Friday, July 28, 2:30 p.m.
The veneer of hospitality that Father Marek had displayed two days earlier had vanished. I grabbed the backpack with my equipment, Emily took my arm, and we followed him. He unlocked the door and ushered us into an office warmly furnished in Early American style. A small mantle clock ticked softly on a bookshelf along one wall.
Instead of offering us a seat on the maroon couch or matching armchairs that dominated the room, he grabbed two metal folding chairs from a closet and positioned them in front of his desk. His message was clear. We were not welcome. He wanted a short conversation and our quick departure.
Marek flipped a wall switch and a ceiling fan whirled above us without cooling the air. His soft leather desk chair sighed loudly as he plopped down on it.
“Snooping?” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. “Really Father, how uncollegial.”
I struggled to maintain a calm expression. Given their mutual animosity, I didn’t want Marek to know that I was working for Bishop Lucci. It was too soon to lay my cards on the table. If this was a true miracle, I wanted Marek’s cooperation in my investigation. If he was a fraud, I hoped to catch him in the act.
A drop of sweat rolled down the back of my neck, and I placed my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking. In contrast, Emily leaned back and casually swept hair behind one ear. She appeared completely relaxed and entirely innocent of any skullduggery. All her years in high school drama class had paid off. She was a much better actor than I.
While male-bonding with Tree Macon over baseball and beer, he had expounded on his philosophy of interviewing suspects. He had three rules: Always approach the person-of-interest initially as the good cop. Extract information without revealing any of your own. And don’t interrupt the silences, because others often filled them with useful details.
I waited.
“So what’s your game, Father Jake?” he finally asked, his words slightly slurred.
“No game. Emily and I have been discussing what I witnessed in the church on Wednesday. We’re intrigued and completely baffled. We hoped that you’d fill us in on the prior … occurrences.”
“Uh huh. I was born at night, Father, but not last night.” Marek lowered his head and stared at us over the top of his wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “Crawling all over the Virgin’s statue and snooping around the altar? What you were doing was downright sacrilegious and an affront to me and all the faithful of this parish.”
I certainly could understand a priest protecting his church. Marek, however, was positively hostile from the moment that he saw us. It looked as if the good padre might become a very nasty fellow when under the influence.
“Intrigued but baffled, is it? Well, join the club.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Did you contact Bishop Lucci and describe what you saw here, as I asked?”
I nodded.
“What did His Excellency say? Did he believe your account?”
“He took the matter very seriously.”
“Is he willing to keep St. Wenceslaus open until the miracle is confirmed?”
“Bishop Lucci is committed to learning the truth and has vowed to pursue the matter, so your church is safe for the time being.”
Marek reclined his desk chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and gazed up at the finely crafted crown molding, which was probably as old as the church.
The mantle clock chimed softly. He refocused on us and cleared his throat.
“Okay, let’s talk. About a year ago, Maude Dvorak was the first to witness the statue bleed. She’s a very devout woman in her eighties who’d lost her husband to cancer. We all wondered if she’d become … unhinged by his death. She had a Band-Aid covering a cut on one finger, and frankly I suspected she’d put her own blood on Mary’s face. No one took her seriously, so I didn’t report it to Bishop Lucci.”
Marek removed his eyeglasses, covered his mouth, and released a soft belch.
“While Maude was explaining to me what she’d witnessed, another parishioner overheard our conversation, climbed up on the statue, touched the blood, and rubbed it on her arthritic joints. That Sunday, she told everyone at Mass that her pain had miraculously disappeared. Personally, I didn’t know whether to believe her, but word spread like a brushfire. Folks started pouring into the church. Sunday Mass went from nearly empty to standing room only.” He polished his glasses with a cloth and put them back on. “I must admit, I was entirely thrilled—at first. Especially when Bishop Lucci balked at closing the parish. Though when the media got involved, St. Wenceslaus became a circus, with busloads of ‘pilgrims’ arriving daily, some who weren’t even Catholic. Now, I’m not sure how I feel.
“A month later, Milan Cierny was praying to the Virgin when it happened again. He was looking directly at her when suddenly he saw the blood. Mr. Cierny is a pastoral council member and highly respected in the community. No one had reason to doubt his account—no one except Bishop Lucci, who merely pretended to investigate and then swept everything under the diocesan rug.”
My suspicions drifted back to the banner as a possible source of the blood.
“Father Marek, I noticed that the PRAISE HER banner over Mary’s statue has been removed. It was quite lovely. Where’d you find it?”
“One of my parishioners made it to my specifications and donated it.”
“Pity. I was thinking of purchasing one for our church. Could you show it to me so I can order something similar?”
He frowned, his patience wearing thin. “Sorry, it’s in storage, and I don’t have time to fetch it.”
“Was the banner hanging there when the other bleeding episodes occurred?”
Marek tilted his head to one side and eyed me with misgiving.
“I don’t remember.” He stood abruptly. “That’s the whole story. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”