12

 

He’d never played the part of a priest before. First time or not, everything seemed to be going well.

He sank into the upholstered chair, exhausted as much by tension as the discomfort of air travel.

He took stock of his surroundings. By his standards, this was more than adequate, it was luxurious.

He was seated in what might be called a living room, or perhaps a den. Three walls were almost totally bookcased; the fourth wall was almost totally windows—three large ones that looked out on the courtyard. The bedroom had two similarly sized windows, the lavatory a smaller one—all again overlooking the courtyard.

What pleased him most was having his own loo, with cabinet, wash-stand and—think of it!—a shower.

Indeed, as far as he could tell, things were moving along flawlessly.

Not a shred of trouble at customs in Ireland or in Boston. But that was due to his meticulous planning, not deferential treatment bestowed on a clergyman. Undoubtedly there had been a time when “Father” was waved through inspection zones. But no longer—not with international terrorism so prevalent.

The flight—his first long journey ever—was confining and uncomfortable. The food was slightly better than he’d expected. He was able to listen to his tapes of TV and radio newsreaders without interference, though he sensed that at least a couple of people would have liked to engage him in conversation. When he wasn’t eating or practicing his accent he was grateful for the privacy a nap afforded.

He was met at Detroit Metro by a man in a driver’s uniform and cap, holding a sign bearing the name of the priest whose identity he had taken. When they got into the limousine, the driver handed him an envelope that read, “Preliminary Information.” He noted that on checking in at the seminary he was supposed to present a photo of himself to be given to the police for identification and security purposes. Fortunately, he had two extra copies of his passport photo in his wallet.

On the trip into the city, he tried out his borrowed accent. It went over fine; the driver made no comment about his pronunciation. They chatted a bit about the weather, which, with the dusting of snow, was quite Christmas-y. But mostly they talked about what for metro Detroiters was, after Christmas, the most discussed topic—the pope’s visit.

He was grateful for the limo. This way he’d have to converse with as few people as possible. Once at the seminary he would try to keep to himself. After all, he wasn’t sure what to expect—and there was always the possibility that somebody there could have met the real priest. But he’d cross that bridge when and if … For now, he’d take it one step at a time. His luck had held so far.

When they finally drove through the entrance of Sacred Heart Major Seminary, he noted that it was not very well guarded, and the guards did not look like professionals. Obviously the major security was being reserved for the pope’s arrival.

He checked in at the seminary’s back entrance hallway, which had become the entry foyer when what had been the building’s main entry in front was virtually sealed off many years ago—for security’s sake.

He handed over the requested photo and watched carefully. No comment was made; it was put with a stack of other priest photos, which he assumed would be turned over to the police. He was given his room number and directions on how to reach it. He was also given a packet containing information on and a diagram of the seminary, including the chapel, the dining hall, snack bar facility, and the like. The packet also contained the agenda for the symposium and the main event—the Pontifical Mass in Cobo Arena.

He was not surprised—he had taken it for granted—that the dining room was closed. It was now quite late Sunday evening. He was grateful that the snack bar was open around the clock. In good time he would eat, more to keep up his strength than because he was hungry.

But first he wanted to familiarize himself with this building. He hoped he would not meet anyone in the hallways. If he did, he would try to appear in too much haste to stop and talk. He didn’t know how anyone he might meet would be dressed. He’d already noted that it was quite warm in the building; attire could be anything from pajamas and robe to more formal garb. He quickly decided to wear the traditional black suit with clerical collar and vest. That way there’d be no question but that he belonged.

Everything had gone so smoothly thus far, he was beginning to relax somewhat.

He left his room, locking the door behind him. He smiled; the chance that someone might try to rob or attack him was ludicrous; would a hungry rabbit stalk a lion?

The building’s layout was simple and easy to grasp, but he wanted to walk it through.

The centerpiece was the Gothic chapel. Everything else revolved around it. Unfortunately, only a few lights had been left on so he wasn’t able to properly appreciate his surroundings. Because of the half-light his steps were cautious as he made his way down the middle aisle.

Looking from side to side he was able to make out some three or four small chapels against either wall. From his recent study, he knew that private chapels such as these were probably not used nowadays. At one time—he could almost see it in his imagination—these altars would have been busy with priests and their servers saying “whisper” masses, so as not to distract each other.

The pews in the body of the chapel seemed farther apart than usual. If ever these were occupied by laity accustomed to parish churches, he thought, there must be many an embarrassing moment when, kneeling, they tried to rest their fannies on the seat … only to find that kneelers and seats in this chapel were too far apart for this customary convenience.

The sanctuary had been modified to comply with the post-Conciliar liturgy that did away with the ornate “high” altars where the priest was far removed from worshipers and, for the most part, kept turned away from the people. Now a table covered with altar cloths was set as close to the pews as possible.

In the subdued light, he could not make out much more in the chapel.

He was able to examine the diagram of the building by the light of a miniature flashlight on his key ring. Thus guided, he located classrooms, study spaces, parlors, lockers, the gymnasium, the main dining room, libraries.

Basically the seminary was a three-story building with a rectangular outline, the chapel cutting through the middle of the rectangle, and appendages at each corner. The extensions were an auditorium, residence halls, a recreation building, and a one-time convent, now used by various diocesan departments.

He was almost at the end of his tour when, dead ahead, a bright light blinded him momentarily. “Hold it!” The voice carried a naked warning.

He stood stock-still. He was afraid of nothing but a gun. And from all that he’d read and heard about Detroit—hyperbole and fact—he believed that for many inhabitants of this city a gun simply was the extension of a hand.

The figure behind the light came close enough to see that the man he had challenged wore clerical attire. He reversed the light, aiming it first at his badge, then up to his large, amiable black face. “Sorry if I scared you, Father,” the guard said. “Can’t be too careful in this neighborhood.”

“That’s okay. Actually, I’m glad it was you.”

The guard lowered the beam. “Anything I can help you with, Father?”

“I guess not. I was trying to get my bearings. I’m new to this building—to this city.”

“Kind of late,” the guard observed.

“I know. I just got in a little while ago.” This Midwestern manner of speech was his primary concern. But his accent must be okay as the guard made no comment except to reiterate, “Anything I can help you with?”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t come across the snack bar.”

The guard chuckled. “Hungry?”

“All I’ve had today is what they served on the plane.”

“We gotta get you some kind of antidote for that. You’re lucky you ran into me. I got the keys to the big box.”

He accompanied the guard, not certain which way they were headed. He tested his grasp of the configuration of the building by checking the landmarks he had already become familiar with.

They were headed toward … yes … the main dining room and, thanks to the guard’s keys, the kitchen with its walk-in fridge.

He took the chair indicated by his guide. In short order, the guard placed glasses, plates, bread, cold cuts, condiments, and milk on the table. Then his host sat down across from him and gestured toward the food. “Dig in,” he said, and proceeded to do so himself.

“I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble. I could have survived with the snack food.”

A low rumble of laughter came from the other side of the table. “Tell you the truth, Father, this just about perfect for me. This about the time I come down here every night to get me through till morning.”

He caught the implication: This late-night spread was definitely not in the line of duty. Why was the guard confessing this to a total stranger? A stranger who could very well report this breach to the supervisor?

Then it came to him: He thinks I’m a priest. He’s banking on a priest’s discretion if not kindness not to tell anyone. He has no doubt he can trust me.

The guard hadn’t thought twice about including the priest in this petty infraction. There were, of course, priests who approached law with a literal observance. But the guard fancied himself a good and intuitive judge of character. This priest could be trusted. And this judgment was made after the exchange of just a few words. Remarkable.

He bit into a chicken sandwich. “This is a big building. I can hardly believe you guard it alone.”

“You walked the whole building?”

“Yes.”

“All the floors?”

“Far as I know.”

“And you didn’t see any other guard?”

He shook his head.

Then the guard shook his head. “Do tell. Well, you shoulda seen two or three others on duty. I don’t know … God knows where they’re off to.” He seemed genuinely distressed by his colleagues’ shirking of duty. Apparently he was not at all concerned that, at this moment, he too should have been patrolling the halls.

“Well, that makes sense,” the man said. “Seems to me a place this big should have at least four or more guards. Come to think of it, with the po—His Holiness coming in just a couple of days, I would have thought there would be lots of guards patrolling these halls.”

The guard laughed aloud. “I sure hate to be the one breaks this to you, Father, but they ain’t gonna beef the security till The Man gets here. I mean”—he chuckled—”I don’t want you to think that you—me—the people here are just small potatoes. The folks runnin’ this show jus’ figure, I guess, that ordinary security is good enough until the real big shots show up.”

His listener wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and finished his milk. One sandwich was sufficient. “Ordinary security,” he repeated. “Does ‘ordinary security’ include the guards I didn’t find?”

The guard swallowed a bite that should have been chewed. Had he made a mistake? Would this priest report the missing guards—plus the one who had just admitted a nightly breach of duty? “Now, now,” the guard managed, “just ’cause you didn’t find them don’t mean they weren’t on duty. This could be just a coincidence. And we’ve been here eatin’ in the kitchen for jus’”—he checked his watch—“fifteen minutes or so. Not enough time for anything to happen … don’t you know.”

“Just the same …” The man’s tone was righteous. “… I’d feel a lot better if I had some idea of how we’re being protected.” He waited.

The guard hesitated. He wasn’t supposed to discuss specifics about his tour of duty. Too many people know your routine and pretty soon that element of surprise that’s part of the routine vanishes.

But … this priest could cause trouble. Better to humor him. “Look, Father, you got no cause to worry. It’s years since anybody broke in here. Practically every inch of the outside of this building is lit by floods. The whole building! The property is all fenced in. The whole property! Believe me, Father, nothin’ and nobody can get in here. Nobody’s even gonna try. The automatic security’s been set up by experts. You got nuthin’ to bother yourself about.”

Whether or not the man was worried, it was clear that the guard was disturbed.

“Well,” the man said, “that’s all very nice, but can you absolutely guarantee that nobody who wants to get in here can’t get in here?”

Somehow, the guard saw some kind of lawsuit in the offing. What if he were to stick to his boast that the building was impregnable? He knew better; nothing is foolproof. So, what if someone does get through?

He had painted himself into a corner and saw the need to get out. “Be reasonable,” the guard pleaded, “it’s like the security they give the president—or the pope!—if somebody wants to get in someplace or wants to get somebody, they probably can find a way no matter how much protection they is. But I can tell you this without doubt: You’re pretty damn safe in here … pardon the language.”

“Well … all right,” the man reluctantly allowed. “But I am not impressed with the internal security. I know it’s unlikely, but what if? What if some criminal does manage to break in? Then what?”

“Look Father, I’m not s’posed to give this information out, but … look: We got to check in all the time when we’re on duty. All the guards here got the same routine. Maybe you didn’t see ’em when you was walkin’ around, but they here. Ever’ fifteen minutes they got to check in from a different station. Ever’ hour they patrol their whole section. I prob’ly—um, whatchamacallit—overreacted when you said you didn’t see nobody till we come across each other. They’re around; you count on it. It been workin’ fine for long time now.”

“Okay,” the man said. “Now, if I understand you, you make your complete rounds every hour. And you check in at fifteen-minute intervals … is that it?”

“That’s it okay. You got nothin’ to be concerned ’bout. We’ll take care of you and the other Fathers jus’ fine … you see?”

“Okay.” He leaned forward to focus on the guard’s name badge.

The message—that his identity had been noted just in case there was a foul-up—was not lost on the guard. “Can I get you back to your room, Father?”

“No, thank you. I can make it very well myself.”

They parted company.

That’s the last time I go out on a limb for a priest, thought the guard, as he continued on his tour. Ordinarily, he had this snack time carefully timed so he would check in promptly. He would be a bit tardy now, due entirely to having to spend time reassuring this nitpicking priest that he was adequately protected. But he would not use this as an excuse. If his supervisor were to confirm this excuse with the priest, it would only open a can of worms. Better to get a demerit point on his record and get docked a little pay than have to go through all this again with the priest.

He used to think, If you can’t trust a priest, then who? From now on, he thought he might just not trust anybody.

The man found his way back to his room without difficulty. Now that he’d followed the building’s diagram by actually making his way through it, he felt much more sure of himself.

Running into this guard tonight was a distinct bit of luck. Now he knew the building’s security setup. And he knew that should he pinpoint a guard’s presence at a specific check-in area, the guard would not return to that point for another hour.

Invaluable information.