The Sacrifice Page 22

  “No … you’re right; I didn’t.” Wheatley wished devoutly he had had a more restful night.

  They entered the outer doors of the chancery and walked toward the elevator along the corridor that the chancery shared with the Catholic Bookstore and the offices of St. Aloysius parish.

  “Second floor, please,” Koesler directed the operator.

  “Your names, please?” the very large, very black man challenged. Koesler knew that on the best day of his life he would never physically take on this gentleman.

  He gave the operator their names. Wordlessly the man checked them against the list affixed to the control panel—the list of those who would be allowed to exit on the second floor.

  The second floor comprised a reception area, the offices of the Cardinal Archbishop and his secretaries. The entire floor was quiet. Even the lighting was indirect and soft.

  They waited only briefly before one of the secretaries said, “The Cardinal will see you now.”

  As they entered his office, Cardinal Boyle stood to greet them. After they shook hands, he motioned toward the chairs at a low, round table.

  Wheatley had not met with the Cardinal often. On each previous visit the priest had marveled at how frail the prelate appeared. His hair was wispy white, and his frame was so fragile one felt that he would break if hugged. His very existence seemed linked with that of the Pope. Both had been influential at the Second Vatican Council—but in opposite directions.

  They had proceeded on divergent paths. As an instance: Boyle had founded the Call to Action, a liberal organization that championed the laity’s role in the Church. The Pope endorsed those who condemned and opposed the CTA.

  When Wheatley, Koesler, and Boyle were seated, the Cardinal asked if either of his visitors would like coffee. Neither did. They got down to business. Which definitely was the Cardinal’s style.

  “Terrible thing, yesterday,” Boyle said. “Tragic … poor Father Farmer.”

  “It was indeed a terrible thing, Eminence,” Wheatley replied.

  “I’ve been briefed on what happened,” Boyle said. “But not by anyone who was actually present.” It was an invitation to these two priests, who not only had been eyewitnesses, but who, each from his own vantage, could put most of the events together like a jigsaw puzzle.

  Koesler and Wheatley took turns describing what had happened, trying to keep events in chronological order.

  Throughout their painstaking recap of what took place, Boyle sat in profound concentration. The lines in his face deepened.

  They climaxed their description with the explosion. At that moment, Wheatley had been ready for the procession up the aisle. The head of that cortege had just begun to move. Koesler had been hurrying to take his place in line.

  Immediately after the explosion occurred, Koesler turned and dashed up the aisle, along with Lieutenant Tully. They were among the few who actually saw what the bomb had done to Father Farmer.

  Meanwhile, Wheatley had been hustled back to the vesting area, where he would be as protected and safe as anyone could assume possible. After all, an incident of extreme violence had just occurred. No one knew then, and no one knew yet, exactly who had done what—or why.

  The two priests concluded their co-narration. The Cardinal sat almost motionless, his only movement the fingering of a cuff link. He always wore French cuffs when in clerical garb.

  “It would seem,” Boyle said in his scholarly fashion, his soft voice overlaid with a tantalizing hint of his Irish ancestry, “the most intriguing element of this entire tragic event is the phone call you received, Father Wheatley.”

  “Yes, Eminence,” Wheatley replied. “As I said, the voice was muffled—deliberately, I’m sure.”

  Koesler, whose mind was frequently apt to wander, wondered about that. Why would anyone bother to muffle a voice unless it was someone Wheatley knew? Or could it be because the caller’s normal voice was distinctive enough to be identified? Or had the caller wished to disguise his voice just on general principles?

  “Strange,” Boyle commented. “Strange that you should honor this request for confession …”

  “I just didn’t see it that way, Eminence. The caller seemed desperate. And I thought: What’s so important about a procession that it can’t wait a few minutes to help a desperate soul?”

  Boyle’s face creased with smile lines. “I would hope you would feel that way.”

  “Besides”—Wheatley relaxed in the warmth of Boyle’s understanding—”if I had not waited for the man, I would not now be here talking with you.”

  Nothing was said for several moments. Wheatley’s statement was a consideration to be meditated upon.

  “Well,” Boyle said finally, “that brings us to what we intend to do about this.”

  Koesler and Wheatley looked at each other. The Cardinal’s statement lent itself to many interpretations.

  “You mean,” Koesler asked, “are we going to go ahead with Father Wheatley’s, uh, reception into the Roman Catholic priesthood?” Koesler could not bring himself to call this procedure an ordination. As much as anything else, Koesler had built a friendship with as well as an admiration for Wheatley. Thus the noun “reception.”

  Boyle nodded. “Yes. That would be the basic question. Yesterday’s attack, among other things, indicates that there is physical danger accompanying this ordination …” Obviously the Cardinal did not have a problem with the term. “… at least here in Detroit.”

  “Excuse me, Eminence,” Wheatley interrupted, “you’re limiting this ‘danger’ to Detroit?”

  A hint of a smile crossed Boyle’s face. “We have a reputation—which, parenthetically, I do not feel we deserve—of being a hotbed of liberal what-have-you’s, from radical liturgists to liberal theologians … literally liberation theology.”

  “I’m aware of this reputation.” Wheatley swallowed a comment that it was this very reputation that had attracted him to begin his projected mission in this archdiocese. As far as he was concerned, this reputation was richly deserved. As a matter of fact, he was counting on just that.

  He knew this archdiocesan reputation was due largely to the fact that the Cardinal was able to coexist civilly in the same sphere as those with whom he did not see eye to eye on a variety of issues.

  A lot of sparring lay ahead for Boyle and Wheatley. Both knew it. Once Wheatley was admitted to the Roman presbytery, the sparring would begin.

  “Prescinding from the accuracy or inaccuracy of this reputation,” Boyle said, “the image is there. It is rare that this difference of opinion expresses itself violently. But it does happen. Never more notoriously than as in yesterday’s bombing.

  “What I mean,” the Cardinal continued, “is that perhaps we ought to look about for another, perhaps smaller, diocese for you to function in. Perhaps that would be a safer atmosphere in which to work.”

  Silence for several seconds.

  “Eminence …” Wheatley spoke slowly and forcefully. “I have spent countless hours studying everything I could find about various dioceses in which I would want to minister. I did not choose lightly. For a great number of reasons, my attention always returned to Detroit—”

  “Is it,” Koesler broke in, “that you want to work in a diocese led by Cardinal Boyle?”

  Before Wheatley could reply, Boyle shook his head. “I shall not be here forever, even though it may seem that way.”

  “Yes,” Wheatley said firmly, “I would prefer having you as my bishop. But I am perfectly willing to work in a diocese that you had led. Detroit will bear your stamp long after you finally get the chance to retire.”

  “Or die,” Boyle said.

  “Well, all right,” Wheatley responded. “Or die.”

  “Father Wheatley …” Boyle fixed the priest with a penetrating look. “… my reservation to your incardination into Detroit revolves solely around your safety.

  “I am well aware of all the talents you bring with you. You would be an extremely valuable asset
to this or any other diocese. But I want you to have another look at what you may encounter here. Violence surrounded you yesterday. It may again. You would not be thought a coward if you chose to go elsewhere.”

  “I would be branded a fool if I chose to go elsewhere,” Wheatley said with conviction.

  Boyle appeared convinced. “Very well, then. When shall we schedule your ordination?”

  Wheatley shrugged. “Next Sunday? I think it would demonstrate that we haven’t been intimidated. Of course, it could not be at St. Joseph’s.” He paused. “How about the Cathedral?”

  Boyle hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes, of course. The Cathedral it shall be.”

  Koesler and Wheatley moved as if to stand. But Boyle continued speaking and the two priests settled back into their chairs.

  “Last evening we had a meeting of some of the archdiocesan staff. Ned Bradley, our director of Communications, advised that whatever our decision in this matter, we should call a news conference for tomorrow—Tuesday.”

  “That sounds good,” said Wheatley.

  “Then it’s agreed: We’ll schedule it for ten tomorrow morning. It will be at the Gabriel Richard Building across the street. Let’s say you stop in here first, Father Wheatley—about nine-thirty?—and we can discuss our approach to the media.”

  “Fine.”

  They parted, and Koesler and Wheatley took the elevator down to the street floor.

  “Sorry to have gotten you involved in that, Bob. I didn’t need the backup I thought I would.”

  “Don’t mention it. As long as we’re here now, how about some coffee? There’s a coffee shop just a block away.”

  The cell phone buzzed. “Yeah,” Sergeant Phil Mangiapane answered briskly.

  “Phil?”

  “Yeah, Zoo.” Mangiapane recognized his lieutenant’s voice immediately.

  “What’s the status of my brother?”

  “Everything seems fine. There was a little confusion when the parishioners realized they weren’t gonna be able to use their church for a while. Your brother got ’em into the rectory basement.”

  “No signs of anything out of the ordinary? Besides the switch from church to basement, I mean?”

  “Nope. All is well, Zoo. Father Tully’s having breakfast. Al has gone to get something for us. Don’t worry. First sign of anything we’ll let you know.”

  Tully hung up and immediately punched another number.

  “Moore,” Angie said into her phone, somewhat less briskly than Mangiapane’s bark.

  Sergeant Angie Moore, with Sergeant Bill Foley, was on surveillance of George Wheatley, which surveillance now included, since they were together, Bob Koesler as well.

  “Reverend Wheatley make his appointment downtown okay?”

  Angie recognized Zoo Tully’s voice. “Yeah, Zoo. The appointment’s finished. Incidentally, Wheatley’s picked up some baggage.”

  “Who?” Tully abhorred surprises. And having anybody hanging around Wheatley qualified as a surprise.

  “Father Koesler.”

  “That’s okay.” Tully was relieved. If anything, he wanted Koesler to be part of this investigation. “What’s happening?”

  “They went into a coffee shop on Michigan Avenue. It’s an in-between time, so right now they’re the only customers. Where are you?”

  “Headquarters. And ready to roll.”

  Father Tully had just finished a light breakfast: cold cereal with a banana, and coffee.

  Tony, the janitor, entered the dining room. “You want me to come with you?”

  “We don’t have anything heavy to bank. I can handle it. On the other hand, the cops who are keeping me company probably would appreciate it if I’m not alone.”

  Tony shrugged. “I got nothin’ else to do now until the police finish up in church.”

  “Okay, friend. I’ll give you a buzz when I’m ready to go.”

  Tony went off to the garage to fix an automatic door that wasn’t being automatic. In the parking lot was one car. Its motor was not running. He did not take it as a police car. It was not marked. Probably one of the congregation who had stayed after Mass and was now about to go off to work.

  Tony was wrong about the parked car. It belonged to the City of Detroit. Inside the car a pair of detectives munched on what passed for their breakfast.

  It was nine-thirty.

  In the average Detroit restaurant it would be so rare as to be almost unique if the only customers were two priests in clericals. But not at Carl’s Corner.

  The corner of Michigan Avenue and Washington Boulevard was top-heavy with the administrative offices of the Archdiocese of Detroit. Housed either in the chancery—1234 Washington Boulevard—or in the Gabriel Richard Building—305 Michigan Avenue—were approximately eighty archdiocesan offices.

  So it was by no means strange that a goodly number of priests could be found walking around that corner with the two buildings only a couple of blocks apart.

  It was just after the early rush hour at the coffee shop. Those starting work at eight or nine had already stopped by for their morning caffeine jolt and were now at their office tasks, looking forward to the ten A.M. break, when Carl’s would once again host a rush.

  The two priests took their cups to a table in the back so they would not be distracted by any incoming or outgoing customer traffic.

  “How is yesterday affecting you?” Koesler asked.

  “Radically,” Wheatley responded.

  “Has it made you second-guess yourself? I mean, just a little while ago you were pretty positive with the Cardinal.”

  “I guess emotionally I’m sort of ambivalent. I was rocked yesterday when the bomb exploded. And it didn’t get any better afterward. This morning, I feel a bit calmer.

  “It’s just that we were completely unprepared for what happened. The lack of forewarning—the unexpectedness—was the scariest thing. Now we’ve got the security of morning to calmly reassess the event …

  “Maybe it’s over. I couldn’t say that yesterday with any sort of confidence. But now … maybe. I’ve got a hunch.”

  “I sure hope you’re right.”

  “What do you think, Bob?”

  “I pretty much agree with you. It may just be wishful thinking, but … well, yesterday’s occurrence was so carefully prepared that … well, when such a seemingly well-laid plan failed, I can see that the perpetrator might not want to give it another try.”

  “I feel good that you agree. Yesterday there was no police presence—just the traffic cops outside the lot. No reason for any special need for the police then. But now? They’re going to be all over the place.”

  The counter clerk hesitated in his work. The voice of the shorter priest was so impressive. He was sure he had heard it before. Actually, he hadn’t. He did not listen to heady programs such as a religious-based talk show. But Wheatley did have a resonant voice.

  Seated as they were in the rear of the coffee shop, they could see out of the large windows, while anyone outside would have great difficulty seeing them in the interior.

  There was little to see, though. Few pedestrians went by. And those who did seemed intent on getting to their destination or on claiming their rightful corner where they would panhandle the whole day long.

  NINETEEN

  At police headquarters Lieutenant Alonzo Tully busied himself with administrative tasks that were his responsibility, but which he was in no hurry to finish.

  Patrolman Vernon Dietrich sat down alongside Tully’s desk and offered him a Styrofoam cup filled with steaming hot coffee. Tully accepted the cup with thanks. He didn’t really want it, but he would sip it anyway, just to keep his hands busy.

  “Any word from the Techs?” Dietrich asked. “Prints and stuff?”

  Tully shook his head. “Prints, yeah. Some of them must go back to Gabriel Richard himself, or maybe even Cadillac. They didn’t have a thing on keeping the place especially clean.”

  “Be better if we had some idea of who
we’re chasing.”

  “Yeah,” Tully agreed. “The best lead they’ve got going so far is that the bomb may have been behind one of the floral pieces.”

  “We lookin’ for a florist?”

  “Could be. But which one? Flowers were ordered from two different shops. We checked both of ’em, and they both look clean. Nobody at either place seems to have even the slightest motive. But we’ll keep pressing them.

  “On top of that, quite a few parishioners brought in flowers and put them anywhere they wanted around the altar and the statues.”

  “Ward interviewed a priest who claims that he returned some vestment that he’d borrowed,” Dietrich said. “So far nobody’s come up with it. For his sake, somebody’d better find it—or its remains—pretty soon.”

  Tully tried the coffee and decided it was too hot for mortal tongue. He set the cup on the corner of his desk. “I wish that bastard would make one of his crazy calls to my brother … or even send one of his pasted-up letters.”

  “That’d have to be special delivery, no?”

  “Yeah. I’m just on edge.” Tully found a somewhat clean spoon in one of his desk drawers and stuck it in the cup. Maybe that would cool the coffee to potability.

  Father Wheatley returned to the booth with refills for both of them.

  “I don’t know how you feel about it,” Koesler said, “but it bugs me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Attitude! My Church’s attitude about your priestly orders.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that! I look on you as every bit a priest as I am.”

  “Thanks, Bob. I appreciate that … I really do.”

  “If you’re so aware of this attitude, how do you put up with it? I mean, so many Roman Catholic officials are treating you more as a seminarian than as a priest. It’s demeaning.”

  Wheatley shrugged. “A price, I guess, I just have to pay.

  “I want into the Roman priesthood. It’s supply and demand. Rome gives every indication that it is not so eager to accept converts from the Anglican priesthood into the Roman. In this entire big country of ours there is one Cardinal and one Chicago-based priest actively involved in this procedure. That’s not nearly the investment of time, personnel, and money the Roman hierarchy is pouring into recruitment of standard seminarians.