Pawn of Satan Page 16

  “He wasn’t in the seminary in college?”

  “No, dear. He didn’t get religion until after he graduated from college.”

  “You have proof?”

  “Well, this was in the time before everyone had a cell phone and everything got recorded, but I do believe there are some photos and at least one video. I’m told his Diana Ross number was the hit of the show.”

  “Diana Ross?”

  “Who knows what crowds like?”

  “The cardinal archbishop of Chicago was a drag queen?”

  “Really, Paul, you see the way the Catholic prelates dress up for their rituals. You think Catholic drag is that different from the show at the Baton?”

  “I never thought about it that way.” The Baton was the most well-known drag bar in Chicago. Paul had enjoyed the show the few times he’d been.

  “You’ve been to the Baton?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I was at one of the first shows.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t think she would ever cease to amaze him. “How did you find out about the video, and even more intriguing, how did you get a copy of the video?”

  “Actually, I have the original and copies are in the hands of my attorneys and other discreet, interested parties.”

  “It is provably him?”

  She laughed briefly. “I never bluff.”

  She didn’t add where she got it, and Paul didn’t press. Obtained through mundane or Machiavellian schemes, he wasn’t sure he wanted or needed to know. He switched topics, “Was he ever involved in the transferring of priests who molested kids?”

  “I have nothing on that. He wasn’t specifically in charge at the time. Others would be sued or blamed or defrocked long before him. He covered his tracks with that issue, or maybe he wasn’t smack in the middle of screwing up other people’s lives. He’s done enough that isn’t involved directly in harming children. If he was, his ass would have been gone long before this. I’d have done everything in my poor power to make that happen.”

  “What’s the other main thing? Are there dead bodies in his background?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, but it’s far more ordinary than that, but in my book, far worse and very sad.”

  Paul raised an eyebrow.

  “His mother is in an extended care facility. She’s a dear old friend of mine. I visit her once a week. Her mind isn’t what it was.” She sighed. “Whose is? He visits her two times a year, on Mother’s Day and Christmas. That, my dear, is a crime. I don’t care if his job was performing emergency surgery on widows and orphans from war-torn countries. You go visit your mother. She’s not going to be around long. He’s an irresponsible oaf. How can you not visit your mother? He should be deeply ashamed of his absence from her side.” She sighed. “But he’s the kind of man who would be in more of a panic having it known that he was a drag queen fifty years ago than that he doesn’t visit his mother except twice a year. He should be ashamed of that, not of being a drag queen.” She sighed. “He’s from here, but he went to college in Atlanta. Like many kids, he wanted to get away.”

  “I wonder if he was ever arrested for it. Fifty years ago it could have been a huge problem in the South.”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “It would be another level of fear for him.”

  “He’s lived his whole life in fear.”

  “Of being found out?”

  “Well, that, sure, but I was thinking of the most important doctrine of the Catholic Church.”

  “The Trinity?”

  She patted his arm. “No, my dear, the most important tenet of the Catholic church is, as I pointed out to our dear Cardinal less than half an hour ago, ‘don’t scandalize the faithful.’”

  “I don’t remember that from catechism class.”

  Mrs. Talucci smiled. “It’s in there. Believe me, it’s in there.”

  “Is that much awful stuff really going on?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Unless they molest little boys, most often the Catholic church personnel do get away with most anything.”

  “It’s a soft life they don’t appreciate. It’s what makes the clergy such good Republicans, especially all those above the level of monsignor.” She shook her head. “The reality is almost as sad.”

  “What’s that?”

  “People knowing now that he was a drag queen then, he would find embarrassing. The poor man was living his life then and enjoying himself, I’d presume, and now he’d be ashamed of it. A lot of the fear is in his own head.” She sighed. “But the poor thing would be laughed out of Chicago and the Curia. It is sad, and I’d feel sorry for him.” She caught his eyes. “Well, okay, I’d feel sorry for him if he wasn’t such a shit.”

  As he took the first step down off the front porch Mrs. Talucci said, “If you don’t have the financial records on your desk when you walk in tomorrow, call me. I doubt if it will be necessary.”

  “Can I tell people I met the Cardinal?”

  “I wouldn’t call a press conference about it, but you wouldn’t have done that anyway.”

  He thanked her and walked next door to his own house. The boys were both asleep. As he undressed, he told Ben about the meeting with the Cardinal.

  He was tired. He crawled into bed and felt Ben’s arms around him as he drifted off to sleep.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Monday 6:57 A.M.

  Before going downstairs Paul tapped on Brian’s bedroom door. He’d heard the boy’s shower earlier.

  “Yeah.” Brian’s voice sounded muffled.

  Paul entered. Paul noticed the room had been cleaned. Everything was neat and in its place. There were no dirty clothes on the floor, dust on any surface, or crumbs piled in the corners. All clear indications that his son was very upset. His son wore silk boxers as he dried his hair with a large, fluffy beach towel.

  Paul said, “You okay this morning? You don’t have to go to school if you don’t want.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go.”

  His son wasn’t meeting his eyes. After carefully folding the towel and placing it neatly on a chair, another unheard of activity, the boy pulled on jeans, socks, shoes, and a T-shirt.

  “You need to talk about what happened?” Paul asked.

  “I’m good.”

  “You’re sure? You don’t save someone’s life every day.”

  “I kinda really don’t want to talk about it. I did what anybody would have done. It’s no big deal.”

  “Are you going to go see him or talk to him?”

  “I don’t know.” Brian examined himself in the mirror above his dresser, nodded to himself as if he thought what he saw was satisfactory, said, “I gotta get moving.” He grabbed two books from his desk. He glanced quickly at his dad then looked away.

  They left the room. Paul noted that his son did not bound down the stairs as he usually did.

  Paul was tired. Work had been many hours of overtime. That plus the emotion of dealing with the attempted suicide and his son’s continuing upset were taking a toll on him. Through the front window he saw that a light rain had begun to fall. The weather forecast predicted steady showers developing during the morning.

  Ben was in the kitchen with Jeff. The younger boy was using his crutches to maneuver from refrigerator, to stove, to table.

  As they did every weekday morning, the Turner household had breakfast together. Paul insisted on them having at least this one meal together every day. Each week one of them took turns cooking. Jeff was on duty this week as he would be for the next as well as part of his punishment for telling his older brother to go to hell. This morning he’d made reasonably simple French toast with strawberries.

  Brian ate only a small bowl of strawberries and drank no odd concoctions, made no comments about his brother’s cooking, and said little. All were odd. Usually they couldn’t fill him up or shut him up. Today, he rarely met the eyes of other family members.

  At one point Jeff said, “It’s all over the Internet abo
ut you saving Shane.” Jeff seemed to be bursting with pride.

  Brian said, “Thanks.” No teasing, no retorts, no details about the story.

  Paul knew several things must be going on. Brian had to be still processing what happened. And what was proper teenage behavior the morning after you saved a friend’s life? And the feeling that nagged at Paul was that he suspected he didn’t have the full story.

  After Jeff and his wheelchair were aboard his special needs bus, Paul returned to the house. Brian came down the stairs. They both stopped in the living room. Brian met and held Paul’s gaze for the first time that morning.

  Brian said, “Gotta go.” But as he passed Paul, he grabbed his dad and flung his arms around him and held him tightly. As Paul returned the embrace, Brian whispered, “I love you, dad.”

  Paul hugged him and said, “I love you, son.” His athletic son was now taller than he was. Visions of holding his boy when he was a baby sleeping in his arms flashed in Paul’s mind. He wished he could always keep the boy as safe and secure as he had then. And then the hug was over and the boy was out of the house.

  He found Ben in the kitchen and helped with the final tidying up. He told Ben about the embrace. Paul finished, “Something is still wrong. I’m afraid we don’t have the full story.”

  “We’ll just have to see. I wonder if their plans for the Prom have changed?”

  “Maybe they haven’t thought that far ahead. Shane might still be planning on going. We’ll have to see what Brian says.”

  Ben headed for the shop. Paul often caught a few more hours of sleep on those mornings during the weeks when he worked the late shift. He was too restless today. He tidied up their bedroom, put in a load of laundry, tossed a pile of newspapers into the trash, spent an hour with bills and email. He emailed his parents in Florida several paragraphs of news about the boys and the neighborhood. He included a description of the events of the night before. His parents still had a lot of connections in the neighborhood and would find out about what happened. Better they hear it from him first.

  He stopped at Rose Talucci’s for a moment.

  She asked, “Is Brian okay?”

  “It’s a lot for him to get used to.”

  “He did right without thinking. Like his dad.”

  Paul blushed at the complement. He said, “Thanks for your help with the Cardinal.”

  She gave him a grim smile. “Just let me know if he gives you the materials you wanted and if they help.”

  He thanked her again.

  Before he left for Area Ten, he walked over to Ben’s because he liked to see the man he loved before he left for work. Already by ten-thirty in the morning Ben smelled of grease and sweat. Paul loved it, hugged and kissed him, and left for Area Ten headquarters. He was going in early because of all the pressure coming down on them because of the Kappel case. He also needed to use one of the loaner cars from the shop. Ben said he’d send one of his workers over to get Paul’s car from the Area Ten parking lot and that Paul could use the loaner for as long as it took.

  As he got in the car to head to work, his cell phone rang. It was Ian.

  “You should get here.”

  “Where’s here?” Turner asked.

  “I’m at The Last Gasp and Gulp Coffee House next to the El at Ravenswood and Montrose. There are some people here who want to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ve got Graffius along with my buddy from the Order. Tresca is expected.”

  “I should call Fenwick.”

  “You can do that, but I wouldn’t suggest bringing him. This is a skittish bunch. They’re willing to talk, kind of sort of. You better hurry.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday 10:59 A.M.

  A harsh wind off the lake pushed the promised rain in sheets onto his windshield as Turner parked the car on Montrose near Ravenswood. People opened umbrellas as they rushed from the protection of the El station in the rain.

  The Last Gasp and Gulp Coffee House was a mixed bag. Two items stood out. Paul loved their toasted four-cheese sandwiches. Fenwick thought they made the best peanut butter cookies in the city, but except for them he could pass on the rest of the offerings. Delicious aromas promised gustatory delights that the food, with the two exceptions, rarely delivered or matched.

  It was in an old, brick, Queen Anne style building nestled flush against the El tracks. The original interior of the mansion had been restored. The dark hardwood floors gleamed, deep brown moldings ran along the floors and outlined the doorways. Oak paneling covered the walls half way up. The deli case to the left of the entrance ran the length of the room.

  Prints of Parisian sights hung at tasteful intervals on the walls. Intermixed with these were photos from the early years of the last century along with ad signs from the same era. The chairs around the tables were an eclectic collection, from rocking chairs, to chaises, to straight back chairs, aluminum folding chairs printed with World War II army surplus on the back, and unmatched vinyl-padded flower-print kitchen chairs. Most looked like they’d been rescued from a garbage dump.

  Fenwick’s favorite waitress, Melanie, who looked like a graduate from the frump school in the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, was on duty. Tattoos ran up her arms to her shoulders revealed by a sleeveless top. She wore jeans or granny dresses on her nearly skeletal frame. Most of the places on her face that could be pierced, were pierced. Even some that Turner thought must have been very painful, especially the multiple bits of steel protruding from her eyelids. Her black stringy hair matched her ill-applied makeup. Fenwick always said, not in her hearing, that a mole on the side of her nose with a hair growing out of it would have been a great complement to her look. Turner reminded him at those moments that those of a heft such as Fenwick’s should probably be loath to comment on the way others looked.

  Paul told her he was looking for a group of friends. She took him to the room farthest in the back and pointed to a dark corner. Three pews from an old church formed a U around a deep brown scarred-oak topped table. He saw Ian, Graffius, and another man he didn’t recognize.

  Ian waved him over. When Paul got to the table, Ian said, “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s Brian?”

  “You heard?”

  “It was on the Internet. I saw his name.”

  “He’s okay, thanks.”

  Ian said, “This is Father Louis Demarco of the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order. Louis is a friend of mine.” They all stood up to shake hands then sat down and ordered coffee. Melanie departed.

  Turner pointed at Demarco. “This is the guy you told me about that you dated.”

  “We’re still good friends.”

  Turner didn’t ask what that meant. Father Demarco was mostly tall and a lot of thin with high cheek bones and a heavy beard growth. He looked to be in his late thirties.

  Ian began, “We wanted to meet to give you information about Bishop Kappel and the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Bishop Tresca is supposed to join us,” Ian said.

  “How’d you get him to agree?” Turner asked.

  Graffius said, “I think he’s afraid. If he’s not, he should be.” The older priest wore a black wool sweater and thick dark pants.

  “Of whom or what?” Turner asked.

  “All of his so-called friends.”

  Ian glanced at his watch. “Tresca is almost thirty minutes late.”

  “Does that worry you?” Turner asked.

  Graffius said, “This whole situation should worry you and everyone involved.” Graffius used his cell phone to call Tresca’s number, but the call went straight to voice mail.

  Turner noted that the old priest had placed his hands firmly on the table. His body still trembled but shook less than the other night.

  Ian said, “I know what a goddamn stickler for rules you are. You’d never have snuck into the Abbey to hunt for evidence.”

/>   “Invalid search. Anything found would have been tossed out in court.”

  Ian snorted. “Details. So I figured I’d get in myself and snoop around. I called Louis here. You should tell him what you know.”

  Their coffee arrived. Melanie brought along sugar, diet sugar, cream, vanilla, and cinnamon. Graffius took his black as did Turner. Demarco added vanilla. Ian dumped in cream.

  Demarco gave the few other patrons in the room wary looks. None made eye contact or seemed to be paying attention to them. Graffius looked grimly pleased. Turner had a lot of questions for both of them, but Ian had organized this party and he was willing to cut a whole lot of people slack, for a while at least.

  Demarco leaned forward. “It’s kind of complicated.”

  Turner sat back. The pew was as uncomfortable as any in the most cash-starved church. Demarco said, “I’m one of the youngest priests in this province, in this country, too, in the whole Order for that matter.” He sighed. “I get a lot of the shit jobs.”

  Ian interrupted. “He had to clean out Kappel’s room.”

  “They came to me Sunday morning at three A.M., woke me up. I had to go right then. They wheeled an industrial strength shredder into the room. I was to destroy every piece of paper no matter what it was. They took the computer and any storage device connected with technology they could find. I was to bundle up the clothes and get them into the trash as soon as possible. I was still there at dawn.”

  “There were that many papers?” Turner asked.

  “The older priests have suites. In the last major renovation, they took old rooms, single bare rooms, and converted them into two or three room suites with washrooms. They used to have only communal washrooms.”

  Ian interjected, “Which were great to keep the men together. Must have been a gay guy’s dream.”

  “Or a nightmare,” Graffius said. “Depending on how closeted or guilt ridden you were.” He reached for his coffee. His hands shook and his head swayed a bit, but he took his time and smiled in satisfaction as he sipped.

  “Even the Abbot had to share?” Turner asked.