with a chortle. “I’d have to find something they wouldn’t look for, like Atropine.”

  “Atropine?” Marjorie said.

  “What have you been doing, Lewis?” Matthew asked. “Research in poisons?”

  “Hmm?” Lewis said. “No, not me. This guy that I had to write an article on; a scientist. He was doing a study on Nightshade, and he found that it had a numbing affect.” He told the story that Matthew had told me that day when I’d first met them. Soon, they were relaxed and laughing about the scientist who had cloyed his own vocal chords. They were so relaxed, in fact, that they hadn’t noticed that Peg and Carl had entered the room.