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  Cox then noted an evergrowing number of carabinieri spreading through the chapel. They were questioning everyone, searching for eyewitnesses. One was interviewing Lennon, another was questioning Koesler. Since it would inevitably become Cox’s turn, he decided to join Lennon.

  “Oh, here he is,” said Lennon as Cox came to her side. “This is the man I told you about . . . the one who chased the assailant.”

  The Italian officer got Cox’s full identification. “So,” he said in barely accented English, “it was very brave of you, signore. But you could not catch him?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, about halfway through the chase, it occurred to me that I wouldn’t know what to do with him if I did catch him.”

  “Please?”

  “He was almost twice my size!”

  “Doubly brave of you.”

  “Who was the victim, anyway?” Cox’s question was directed to the officer, but Lennon answered.

  “You know, I said I thought he was important, Joe. Well, I was right. I realized who he was when I saw him on the floor. It’s Cardinal Giulanio Gattari!”

  Cox whistled softly, then caught himself. He felt as if he might be the only person ever to whistle in the Sistine Chapel. “The Secretary of State! We should have recognized him!”

  “I think we were thrown off by the simple black cassock. You just don’t expect to see a Cardinal dressed so plainly.”

  Koesler, who had finished his interview, was now listening in.

  “The Cardinal,” commented the officer, “was in the habit of walking about Vatican City dressed without ostentation. But, tell me, Signore Cox, since you chased the assailant, can you describe him for me?” The officer’s pen was poised over his pad.

  “Well, he was maybe six-foot-two or three; he wasn’t wearing a suit . . . let’s see, it was an unmatched jacket and pants and a blue shirt open at the neck; no tie. He weighed maybe 240–250. Black, very dark complexion. And there was something funny about his hair . . . it was in a natural.” He thought a minute. “No . . .no, I’ll take that back. It was done up in those—oh, you know—like long wriggly corn rows.”

  “Oh—” That was as far as Koesler got before Lennon hastily led him away, as the officer looked after them quizzically.

  “Father,” she said, “you got a look at that man . . . and you know what that hairstyle is called, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes. It’s not corn rows. It’s dreadlocks. It’s what happens when some blacks wash their hair, if it happens to be very long, and they just let it dry out without any additional treatment.”

  “Very good, Father.” Lennon sounded like an elementary school teacher. “And I suppose you also know who wears their hair that way as a matter of conviction?”

  “Well, yes . . .” Koesler was beginning to feel like a pupil who was doing very well in school. “They call themselves Rastafarians.”

  “Right. It’s just as I suspected. You know all this and I know all this and in a matter of an hour or so at most I will make sure the Italian authorities know all this.

  “But, for the moment, Joe Cox doesn’t know all this. Now in just a few minutes, Joe and I will be filing our stories to Detroit. Joe will write—modestly—of his brave participation in the event. But he will not know of the possible connection with Rastafarians. And I will. Are you getting the picture?”

  “Yes, of course. After all, I used to be actively involved in journalism. Even if it was with the weekly Detroit Catholic and not a daily. You want your scoop. But what about the police investigation?”

  “Father, it’s a matter of minutes—an hour at most. Just as soon as Joe files his story—and, if his track record holds, that will be even faster than I file mine—I will go to the police and fill out the picture. It won’t impede their investigation and I’ll still have my scoop. Then, we’ll just sit back and let Joe wait till his angry editor cables him before he gets the picture.”

  “I see. But I thought you were . . . uh . . . friends!”

  There might have been some Detroiters who were confused over whom Henry Ford II was married to, but almost everyone knew that Cox and Lennon shared almost everything but their scoops.

  “Everything, Father, is fair in love, war, and journalism.”

  4.

  The two men strolled along the Via di San Gregorio. They walked slowly, deliberately, only peripherally aware of the Forum ruins they were passing, so absorbed in conversation were they.

  “It all happened so quickly—so unexpectedly, I should say,” Father Koesler was explaining, “that we were all pretty dumbfounded. All of us, that is, except Joe Cox, who chased after the guy.”

  “Yes,” Inspector Koznicki nodded, “and from the description he gave of the man, Mr. Cox is fortunate not to have caught up with him.”

  “I think he probably wanted more to interview him than apprehend him!” Koesler, smiling, shook his head at the memory, and then his face grew solemn: Cardinal Gattari had survived the immediate attack, only to die shortly thereafter enroute to the hospital.

  Koznicki, hoping to hearten his companion, spoke again. “I must say, Father, your phone call to Father Ouellet in Toronto was an inspired bit of detection.”

  “More a lucky coincidence. While I was talking with Pat Lennon about how the assailant wore his hair in dreadlocks, I recalled that Father Ouellet had described Cardinal Claret’s killer as a black man with his hair in a ‘natural.’ As a matter of fact, that was the word Joe Cox used to describe the man he chased. He said the man had a ‘natural,’ then corrected himself.”

  “But not perfectly accurately.”

  “By now he’s been enlightened. Anyway, when I phoned Father Ouellet after lunch—he was just about to go over to the cathedral for the early morning Mass—I asked him to describe the man’s hair, and, sure enough, it was dreadlocks—although Father Ouellet had never heard of that term.”

  “I am sure that added information will be a help to the Toronto and Rome police who are investigating their respective homicides.”

  Koesler wondered whether his friend’s statement meant that the murders of two Cardinals were the purview of the Canadian and Italian police and none of his or Koesler’s business. Koesler hoped that was not the case.

  “I think there’s more to it than that, Inspector—oh, look over there!” He pointed to where, evidently just a few minutes before, two automobiles, a Fiat and a Volkswagen, had collided. There did not appear to be much damage to either vehicle. But an unwonted crowd of men had gathered at the scene. Only a small percentage could have actually witnessed the collision. Yet, here were all these men, arguing angrily. Some were even becoming physical, pushing and shoving. The only explanation for this precipitate brouhaha was that apparently one of the cars had been driven by a woman. And what a woman! Blonde, taller than any of the men, and busty enough to be fairly popping from her light dress. She paid little heed to the commotion about and because of her, but appeared to be waiting for the hubbub to die down so she could drive away.

  Koznicki laughed heartily. “I have always thought that to make an Italian movie, all one had to do was walk down a street in Italy with a camera on one’s shoulder. I believe the cinéma verité was conceived with Italy in mind.

  “But, Father, you were saying—?”

  “Maybe I’m being an alarmist, but how many times have there been attempts on the lives of Cardinals? Oh, perhaps in the Middle Ages, but not now . . . not today. Cardinals grow old and slip away quietly in their sleep. Yet in the past few weeks, two Cardinals have been murdered, and another attacked. Are these events connected? Will there be more?”

  Koznicki grew reflective. He had learned to trust his clerical friend’s deductive powers as well as his intuition. But there seemed little if any connection between these attacks. And, even if there were a link, technically, as a foreigner in this country it was none of his concern, even though he was a homicide detective.

  “I really cannot find any connection here, Father,”
he said, at length. “It is more than likely that the attack on Cardinal Claret was, as the Canadian police suspect, the random act of a young hoodlum out to snatch some media attention. A nobody trying to become somebody.

  “That almost certainly was so in Cardinal Boyle’s case.

  “And, you see, Father, that sort of act very unfortunately has a way of building upon itself. Now, this morning, the dastardly act was repeated in the case of Cardinal Gattari. The only link I see is that with Cardinals Claret and Gattari, each of their assailants had dreadlocks. And dreadlocks are not that unusual. Do you see anything beyond that, Father?”

  “I guess I’d have to grant you that the attack on Cardinal Boyle was—as you describe it—a solitary act. But there is something at work here, I think.

  “There is, of course, no way of predicting with any certitude who the prime candidates for the Papacy are, let alone who will actually be the next Pope. But there is gossip and talk and news—and, gradually, a consensus builds.”

  “Yes?” Koznicki’s interest was piqued.

  “Well, according to nearly everyone, Cardinal Gattari was, by far, the front-runner, the top favorite to be elected the next Pope. Of course, that would depend on a lot of imponderables. Pope Leo XIV, of course, would have to die. And he would have to die while Cardinal Gattari was still young enough to continue to be the favorite.”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “My next point. Next in line after Gattari was Cardinal Claret.”

  “A Canadian?”

  “The Italian succession has been interrupted. The Papacy, at least for the foreseeable future, should be internationally attainable.

  “So you see, Inspector, that is my common denominator. The favorite to be the next Pope and the next favorite in line, both murdered. Both murdered by men in dreadlocks. It is not an indisputable hypothesis, but it is worth consideration, I think.

  “And there is one more very peculiar similarity in the killings of the two Cardinals. When I attended Cardinal Claret’s funeral, I was puzzled to see a black fist painted on the historical marker outside the cathedral. That same black fist was imposed on all the programs for the funeral rite.

  “This morning, after the body was removed and things had quieted down, I went back to where Cardinal Gattari had fallen. The blood had been cleaned away. But there, where the body had lain, was the small image of a black fist.”

  “A black fist! I must admit that is a most peculiar coincidence!”

  They strolled on in silence.

  “I would be glad to advance your hypothesis to the proper authorities for their consideration, Father. But what does it all have to do with us?”

  “Just this: Not very far down that list of papal possibles is our own Cardinal Boyle.”

  This observation literally stopped Koznicki in his tracks. He stood stock still. After a few moments, he moved a few steps to the low railing at the edge of the sidewalk. Koesler joined him. Silently they gazed at the ruins of the Forum.

  “Each time I see the Forum, I am astonished again to think of the ideas that were born here,” mused Koznicki.

  Koesler was surprised at this turn in their conversation. Seemingly, Koznicki wished to put this possible threat to Cardinal Boyle’s life on a mental back burner.

  “Five hundred years before Christ,” Koznicki continued, “Rome became a republic with a system of rights for its citizens. Much of our concept of justice, our legal system, was formed here in the Forum.” He turned to Koesler. “Is it not impressive, Father?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.” He would not press the point; he would go along with his friend’s digression. “Rome is the fountainhead of our Western civilization. Even today, they still use that ancient inscription, SPQR—Senatus Populusque Romanus—The Senate and People of Rome. You look at these ruins of the Forum and the Colosseum across the street and you are impressed with how ancient traces of the twenty-seven-centuries-long history of Rome can be found all over the city. I can’t think of any other place where the past and present seem to coexist more completely and comfortably than Rome.”

  There was another long silence. Koesler felt the verbal ball was definitely in Koznicki’s court,

  “So, Father,” the Inspector still gazed at the Forum, “you believe there is a threat against the life of Cardinal Boyle because he is a recognized candidate for the Papacy.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know why.” Of course Koznicki was concerned. Perhaps he had temporarily changed the subject in order to clear his mind—as a gourmet savors a sorbet between courses to clear his palate. He should have had more faith in the Inspector’s professionalism. “I mean, I don’t know what the motive might be. I may be wrong, but I think both Cardinals Claret and Gattari were killed because they were top contenders for the Papacy. But I don’t know who . . . or why anybody would do it.”

  “How many other Cardinals, would you say, fit into the category of papal candidates?”

  Koesler thought briefly. “I would guess not more than eight or nine serious candidates who would be pretty well universally acknowledged by students of this sort of thing.”

  “And the names of those Cardinals would also be generally acknowledged? I, for instance, am not specifically aware of them. And I consider myself to be well read.”

  “You are well read, Inspector. Your problem is that until now you were not specifically interested. For those who are interested, it is easy to work up a list. Why, a few years ago, a small publishing house in the midwest, Sheed Andrews and McMeel, published a book by Gary MacEoin on this very subject. If memory serves, it was titled, The Inner Elite.”

  “I see. I would assume then, that uncompromising security for these men is called for. I shall be instrumental in informing the appropriate authorities.”

  “I think you’ve hit on it, Inspector. And I think a lot of added security is vital for many of the Cardinals in question. But I believe we’ve got a major problem when we get to the man we would most like to protect, Cardinal Boyle.”

  “Oh . . . and why is that?”

  “Most of the Cardinals on the papal list are bureaucrats far removed from free association with common everyday people. It should not be terribly difficult to protect them. This is definitely not true of Cardinal Boyle. He leads a large and busy archdiocese. You know as well as I that he is no hothouse flower. He presides over confirmation ceremonies in parishes all over the six-county Archdiocese. Most of those parishes would present security problems. He attends open meetings. He frequently answers his own door.

  “And to cap it all, most days you can find him walking down Washington Boulevard between his office and the Gabriel Richard Building, or to his automobile.

  “And you know from past experience that he will not permit any major alteration in that open lifestyle. Both of us know Cardinal Boyle would never countenance walking about surrounded by a bunch of Swiss Guards.”

  Koznicki was silent for a few moments. “In which case, Father, Cardinal Boyle had better pray that he is not elected Pope . . . or he’s going to be surrounded by Swiss Guards on top of Swiss Guards.

  “Nonetheless, I think, Father, there are at least two ways to approach this problem: defensively or offensively. And, to use the familiar football metaphor, the best defense is a good offense.”

  Koesler felt great relief that his friend finally seemed to be committing himself to an active role in the matter. “Then you agree there may be something to my hypothesis?”

  “Father, in all the years I have been on the police force, especially those I have spent in the Homicide Division, I have learned one predominant lesson, and that is to keep an open mind on all possibilities.

  “I could not tell you the number of times in an investigation that the least likely possible solution turned out to be the correct one. And I do not mean to denigrate your hypothesis. I only mean that to dismiss a tenable theory merely because it is not probable is to act the fool. My rule of thumb has become that memorable tune from
HMS Pinafore:

  Things are seldom what they seem.

  Skim milk masquerades as cream;

  High-laws pass as patent leathers;

  Jackdaws strut in peacock’s feathers.”

  “‘Very true,’” Koesler responded in kind, “‘So they do.’” He smiled. “I would have thought your theme might have been ‘A Policeman’s Lot Is Not a Happy One.’”

  Koznicki smiled back. “No; in point of fact, I have found this policeman’s lot to be distinctly happy.” He paused. “Well, Father, you are quite obviously somewhat in advance of me in thinking through all these possibilities. Before you draw me out any further, do you have anything else in mind?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I have. I had thought of presenting this to you in the guise of a defense against the threat to Cardinal Boyle. But now that you have mentioned the possibility of going on the offense, I will suggest this man as our offensive weapon.” An uncertain pause. “Ramon Toussaint.”

  Koznicki stiffened. Perceptibly.

  “Ramon Toussaint? Yes, I would agree that could be a decidedly offensive weapon.” He looked at Koesler fixedly. “I have by no means forgotten Ramon Toussaint, Father. The name conjures up a one-man vigilante force and a series of grotesque human heads found mounted on statues in Detroit churches. One head found stuffed inside the late Cardinal Mooney’s ceremonial red hat in the cathedral, save the mark.

  “Let’s see, the victims were . . . oh, yes: the local Mafia don, Detroit’s top pimp, Detroit’s leading drug dealer, a particularly abhorrent abortionist, and then a roofer and an auto repairman who were unscrupulous and unprincipled workmen. Each of them escaped justice, as so many criminals do, until our unidentified vigilante administered his own peculiar brand of capital punishment.

  “Our particular problem, as I recall—and believe me, I shall never forget it—was establishing the cause of death of those men. In the first five cases, all we were able to find were the victims’ heads.

  “Do I remember Ramon Toussaint! Lieutenant Ned Harris and the rest of us who worked on that case strongly suspected that our anonymous vigilante might well have been Ramon Toussaint!”