Saturday 8:10 P.M.
They headed west on North Avenue. As they drove, Turner used his phone to look up information on the Order. He read the opening of the article out loud to Fenwick, “The members of Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order are known as the Pope’s Commandos.”
“I thought the Pope didn’t have divisions.”
Turner shrugged. He read several moments then summarized. “They were started at the time of the Avignon papacy. The Italian pope needed loyal defenders. Charles of Avignon got some followers, had a vision, and poof, he was a religious order.”
“Good for him.”
Just past Milwaukee Avenue, a seven-foot stone wall on their right ran for half a block. It ended at an open wrought-iron gate. Two snarling gargoyles sat on pillars at either end of the opening. A brass sign with raised letters said they were at St. Pachomius Abbey of the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order.
They pulled into the well-lit, tree-shrouded driveway, which led to the front steps of a medieval fortress. A five-story tower rose above the center portion. The drive continued on to the right around the building. They could see the back end of a car peeking out from around the edge of the building. Turner walked a few steps over. He said, “It’s a stretch limo.”
“Anybody big, burly, and dangerous in it?”
“Not that I can see.” He took down the license plate number.
From what they could see in the darkness beyond the well-lit drive, there were at least two substantial buildings on the grounds. The vast, medieval fortress they stood in front of, and then an immense five-story dormitory building that had an 1890’s look, dark red brick, white window treatments, the top floor sloped to flat peaks. The dormitory stretched back toward Milwaukee Avenue.
They rang the bell. The only thing missing when the door opened was the creak from a 1930’s horror movie. Somebody must have oiled the hinges. A row of motorcycles across the front, and it would have fit in with the entrance to Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s castle in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
An elderly man in a full cassock looked out at them from the doorway. They held out their IDs. With a halting gait, he led them into a vestibule.
“You’re here about Bishop Kappel.” The man must have been at least in his eighties. He had a crepey neck with wrinkled, saggy, loose, blotched skin, and with only wisps of feathery white hair on his head.
“Why would you guess that?” Fenwick asked.
The man gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I’m Brother Graffius. I don’t get out any more. One of my few hobbies as I monitor the entrance is listening to the police scanner.” He held up the currently silent instrument in his hand. “Plus it’s on CLTV News already.” CLTV was the local all-news television station. “They only let me answer the door at night when they think no one will knock. If they were the least bit Christian, they’d put me out in the first snowstorm next winter and let me die. If I last that long. Although God said fire not flood next time. A dream come true.”
Turner found the despair in the old man’s voice disturbing. “Is there something I can do to help?” he asked.
The old man reached out a hand and patted the detective’s arm. “Thank you, no.”
Fenwick cleared his throat. “Is there someone we can talk to about Bishop Kappel?”
The old man flashed his thin-lipped smile again. “It won’t do you any good. They won’t give you any real information.”
“How do you know that?” Fenwick asked.
The old man gave a brief hint of a smile. “I’ve been around this religious organization a long time.”
Hurrying footsteps interrupted their repartee.
Fenwick said, “Maybe we’ll see you on our way out.”
“Maybe so.”
A portly gentleman in his late sixties or early seventies approached them down the wainscoted hall. His voice boomed, “I’m Abbot Bruchard. May I help you gentlemen?”
Turner and Fenwick introduced themselves and showed ID. Turner said, “We’re here about Bishop Kappel.”
“Of course. Please follow me.” Bruchard wore black shoes, black pants, and a black shirt with a Roman collar. He led them through the vestibule, opened a set of ten-foot-wide dark-oak double doors, and into what looked most like a half-size nave of a medieval cathedral. Three tiered rows of chairs faced each other across the center aisle they now traversed. Oak beams in the ceiling, oak wood halfway up the walls, white plaster above.
Paintings filled the walls. They showed clerics in various period garb. They ran all the way back in time to what looked to be a woman radiating beams of light as she flew through the sky. Below her was a crucified Jesus who had phenomenal pecs and incredible abs and who was bleeding profusely. In this last, at the left-hand side at the bottom of the painting was a man in a suit of armor looking up in worshipful adoration at the woman and the bleeding Jesus.
Bruchard waved at the man in armor. “That’s the founder of the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order, Saint Charles of Avignon.”
Fenwick held back a moment, leaned toward his partner, and whispered, “That can’t be a boner in the front of his crotch?”
Turner looked at the protruding bulge. “Or he’s hiding a ten-inch dick.”
“Or the artist had a sense of humor.”
Turner said, “Or in the international gay conspiracy of the day it was a signal to others that he was one of them.”
“The painter or the subject?”
“Both?”
“There was an international gay conspiracy?”
“No.”
Bruchard turned back to them, “Gentlemen?”
The detectives hustled forward.
When they caught up, Fenwick said, “Hell of a place you got here.”
Bruchard said, “Meyer Danforth, the great meat-packing baron, built what we call the home complex in the 1880s. It consists of the castle, the cathedral, and the old monastery. They were renovated several times. The last in the 1950s when the dormitory was built.”
The three of them arrived in a room that seemed to be a mix of armory and office. Suits of armor stood every three feet against two of the walls. One wall was hung with battle axes: starting at the top, a Valkyrie’s battle axe, then a double edged axe, a black dragon axe, a knight’s battle axe, and nearest the ground a warlock’s double axe. The rug, woven with a replica of the St. Charles of Avignon painting, covered much of the hardwood floor. A vast teak desk took up about a quarter of the room. A six-foot in diameter stained-glass rose window loomed behind the desk.
The detectives took the indicated high-back leather chairs in front of the desk. The bishop sat in a maroon swivel chair behind the desk. On it was a computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse.
Bruchard settled himself and said, “Bishop Kappel’s death is a great tragedy. All who knew him cared for him and loved him. He did great, good work for Holy Mother Church.”
Fenwick said, “All who knew and loved him except one, probably more than one.”
Turner asked, “How well did you know Bishop Kappel?”
“All of us in the Chicago province knew each other. He and I were dear friends. His loss is most grievous.”
“Did he have enemies?” Fenwick asked. “Someone who wished him ill?”
“We are a prayerful, monastic order of men dedicated to God.”
Which didn’t answer the question.
Fenwick said, “We’d like to examine his room.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m sure there’s nothing there that would help in your investigation.”
Fenwick said, “We’d like to make that decision ourselves.”
“I’m afraid as this is church property, that won’t be possible.”
Turner said, “He lived here and in a condo in one of the most expensive addresses in the city with his lover Bishop Tresca.”
Bruchard frowned. “I’m aware of the condo.”
And that’s all he said.
Fenwick said, “Bishop Kappel’s name is listed as the owner. If he took a vow of poverty, how could he afford that?”
“I’m sure you’re aware that church finances are not the purview of the Chicago police department.”
Fenwick asked, “Is Bishop Tresca here right now?”
“We’re all adults here. We don’t do bed checks.”
“Would you check?”
“I don’t remember him being here.” He made no move to ascertain Tresca’s whereabouts. If there was an intercom system, he was not going to use it. If there was a room to visit, he was not going to go there or send someone there. No search of the premises seemed to be in the offing.
After several moments of silence during which the Abbot eyed them with bland indifference, Turner asked, “Were they lovers?”
“The church has said that homosexuality is an intrinsic disorder that is grounds for not being admitted to the priesthood.”
“Did anyone report or notice that Kappel was missing?”
“Again, we are all adults. We don’t do bed checks.”
“Did they have any friends or enemies, especially someone who wished them ill?”
“I’m sure we all have friends and enemies who wish us ill, even detectives on the Chicago police department.”
Fenwick asked, “It doesn’t worry you that one of your priests was murdered?”
“Are you sure it was murder?”
Fenwick said, “Unless he broke his own knees and then bashed his own head in with a baseball bat, which was not at the scene, yeah, it was murder.”
“Are you attempting to be amusing, Detective? Do you treat everything as a joke?”
“Just you.”
The Abbot frowned and gave him a look drenched in pity. “Someday you’re going to laugh or make a joke at the wrong moment.”
“And this is that?” Fenwick asked. He returned the Abbot’s look of pity with a bemused condescension worthy of the most hardened Vatican bureaucrat or Chicago gangbanger. He said, “It won’t be my first or last opportune or inopportune moment. How about you? I think you’re pretty funny.”
The Abbot said, “I think you’re sad.”
“I think you’re ahead on pathetic points so far,” Fenwick retorted. “And no, murder is rarely funny, but you are.”
Turner knew that showing this amount of hostility this quickly meant that Fenwick hated the guy.
The Abbot said, “I sense hostility, Detective.”
“I sense obfuscation, Abbot,” Fenwick replied.
They glared at each other. After a few moments, the Abbot spoke first. “Are you saying there’s a killer targeting bishops? Priests? Members of the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order? I’d say that was more your problem as an inability to protect the faithful from persecution, an attack on religious freedom.”
Turner asked, “Did Bishop Kappel have any family that needs to be notified?”
This question brought the first break in the Abbot’s demeanor. He paused for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Who would?”
“I’m not sure.”
Turner thought this was a crock.
The Abbot said, “We’ll need his personal effects, his wallet back.”
Turner said, “They’re part of a murder investigation. Perhaps when we’re done.”
“We’re eager to follow all procedure.”
Fenwick asked, “Do you employ or have any knowledge of a large burly man who was seen banging on the door of Kappel and Tresca’s condominium?”
“There are numerous large, burly men in this world, yourself for example. Do you have that large, burly person’s name?”
Turner ignored the question. “Bishop Kappel is listed in numerous articles on the Internet as an investigator for the church.” Silence from the Abbot. Turner pursued it. “Was he investigating something or someone who might want to kill him?”
“He was investigating internal church matters which I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“Where were you last night around midnight?” Fenwick asked.
The Abbot smiled enigmatically and didn’t answer.
Turner said, “Cardinal Duggan is a member of your order.”
“That’s not a secret nor is it a crime.”
In ten more minutes of conversation, they got not the slightest bit of information out of him. Turner felt as much rising frustration as Fenwick did. His partner sighed and grumbled. The Abbot ignored him.
Bruchard pressed a button, and after a few minutes Graffius entered the room. He nodded his head to the Abbot who said, “If you would show these gentlemen out?”
Graffius limped ahead of them down the hall. Turner said, “I’m sorry for the way you’re forced to live.”
Graffius spoke softly, “Hush for a moment.”
When they exited the great hall into the vestibule, Graffius cast a haunted look back behind them. He nodded and led them to a door on the right. It opened soundlessly into a short hall. He ushered them through it. The detectives kept their hands near their guns and their senses on high alert. All the medieval elegance and cleric obfuscation didn’t dull their awareness of that which might be dangerous.
Graffius led them into a ten-by-twenty foot chapel lit only by rack upon rack of glowing red votive candles near the front. He collapsed into the last pew on the right.
Turner sat next to him and Fenwick leaned against the pew in front of them.
“He didn’t tell you anything, did he?” Graffius asked.
“No,” Turner said.
“Liars and fools.” He breathed deeply as if exhausted. He ran his hand over his pate and disturbed the wisps of white hair barely a whit. “I was Abbot. Forced out years ago by these so-called political priests. I believed in real Christianity. Then God punished me for my pride. I thought I knew best. I thought no one would listen to their palaver about taking up arms against the enemies of Christ.”
“Who were they?”
Graffius coughed. “Their greed and their blind ambition.” He’d been speaking in a rush. He paused now, breathed deeply, and then began rocking himself back and forth in the pew.
Turner felt sorry for him. “Can we get you something?” he asked.
The aged cleric shook his head, wrapped his arms around his torso, drew a deep breath, and stopped rocking and then resumed. “My greatest sin, my greatest hubris, came in 1968. We thought our little bit of pride could change the world.” He shut his eyes, rocked himself again, then gazed mournfully at Turner. “We were driving to Washington D.C. for a protest. We were going to burn draft records. We never got there. Our car went off the highway just the other side of Cleveland. Two of us died, one a dear friend, a priest, the other a seminarian. My spine has been wrong ever since. I’ve paid for my pride with years of pain.” He sighed. “But you don’t want to hear that.”
Turner said, “You were trying to do good.”
“We failed as will all who try to do good. Evil will triumph. It always does.” He gave Turner a sad, wan smile. “You want to solve your mystery. As if that would make any difference to the corpse. He’s dead. He won’t care. And these other bishops and priests and the Cardinal himself, will care even less. Your investigation is a threat to them. You should look to fear for yourselves, to protect yourselves and the ones you love.”
“What could they do to us?” Fenwick asked. “They can’t excommunicate us or deny us communion.”
“You shouldn’t be flip. The Catholic Church relies on threats to one’s faith when it can. When it has to, it can be a very real and a very serious institution indeed. Be careful. Take note. Kappel is dead. Be afraid.”
Fenwick asked, “Are you saying members of the Order conspired to kill him? Or if we’re investigating, they’d conspire to kill us?”
He rocked some more then whispered, “I don’t know. They are capable of anything.”
“Did Kappel or Tresca have specific enemies who would conspire against them?”
“Their enemies were legion, and they had no friends. Although they did have each other. They loved each other, I think, in their way. At least that was something.”
A door to the chapel opened. Abbot Bruchard stepped into the room and marched toward them. At his approach Graffius cowered back.
“Ah, Graffius, I didn’t see you at your post. I was afraid you’d fallen asleep or perhaps become ill. I assume you’re all right.” He glared at the officers. “You detectives don’t seem to have quite made it to the door.”
Turner asked, “Brother Graffius, are you all right?”
“He’s fine,” Bruchard said.
Fenwick said, “He can answer for himself.”
Graffius hung his head. They saw him nod, heard him mumble, “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Excellent! Gentleman, I’ll see you out myself.”
He ushered them to the front door. Moments later the detectives were in their car and on their way back to Area Ten. They stopped at Casa Lenora, a twenty-four hour deli at the corner of North and Elston. It was Fenwick’s new favorite stop for artery-clogging sandwiches. Fenwick got the Italian with the works including hot peppers. Turner got an antipasto salad. They ate at a picnic table in the not-that-cool night air. After he chewed and swallowed his first gargantuan bite and guzzled half of his diet soda, Fenwick said, “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. And I don’t like the Abbot.”
Turner said, “I agree. Although, frankly I’m a little disappointed there hasn’t been an Abbot and Costello reference from you.”
“The fucking Abbot wasn’t funny.”
“Well, then you have something in common.”
Fenwick growled and chewed and then slurped some more from his extra-large diet soda.
Turner ate a forkful of salad then said, “Graffius was a revelation. I felt sorry for the old guy.”
Fenwick said, “Me too.”
Turner sighed. “Murder is a First Amendment attack on the Catholic church?”
“Just like contraception isn’t.”
“We’ve heard dumber shit.”
“Name one.”
“We’re going to make a list of dumb things criminals have said to us?” Turner asked.
“It’d be a best seller. I can see the title now. Criminals Say the Darndest Things, or Stupidity; the Real Story, or the Stupidest Criminals of Cook County.” Fenwick’s eyes gleamed. “Or a reality show based on stupid.”
Turner said, “Isn’t that kind of redundant?”
Fenwick smiled. “I hate when you’re right.”
Turner remembered last winter when Jeff and a couple of his buddies, including Arvin, had spent several months of Saturday nights obsessing over some television show the name of which Turner vaguely recalled, maybe “Surviving Singer.” He wasn’t sure. Brian used to tease the younger boys unmercifully. His suggestion was that instead of denying the contestants food and water until they could sing, they deprive the contestants of such necessities until just after the nick of time, when, the older teenager said, he hoped they’d all “Keel over and shut up.” Paul and Ben had been forced to intervene and ban Brian from the room while the younger kids obsessed. The ultimate parental question to Brian had been, “What is it to you?”
Brian’s response had been, “It’s a stupid waste of time.”
“And did any of us make comments when you obsessed over activities of questionable use when you were younger?”
When Brian hesitated, Ben had said, “Do not dare to claim that every single one of those video games had intrinsic moral value.”
Brian had said, “Every single one of those games had intrinsic moral value.” Brian and his dads had laughed. And after that the older teenager left the younger kids alone.
Turner returned to the conversation. “Why’d he ask about the wallet?”
Fenwick shrugged. “So the official line is all was sweetness and light, and we are to butt out, and the unofficial line is they are all threats to each other, willing to cut each other’s hearts out.”
“Sounds like a lot of organizations we’ve dealt with.”
“More secretive with more protections. And a readily available supply of toadies to hold down people as you’re beating them to death with a baseball bat.”
Turner said, “And we’ve got his knees broken before death. A lot of anger or a lot of torture.”
“Torture for the hell of it, or torture to get him to tell something he knew, or to punish him? Or maybe all of the above?”
“We’ll have to see if we can get Molton to budge those Church people on being more cooperative.”
Fenwick shook his head. “I don’t hold out much hope. Not because Molton isn’t good, but this is the Catholic Church in Chicago. They may not be what they once were, but they still have influence.”
Turner said, “Unfortunately, I think you’re right, but there’s more odd shit.”
“What?”
“One of their own was missing and they weren’t concerned? Running around frantically looking?”
“Maybe he went missing a lot or was gone for long periods of time. Or they were frantically looking but didn’t feel the need to call the police or tell us about it just now. If he lived at the condo, would the people at the Abbey know where he was?”
“Presumably Tresca would.”
“Tresca who may or may not exist at the Abbey.”
“That’s strange, but I still don’t get why the Abbot wanted Kappel’s stuff?”
“There’s a clue in it that leads to the murderer?”
“I didn’t see any.”