Chapter Three

I DROVE TO Saint Edmund’s in my ten-year-old, less-than-trusty Honda Civic. Soon after I purchased the car, my mother encouraged me to give my new vehicle a name. After considering a variety of expletives, I eventually settled on Hannibal Lecter since the car has tried to kill me on more than one occasion. While many have a love-hate relationship with their automobile, mine was more hate-hate. If it weren’t for my complete and abject poverty, I would have traded it in long ago.

On the way to Saint Edmund’s, I experienced the usual Cleveland traffic jam. Long-time Cleveland residents know there are four seasons in every year: almost winter, winter, still winter, and orange barrel season. We were well into June, so the orange construction barrels were out in force. While annoying, the delay gave me time to review what little I knew about the church and its patron saint.

Saint Edmund’s was a Jesuit church in the Cleveland suburb of Westlake. The parish was named after Saint Edmund Campion, known as one of the “Forty Martyrs of England and Wales.” The English had considered Catholicism to be a treasonous offense, and Campion had served as a spy for Rome. Not at all forgiving, the English eventually executed Campion for his efforts.

I wouldn’t know any of this if I hadn’t attended Saint Robert Bellarmine, a large Jesuit high school located close to my Cleveland Heights neighborhood. Saint Bellarmine was famous as the priest who ordered Galileo to quit saying the Earth revolved around the sun. Like Campion, Saint Bellarmine also ran afoul of the British, this time over the Oath of Allegiance required of all English subjects. The Oath placed the English king over the pope in authority, a big problem for the Roman hierarchy.

Thinking about Bellarmine, I wondered how some saints had achieved that designation. Sometimes it seemed like the Oscar lifetime achievement award, a gift for hanging around in the business long enough and not pissing off the wrong people.

That realization aside, I’d enjoyed my four years at Saint Bellarmine’s. The Jesuits welcomed my many questions, and they threw their own right back at me. They were blunt and occasionally sarcastic, two traits I’ve always appreciated.

Paul didn’t value the Jesuitical bluntness the same way I did. I still remember him coming home one day as a freshman complaining, “Father Ned told me I smile too much. He said you couldn’t trust anyone who smiled as much as I do.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Paul had finally moved to my position on the great Catholic totem pole.

The other unique aspect to the Jesuits was that their priests, churches, and schools all reported up through their own provincial structure, separate from the Catholic diocese. That gave the Order a degree of freedom with no interference from the local bishop—convenient for many reasons, particularly if one was trying to keep secrets.

I wore one of my mom-purchased gray suits for this meeting, its maiden trip outside my closet. While I still preferred jeans, this suit had multiple pockets in both the pants and suit coat. I often wondered why women wore the clothes they did. If I’d realized how utilitarian men’s clothing was, I might have started wearing it years before I actually did.

Construction delays aside, Hannibal, my new suit, and I arrived just five minutes past my nine o’clock appointment. I exited my car and got my first good look at Saint Edmund’s and its architecture.

The Cleveland parishes I knew tended to be of two types. The older ones, such as the one I attended as a youth, looked as though they’d been designed by an architect in the middle of a particularly nasty hangover. Churches of this type tended to be gigantic brick buildings with little style, identifiable only by a large entrance door and a cross either in front or on the roof.

The newer suburban parishes were even less recognizable than the older types. I’d driven past one the previous week that resembled a fat rocket ship. I wasn’t sure what type of building it was until I noticed the sign out in front.

In contrast, Saint Edmund’s appeared almost Eastern Orthodox in styling with two prominent steeples and an ornate dome in the middle. To ensure no one could misunderstand its purpose, the church had three crosses, one on each steeple and a third, larger cross on the dome itself.

After making sure to leave my gun locked securely in my car, I walked over to a small brick building to the side of Saint Edmund’s that appeared to be the parish office. I pressed the buzzer, and a secretary unlocked the door. Unlike the more senior staff employed by many Catholic parishes, my welcomer was a surprisingly cute brunette. Her name tag announced her as Miss Catherine Lambert, and she looked to be in her early thirties. Wanting to make an impression, I tried to sound official.

“My name is Terry Luvello, and I have an appointment with Father Lawrence at nine o’clock.”

“You’re late,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Have a seat, and I’ll get Father.”

My official voice had clearly had no impact. With that, the effect of her appearance wore off quickly.

I’d sworn off sex for some years now, having had only two sexual experiences in my entire life. My first, to both of our embarrassment, was with John. When we were eighteen, John asked me to our senior prom. After dinner and two quick dances, we realized we were both bored out of our skulls and snuck out for a ride.

John brought along a bottle of whiskey he’d stolen from his alcoholic father along with a couple of shot glasses. After parking, we proceeded to drink way too much. The drinking led to a kiss, and the kiss led to the backseat of John’s car. The sex that followed was less than fulfilling, and neither of us has ever discussed it much to this day.

My second sexual experience came as a junior in college with a rather masculine girl who lived in my dormitory. If anything, it was even less exciting than my first attempt.

John has tried, on multiple occasions, to fix me up with the more adventurous friends of the girls he was dating. People have said I make a reasonably handsome guy, and my voice was deep enough to sound male. Still, I figured I’d already given it a try with both sexes, and it just wasn’t for me. Lately, I’ve been revisiting that decision more and more often.

Father Lawrence showed up a couple of minutes later, interrupting my sexual reverie. A tall, muscular man in his midfifties, he walked with a rather pronounced limp. Father Lawrence led me a short distance down a narrow hallway to his office, and he motioned me to sit. I figured I should get something out in the open.

“Father, before we get started, did Paul fill you in on my…change?”

“Did he mention you were transgender? Yes, he did. He also said you two had a falling out, and you were, and I quote, ‘the most annoying and obsessive person I have ever known.’”

I was impressed. A priest had spoken the word transgender in the same tone of voice one used in saying someone was tall or had brown hair. Given my misgivings about the term, there were days that even gave me pause.

“You’re still interested in hiring me?”

“He also mentioned you were the smartest person he knew. I figured smart and obsessive weren’t bad qualities for a detective. I’ll withhold judgment on the annoying part for now.”

To my surprise, I found myself liking this priest. “Fair enough. Paul said you might need my services. Why don’t you fill me in?”

Father Lawrence chose his words with extreme care. “This is a delicate matter, and it requires your complete discretion. It involves Father Samuel, a recently ordained priest, who came to Saint Edmund’s last December from our New Orleans province. About two weeks ago, Father Samuel came across information that led him to believe”—Father Lawrence hesitated noticeably at this point—“a man intended to commit murder. Specifically, that he intended to slash a woman’s throat. Father Samuel notified me immediately. He couldn’t identify either the intended victim or the suspected assailant based on what he heard.”

He waited for me to digest this information. While doing so, I remembered an item on the local news from the same time period—the Angela Tully slaying. Angela Tully was a Cleveland housewife found murdered in her home. The police had no trouble determining the cause of death; Mrs. Tully was found with multiple stab wounds to her throat. If that wasn’t horrifying enough, her children discovered their mother’s body shortly after arriving home from school. The timeline for the killing fit with Father Lawrence’s story.

“Do you think this might be related to Angela Tully, and can I assume this information was acquired during confession?”

“I wanted to see if you would make the Tully connection. Yes, I do think it’s related. The Tully murder happened on a Tuesday, just three days after Father Samuel obtained this information.”

I noticed he didn’t answer my question concerning confession. Given the rules that I knew to be in place, I didn’t expect him to. Father Lawrence was clearly trying to finesse his way around the confessional seal.

“Have you notified the police?” I knew the answer, but I had to ask.

“I haven’t contacted the police. After discussing the matter with my superior, Father Thomas, neither of us felt that was possible. You asked about the role of confession in this case, and I suspect you know that is something I cannot discuss. Based on legal statute, the seal of confession protects not only the content of conversations within the sacrament, it goes further in protecting even the existence of those communications. In theory, a priest hearing someone’s intent to murder Jane Doe could notify the police that Jane’s life was in danger. The priest could not, however, tell the police where they obtained this knowledge or supply any additional information concerning the identity of the person making the threat.

“In this case, that wasn’t even an option. As I mentioned, Father Samuel was told nothing indicating the identity of the individual who was threatened, nor did he see the person making the threat or recognize his voice.”

“That leads to another question,” I said. “With the restrictions inherent in the seal, why am I here?”

“For you to understand your involvement, I need to make you aware of two additional aspects to this case. The first is, regrettably, a political concern expressed by Father Thomas and the bishop here in Cleveland, and yes, he has become involved as well. Both are worried about the perceived connection between this case and the sacrament of confession.”

“Okay, you lost me,” I said. “I’m not sure I see a political issue here at all.”

“If you take this case, you need to start thinking like a Jesuit. You are undoubtedly aware of the broader discussions in this country over issues concerning religious freedom. Those issues include employee insurance coverage for birth control in Catholic-run workplaces, restrictive hiring practices in Catholic educational institutions, as well as the whole discussion of gay marriage. Should the Church’s prior knowledge in this case become known, there is a concern it could further weaken popular support for the Church and for religious freedom in general. It could potentially lead to the restriction of a confessional privilege that currently exists in all fifty states.”

“With all due respect, Father,” I said. “I think you and Father Thomas may be overstating the Church’s exposure on this issue. If the threat was truly nonspecific, I am having trouble seeing how anyone could think the Church should have done more.”

Father Lawrence suddenly looked exhausted, and I began to see the strain he was under. “That, Mr. Luvello, leads to my second item. Yesterday, there was another threat.”