Pawn of Satan Read online

  “You okay?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah.”

  A nurse came in and bustled them all out.

  In the hall Paul said, “We’ll go home and get settled.”

  Brian said, “You don’t have to hover. You can go back to work.”

  “I think I should be with you.”

  “For what?” Brian asked.

  “I’m concerned about you.”

  “I’m fine. Ben will be there.”

  Fenwick had waited quietly in the background the whole time. Now he joined them. “Fuck the case. I called the Commander. You want to stay? Or I can drive you back to the station and you can pick up your car. You do what you need to do.”

  Brian said, “There’s nothing more to be done. He’s saved. I’m fine. The emergency is over.”

  Paul said, “Buck, I can get a ride over in the morning so I don’t need my car tonight. I’ll go home, and we can get settled.”

  Fenwick said, “If you need anything, call me.”

  They got home. Brian turned his phone back on, examined the readout list of calls, then turned it back off. Jeff was falling asleep in his wheelchair.

  After the boys were settled in their rooms, Paul and Ben sat at the kitchen table.

  Ben said, “Could this have been another gay kid trying to commit suicide?”

  “Could have been. Maybe we should have tried to talk to him after he saw us Inauguration day.”

  “It’s so hard to know when to talk to a teenager or what to say.”

  Paul said, “So the boy was expecting someone to be home earlier or Brian to come over. He was hoping to be saved?”

  “Or hoping to punish one of them.”

  “For what?” Paul asked.

  “Brian may know or not. Shane may not have told anyone. Maybe Brian is feeling guilty for not recognizing the signs. Same for the mom and dad.”

  Paul said, “Shane was one of the kids who was going in their group with them to the prom.”

  “We’ll get him through tonight and then figure out what to do next.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sunday 11:00 P.M.

  Paul and Ben stood on their front porch in the unusual mid-May warmth. The boys were settled. Paul wanted to take a breath of fresh air before heading up to bed.

  Paul checked for any incongruities or oddities on the street, the way any cop always checks his surroundings no matter what situation he found himself in. It was an automatic reflex. No limos. No burly guys bigger than Fenwick. No bishops swinging a thurible on the end of a chain, incense smoke spilling from the holes in the top.

  But a Lincoln Town Car idled across the street from Mrs. Talucci’s. He could dimly see a skinny guy in wireframe glasses and a Roman collar in the driver’s seat.

  He noted Mrs. Talucci on her front porch in her rocker. Mrs. Talucci waved and stood up.

  Paul said to Ben, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He strolled to the bottom of her front porch steps. Mrs. Talucci was in shadow. She wore a summer shawl over her shoulders and a faded yellow-flower print housedress.

  She asked, “How is Brian?”

  “Doing okay. Asleep, I hope.”

  “He’s a good man, just like his dads.”

  “Thanks.”

  She spoke so her voice barely carried down to him those few feet away. “I have someone who wants to talk to you.”

  Paul wanted to get into his house, hug Ben, check on the boys, but Mrs. Talucci would not be mentioning someone wanting to talk to him if it wasn’t important.

  Paul climbed the steps. Mrs. Talucci patted his arm, smiled, and said, “Don’t be gentle.”

  She led him into the house.

  A dim pole lamp burned next to Mrs. Talucci’s dark brown easy chair. The Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago, Albert Duggan, sat in the chair. A steaming cup of coffee and a plate of butter cookies sat on a small, round table next to him with a napkin and a doily in place for crumbs and aesthetics.

  Mrs. Talucci said, “Al, this is my neighbor Paul. The detective on the Kappel case. You need to talk to him.”

  Turner wondered, Al?

  The Cardinal remained seated. He held out his right hand an inch or two above his thigh, palm down, wrist bent, which caused his Cardinal’s ring to flash in the light from the votive candle Mrs. Talucci had lit on the mantelpiece. It wasn’t that Mrs. Talucci was religious. She liked the soft lighting as she listened to classical music using her headphones connected to her iPod. The bishop’s hand remained extended as if waiting for Paul to kiss the ring. Paul reached and shook the hand.

  After an instant’s touch, the cardinal yanked his hand away, reacting as if he’d been stung. What, Turner thought, he’d never shaken hands before? The Cardinal’s world was that insulated, he never soiled himself outside his own circle?

  Mrs. Talucci noted the brief handshake and chuckled. “Give it a rest, Al, we’re beyond all that here.”

  Again with this ‘Al’ shit. Mrs. Talucci indeed had connections.

  Mrs. Talucci asked if Paul wanted coffee or another beverage. After he declined, she motioned for Paul to seat himself then settled herself onto a straight-back chair.

  The detective sat on a dark brown settee that matched the chair the Cardinal was in.

  The Cardinal’s short, squat body filled the armchair. His body wiggled against the afghan that covered the back, seat, and arms. Perhaps the gold and yellow spread, knitted by Mrs. Talucci, had a large wrinkle and the man’s ass hit it just wrong as he sat, or maybe the Cardinal had a hemorrhoid.

  Turner wondered if cardinals got hemorrhoids. He figured they must. They were human. Presumably.

  Mrs. Talucci prompted, “Paul, you had some questions.”

  “Where were you at the time Bishop Kappel was murdered?”

  Cardinal Duggan gave a smirk the Republicans had perfected then added a sneer. “That’s the best you can do?”

  Turner said, “I’m tired. I suspect you’re up to your eyeballs in murder. You and all of your ilk have not been helpful.” His sharpness caused him to reflect that he sounded like Fenwick. He saw no harm in that approach at the moment. The evening had drained him emotionally. He didn’t care if the Cardinal was offended in this world or any theological haven he constructed in his mind. The case was a mess. He wanted answers. If he channeled Fenwick for a few minutes, that was okay with him.

  The Cardinal Archbishop tottered to his feet. “A Chicago detective can’t talk to me that way.”

  Mrs. Talucci spoke, “But I can and I will. You will sit down and you will answer his questions.”

  The Cardinal glared at the diminutive woman sitting calmly across from him.

  “Albert, sit down,” she ordered.

  Mrs. Talucci raised her cane in her right hand. Paul saw that it trembled, a sure sign she was tired.

  Paul asked, “Do you need to rest?”

  Instead of answering him, Mrs. Talucci gazed at the Cardinal. She shortened her command. “Sit.” She thumped her cane on the rug.

  The Cardinal sat.

  What kind of hold did she have on him? Paul wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Mrs. Talucci held the prelate’s eyes until he lowered his gaze. She asked, “Do you want me to start telling stories?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  She said, “Some from not so long ago.”

  “How do you know things?” he asked.

  “I listen. I learn. Same as you. I wait and think and imagine. You’ve got a dead bishop, Al, and you’ve got to help my friend here. He’s a good man and a good detective. You will not abuse him in my presence here and now, and then you will cooperate fully between now and the moment you draw your last breath.”

  “You insult me.”

  “I know you.”

  “No one would believe your stories.”

  “What’s been your motto for fifty years, Al?”

  “Rose, do you want a creed?”

  Mrs. Talucci laughed. “The most vital thing in your u
niverse has been the repeated plea to ‘not scandalize the faithful,’ which has always meant that you want to save your butt, your cushy job, and your selfish ways. And don’t try standing up again as if you were going to walk out. You and I both know your butt is going to stay in that chair, and you’re going to talk to this detective, and if he or I are not satisfied with your answers, my next calls will begin an avalanche of humiliation that will bury you and scandalize, as you so quaintly put it, the faithful, the unfortunate few who still believe your bullshit. And you know I’m not bluffing, Al.”

  The Cardinal looked stubborn.

  Mrs. Talucci said, “The name of your first boyfriend your second week in the seminary was…”

  The Cardinal’s gasp interrupted her. His whisper was bathed in fear. “You couldn’t know that.”

  Mrs. Talucci raised her right eyebrow an eighth of an inch.

  The Cardinal sat in stupefied silence. “How do you know these things?”

  Mrs. Talucci smiled.

  The Cardinal’s fat seemed to melt as he sat in the chair. His shoulders slumped, he leaned heavily on one arm, he held his head in his hand. He nodded, “Fine,” with a snarl in his voice that neither of Paul’s sons would dare use to an adult.

  Mrs. Talucci said, “Your cheerful acquiescence is not necessary, but your complete compliance is.”

  The Cardinal harrumphed and faced Turner and arched an eyebrow.

  Turner asked, “Did you kill Bishop Kappel?”

  Silence infested the room.

  Finally Duggan spat out, “No.”

  “Did you ever visit the apartment they shared?”

  “No.” With a snarl and a sneer.

  “That’s kind of a stupid lie,” Turner said. “You were recognized.”

  “Whoever saw me was mistaken.”

  Turner sighed. “Do you really think we haven’t done our homework? You were recognized by more than one witness. You’re a public figure. You really think you’re anonymous?”

  “I visited their apartment. So what?”

  “You knew they were lovers.”

  “Again, so what? You’re living with another man.” He shot a spiteful look at Mrs. Talucci. “You’re not the only one that can find things out.”

  Mrs. Talucci sat forward in her chair. Her voice was very soft as she asked, “Are you making a threat?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Mrs. Talucci held his eyes until the prelate looked down and mumbled, “No, no threat.”

  Mrs. Talucci sat back. “Good.”

  Turner asked, “Their relationship didn’t bother you?”

  “No.”

  Turner said, “We have information that Bishop Kappel was investigating the diocesan finances past and present. Among other things graft, nepotism, cronyism connected to awarding contracts at inflated prices, irregular purchasing procedures.”

  “Everything is under control.”

  “We need to see the diocesan financial records. We need to know what and who he was investigating. These could involve millions of dollars.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Mrs. Talucci cleared her throat.

  Duggan glared at her. “Fine, I’ll get you the damn records. If you bring scandal to Holy Mother Church, you will be sorry.”

  “Another threat?” Mrs. Talucci asked. “Really. Al, you know better.”

  “It’s not a threat.”

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Talucci said, “and I’m kind of tired of it.” She stood up. “Look to tomorrow’s headlines.”

  “Rose, please.” He half stood up. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit of a lifetime.”

  Feeling a bit like a debating Fenwick, Turner asked, “That’s how you run things, by threat? Is that really a good way to run a multi-million dollar do-good organization?”

  “It’s worked for two millennia. Do you have a better suggestion?”

  “Quite a few,” Mrs. Talucci said. “And you don’t believe all that malarkey any more than I do.”

  The Cardinal objected, “It’s not malarkey, and I have faith.”

  Mrs. Talucci’s eyes twinkled, and she got a mischievous glint in her eye. She asked, “Which of us has a PhD in the Philosophy of Religions and another in the Philosophy of Theology and which of us has more articles written and published about those subjects?”

  Turner knew that after her husband died forty years ago, Mrs. Talucci had gone back to school. She had degrees from numerous universities in the area although she preferred the University of Chicago. She’d averaged a degree about once every five years. She said learning all the foreign languages slowed her down. He didn’t remember all the areas she studied. She used the vellum diplomas to line her kitchen cabinets.

  Duggan insisted, “We are doing good for the world. A lot of people think it’s possible to just run around in sackcloth and ashes and preach peace, love, and joy. Well, detective, you’re in a profession where you see the worst in people. I’ve listened to confessions. I know this world and how it works and how rotten we are to each other. Have we in the Church learned what it takes to run things? Yes. Do we try to influence the world, people and politicians? Of course.”

  Mrs. Talucci said, “So your goal is to get the government to enforce the laws of the church?”

  “If that what’s for the best.”

  “That’s a theocracy,” Mrs. Talucci said.

  “We know best.”

  “Pah! You’re a sad old man.”

  “Is that what you really came here to discuss?” Duggan asked.

  Turner pulled himself up. That was a comment he’d have made to bring a halt to a Fenwick inspired debate.

  “Who were Kappel’s enemies?” Turner asked.

  “Everyone in the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order got along. We are a Christian community.”

  Turner said, “We’ve got reports of infighting in the organization going back years. We’ve got people talking about investigations.”

  “Any organization has internal politics. You know that. It’s just typical, human interaction, nothing more. As for the investigations, really, the people involved care deeply about religion, but they are not murderers.”

  Turner pointed out, “Somebody is. You’ve got a dead bishop.”

  “Maybe it was a random killing.”

  “It looked pretty planned and organized to me. He was tortured before he died.”

  Duggan looked pained. “He was a good man.”

  “Where were you around midnight, Friday?”

  “Asleep in bed.”

  “Do you know a big burly guy in a town car?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “Someone who might be connected to the case.”

  “I know no such person.”

  “Do you know Vern Drake and Bishop Pelagius?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you talk with them before they came to meet with us?”

  “When was this?”

  “Late Saturday.”

  “No.”

  “Would Kappel’s enemies try to kill you?”

  Duggan looked thoughtful a moment then said, “I can’t see a point. Killing a cardinal gets you what?”

  “Killing a bishop must have gotten somebody something. Maybe it stopped an investigation.”

  “But the death of one cleric wouldn’t be enough to stop the vast machinery of the Catholic Church. There’s always another cleric. Why kill just one? You couldn’t possibly even begin to kill enough clerics to halt the progress of the Church. If it’s not an eternal organization, it’s as close to one as mankind has come up with.”

  “Did you know Kappel was hiring call boys to service him?”

  “That I don’t believe.”

  “Can you help us get in to talk to Bishop Tresca?”

  “I presume that’s up to him.”

  “Abbot Bruchard wouldn’t assist us.”

  “Tresca is an adult.”

  “We want to follow up in Kappel’s room at the Ab
bey. We need to get into his computer as well.”

  “I’m sorry. I have no influence in getting you into the Abbey.”

  “You’re the Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago.”

  “As you can see by my presence here, I am not all powerful.”

  “Did Kappel have an office in the chancery?”

  “No.”

  If he knew more, it was not forthcoming. The Cardinal huffed and puffed as he squirmed up out of the chair. With a few words of thanks to Mrs. Talucci, he left.

  Paul and Mrs. Talucci stood on her front porch.

  Paul said, “After all this time, you have such control, influence. You don’t even go to church on Sundays.”

  “Or any other day of the week, although the local priest told me I didn’t have to because I’m so old.”

  Paul remembered the local parish priest, Father Damien, a short, rotund young man, one of the few Chicago area natives graduated from the seminary in the past decade. Paul asked, “Is that what the dustup was about at the Taylor Street Fair last summer?”

  Mrs. Talucci laughed. “No, that was because he was an asshole. My granddaughter told me that dickless wonder had the nerve to tell her in the confessional that she was a slut for using contraception.” After all these years, Paul didn’t find it odd that, especially when tired or upset, Mrs. Talucci could sound like an angry stevedore.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him if he ever chose to give anyone I knew marital advice again, I’d make it unnecessary for him to ever have to use contraception in or out of the priesthood for the rest of his life.”

  “Oh. What on Earth do you have on the Cardinal?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Paul paused, met those twinkling eyes, hung his head, muttered, “Yes.”

  She chuckled. “One for you for honesty. The strange thing is, a few of the biggest things aren’t criminal, at least not in the arrest-and-go-to-jail way. He would certainly find them a scandal to the faithful. I’m afraid mostly the twenty-four hour news cycle would care for about half a day, but even a whisper of scandal, that would kill him.”

  “It must be powerful.”

  She smiled, took his arm. “It’s two things, actually. Well, two major things. Remember, I know his mother from the neighborhood so I know him from when he was born. The thing he’d probably be most embarrassed about is the fact that he paid his way through college working in a drag show in Atlanta.”