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.
“No,” Graffius said. “The Abbot, Master of Novices, Formation Director, all that sort always had their own private rooms with accommodations. They mostly lived in the most ancient section. Even when the dorms were built, they did have private washrooms for the priests who had higher positions in the Order.”
Demarco said, “One room in Kappel’s suite had seven three-drawer file cabinets filled with papers. All neatly organized, labeled, color coded. A lot of it was pretty ordinary. A few gay porn magazines that I shredded. I took the sheets off the bed, checked under the mattress, examined the floor under the bed. I went through all the pockets in the clothes. I was told to bring anything I found in his pockets or that was hidden to the Abbot immediately.” He placed the black briefcase on his lap and opened the lid. “I couldn’t take very much stuff because I was afraid someone would see me. It was very early in the morning but a lot of the men keep irregular hours and they might be up and around and spot me.”
Graffius interjected, “And they would tattle. They’d think it would get them in favor with the Abbot.”
“How would a random priest know he was taking something he wasn’t supposed to?”
Graffius shook his head. “Do not underestimate the prevalence of paranoia and back stabbing.”
Demarco continued, “I saved a lot of what looked to me like personal things. Irreplaceable stuff, photos, letters from long ago, that kind of thing. Plus the papers that seemed most relevant to what he was doing nowadays, some big summary.” He shoved the stuff across the scarred oak wooden table. “Here, keep it. The most interesting was in the top center drawer of an old oaken desk.” He reached into the briefcase, pulled out a manila folder, opened it, and angled it so Turner could read the contents.
Turner realized he was looking at a sheaf of papers, about twenty-five of them. Each investigation was listed by organization. The first record dated back to the late eighties. Turner saw pages of small squares with dates, names, and larger squares with what seemed to be summaries. There were columns for date started, people involved, date ended, disposition.
“Does that help in the murder investigation?” Demarco asked.
“I’ll have to go over it. This is real?” he asked. “He kept such a record?”
“Why not?” Demarco asked.
“Wouldn’t his enemies kill to get this?” Turner asked.
“Only if what they were doing involved criminal activity.”
Ian said, “If he kept notes on felonious behavior that would incriminate people, any one of those people might be willing to kill him to get them. Seems kind of a stupid thing to do.”
Demarco objected. “Bishops don’t make stupid decisions like that.”
“What makes bishops so special?” Ian asked. “They’re not human?”
Turner interrupted. “But nobody broke into the Abbey. If these were all just sitting there, if the Abbot wanted to see them, he could get in any time. If he doesn’t have a key, he’s in charge of maintenance. He could just have a work crew break in.”
“So Kappel wasn’t a threat to the Abbot?” Ian asked.
Nobody knew the answer to that.
“Why did you choose to save anything?” Turner asked.
“Ian called.”
Ian said, “Right after I spoke to you outside the station, I called him and filled him in.”
Demarco shook his head. “After the call, I was eager to help with the murder investigation. When they picked me to be the cleanup guy, it made my life a lot easier. From what Ian said, I felt like I was helping the police. Maybe weeding some dead wood out of the Order.”
Turner asked Demarco, “How well did you know Kappel?”
“I certainly knew of him, and I’d met him, but he never really spoke to me. He wasn’t at the Abbey that often. He travelled and there was the condo with Tresca. I don’t think he knew many of the younger priests.”
Graffius’ old voice cracked but he managed to imbue his tone with contempt and a snarl. “Because younger priests were of no use to either one of them.”
Turner asked, “So you knew about the condo they shared?”
Demarco said, “We all did.” Graffius nodded confirmation of this.
“How’d they get away with it?”
Graffius shrugged. Demarco said, “I have no idea.”
Turner asked, “How did the older priests get along?”
“When I joined right out of college, the place was nuts. There were two factions. Still are. I learned the history from before I got there. Once they dumped poor Graffius here, it’s always been Duggan versus the Abbot.”
Graffius added, “I united them for a brief while. All the good it did them.”
“Why do either of you stay in the priesthood?” Turner asked.
Graffius’s hands shook. “I believe in my vows.”
Demarco said, “I’m not sure any more, but that’s not a decision for today.”
Turner glanced at Ian then back to the priest. Demarco blushed. “I’m human. Or at least I’m aware of my flaws. Some call those needs.”
Ian said, “I seduced him and led him into sin.”
Turner said, “I know how that works.”
“You were more than willing.”
Turner sighed. “I’m aware of that.” He remembered the frantic fumbling of his first time with Ian. His first time with a man. It had been exhilarating.
Graffius said, “I’m worried that Bishop Tresca is late. He should have been here more than forty-five minutes ago.”
A distant thundering began. For a moment Turner thought perhaps the storms had intensified, but as a city person, he quickly recognized the rumble of an approaching El train. Within moments the rush of noise intensified to a deafening roar, far too loud for them to hear each other. The train paused in the station next to them. They waited. Moments later, the El roared away and conversation could resume.
Ian said, “As for Tresca, you know how traffic gets snarled when it rains in the city. Or maybe he was on the train that came in.”
Graffius snorted. “A bishop on an El train? I think not.” He shook his head. “I’m worried.”
Demarco smiled. “You always worry.”
Graffius said, “His lover is dead. He should be worried. We all should be worried.”
Turner decided not to add to the worry by mentioning that he’d made the trip from the near southwest side of the city to the mid-north side of the city in the usual time frame in spite of the weather.
Demarco drank coffee then said, “I want the Order to be what it was. I want the Order to be true to itself. I want it back the way it should be. The old guard, both sides, needs to go. Right now it’s a bunch of old men who have been involved in various sets of corruption, strains of corruption. Some of which go back centuries. It needs to stop.”
“Centuries?”
“The secrecy, financial and political chicanery, their attempts to influence society when their doctrines, and threats, and fears of the hereafter don’t work.”
Graffius said, “And then there’s the problem of gay priests.”
“Is there any other kind?” Ian asked.
Demarco said, “It doesn’t matter if we’re gay or straight. Things have to change.”
Ian said, “It matters a great deal to some people.”
Demarco said, “I can only change the bit of the world that I’m a part of.”
Ian said, “And take over the Order and run it the way it should be run with a hot stud by your side.”
Demarco frowned. “Don’t be mean. Your sarcasm will keep you from having a lasting relationship.”
Ian laughed. “Who are you to judge?”
Demarco’s lips set in a firm line. They both sat forward. This didn’t sound like the first time they’d had this fight. Turner wasn’t in the mood to be part of a lover’s quarrel. He and Ian had nasty arguments when they dated. Ian could be a trial. Turner preferred him as a friend not a lover. Although sex with Ian had been the best up until Ben. He asked, “How did Kappel and Tresca get away with their relationship all those years?”
Graffius shrugged. “Power, money, influence, threats, deals, love, sex, any or all of the above and more, I suppose. I don’t know the details.”
Turner placed the briefcase between his chair and the wall. He looked at Demarco. “Thank you for all this.”
“Just trying to help.”
“When we were in the condo, Tresca got a call. He seemed willing to cooperate before the call, but afterward he hustled us out the door. He look frightened. Who would have that kind of effect on him? Who has that much power over him?”
Demarco said, “I don’t know.”
Graffius said, “The Cardinal, the Abbot, Bishop Pelagius, even Vern Drake? Someone with power he was afraid of. I don’t know specifically.”