The Greatest Evil (22 page)

“Well, he did have a choice: He could refuse the Rome assignment, he could shop around for another seminary in another diocese, or he could go job hunting.

“He went to Rome.”

“We corresponded—irregularly for the most part. Would you believe he spent the next four years studying in Rome?”

“Four years! It took him that long to get well?”

Koesler chuckled. “Not nearly. I could tell from his letters that he was making steady progress. Considering how ill he had been, he recovered remarkably quickly.”

“Then how come they didn’t ship him home right then?”

“Let’s just say—and for some very good reasons—the diocese didn’t want to gamble. I, for one, will never forget seeing Vince curled up on the floor, helpless and unconscious. And while nobody from the chancery was there, they couldn’t forget what had happened. Vince understood their reluctance to bring him home and ordain him.

“But he did extremely well with his time. Before he left Detroit, he spoke French, Spanish, and, of course, English and Latin. While he was in Rome, he became fluent in Italian. He got a doctorate in theology and a licentiate in Canon Law.”

“Wow!” Father Tully was impressed.

“Toward the end of his time in Rome, the guys in our chancery were trying to figure out where to slot him. Word had gotten around about what had happened. Gossip, especially clerical gossip, is a dam that can’t hold indefinitely. The brethren couldn’t figure what happened to him when he didn’t return to St. John’s after Easter vacation.

“After Vinnie’s endurance effort at prayer, all the guys at St. John’s at that time knew about his mother. It was also easy to learn there was no miraculous cure. But he disappeared. Over time, it wasn’t that difficult to put it all together. St. Joe’s Retreat and then sent off to Rome as if he were wrapped in the secrecy of a spy.

“So, there was that to consider. Vince hadn’t really been Mr. Popularity; now he bore the sobriquet of ‘crazy.’ How would he be greeted when he returned to Detroit as mysteriously as he’d left? Of course he had a couple of degrees from prestigious Vatican colleges. Not only that, he’d been in Rome as the Second Vatican Council began. Unfortunately, his appreciation of the Council was tainted by viewing it through the eyes of some of his more conservative teachers and mentors.

“The Roman Curia was not happy with this plaything of Pope John’s. Generally, they were dedicated to doing everything possible to torpedo the Council and return to the good old days—when any Church movement began and ended in Rome. Then, the ‘Church’ very definitely was the Pope and his administration.

“The Curia put up a determined, but a losing battle.

“And so Vincent Delvecchio returned to his archdiocese. Now his archdiocese had to figure out what to do with this talented misfit.”

The phone rang, followed by the sound of Mary O’Connor’s footsteps almost running down the hall.

Mary and Koesler had been through some pretty urgent and stressful times. She
never
ran.

“It’s the bishop!” she stage-whispered at the door.

“Which one?” Although Koesler would’ve bet on the answer.

“Delvecchio.” She was almost wheezing.

Koesler looked at Tully. “Want me to get it?”

Tully shook his head as he rose from his chair. “I’ll get it. Speak of the devil! I’d like to hear how he sounds now that I’m getting a better idea of what makes him tick.”

When Tully returned he was smiling.

“What’d he want?” Koesler asked.

“He wanted to get out of tonight’s little ceremony.”

“Why? What happened?”

“‘Unexpected complications’—of such mysterious origin that he couldn’t be specific.” Tully winked. “He said he couldn’t possibly make it before close to nine. That’s where he made his mistake. When I told him our other guests wouldn’t be here until nine at the earliest and that we were willing to live with that, he didn’t have much of an alternative.”

“So …?”

“So then he didn’t say anything for a moment. I could imagine him cursing his luck in mentioning a time that he thought was out of the question only to find it fit hand in glove. Finally he said he’d be here as early as he could. He said maybe we could get the paperwork out of the way so he’d be free to leave before it got too late.”

“And you said …?”

“I said that maybe that would work out.”

“I wonder,” Koesler mused, “what he meant by getting ‘the paperwork’ out of the way?”

“Your retirement documents, I suppose.”

“You don’t think …”

“… that he meant my Oath of Fidelity?” Tully shook his head. “I truly don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he wants this Profession of Faith and Oath of Fidelity to be part of a public ceremony. That way some people would have cause to turn me in if ever I strayed from the Pope’s course.

“Actually,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “I’m almost looking forward to going a few rounds with him. Now that—thanks to you—I’m getting to know him better. Bishops can give one the impression that they put their episcopal vestments on in a telephone booth. It’s good to be reminded that they put their pants on one leg at a time.”

“Or,” Koesler noted, “as one of my priest teachers, once said of the rather rigid St. Alphonsus Liguori: ‘A good man, very saintly. But if you read too much of his stuff, you’ll be putting on your pants with a shoehorn.’”

Tully laughed. “Well, then, tell me more about Bishop Delvecchio. Maybe he’s already putting on his trousers with that shoehorn. If he is, I’d sure like to know. I can use all the information I can gather.”

“All’s fair in psychic games with the hierarchy,” Koesler improvised.

“Say …” Tully consulted his watch. “… we’ve got a little time on our hands. What say we repair to the basement and shoot some pool?”

“Sounds good.”

“And,” Tully said, as he led the way downstairs, “you can go on with your briefing.”

The basement of St. Joseph’s rectory had been divided into several rooms, or more precisely, compartments. The largest of these was huge. Spacious enough to contain an upright piano, lots of metal folding chairs—now stacked against the wall—and, in the center, a slightly smaller-than-official-size pool table.

This room was used by, among others, the parish council and its various committees. When in such use, the plastic cover was drawn over the pool table, turning it into a meeting table. Never mind that the rail made this somewhat awkward.

The table had been added to the rectory’s basement by one of Koesler’s predecessors. Sometimes, when there was no pressing business—a circumstance occurring less and less—Koesler would wander down and fool with a game of solitaire … usually humming the River City pool hall song from Meredith Willson’s
The Music Man.

“How about some eight ball?” Tully invited.

“Sounds good.”

“Name the stakes.”

“Fun.”

“Fun? We don’t need to play for much … but the pot ought to be there.”

“I don’t gamble …” Koesler felt as if he were going to confession … as if gambling were a virtue and he was wrong not to.

“It’s not against our religion, you know.”

“I’m aware there’s no Church law against it—unless it gets out of hand. It’s just me. I can’t stand to lose. So I don’t take that chance.”

Tully tilted his head. I’ll just pretend we’ve got something on the game, he thought. He was certain his gambling outings were under his control. He just loved the thrill of chance.

He racked the balls while ceding the break to Koesler. In this, Tully knew not what he was doing. For the break came perilously close to shattering some of the balls. Two solids fell neatly into separate pockets.

Tully was impressed. “Are you sure you don’t want a little bet? This is no mean beginning.”

“No bets. Just pretend, if you like, that we have a wager.”

Just what Tully had silently done. Was Koesler clairvoyant? he wondered.

Koesler’s next shot would indicate his wisdom in eschewing a bet.

One of the problems with sinking a number of one’s own balls was that one then had to shoot around (in this case) the stripes. Such was now the situation, as striped balls lay in the way of a clear shot. Actually, only one solid was open. It wasn’t a difficult shot, but it was a table length away.

Koesler blew it.

Tully knew his pool expertise was no better than Koesler’s. This could prove an extended game. Fortunately there was no hurry; all their guests would be late.

Tully walked around the table, gauging possible shots. “So now we’ve got young Vince Delvecchio back home,” he said finally, as he chalked his cue. “What happens next?”

“I was out of the loop—check that: I was never in the loop—so I don’t know how they settled the question. In any case, everybody was quite sure he’d be in the tribunal or the chancery.”

Tully, about to shoot, straighted up in surprise. “The tribunal! After what had happened to his uncle in the marriage court?”

Koesler smiled. “Remember, Vince had a degree in Canon Law.”

“Well, yeah, but that could just as easily have qualified him to teach in the seminary.”

“Good point. But the thinking was that while Delvecchio would not have harmed the students in any way, the vice might not have been versa. You know how kids can be especially cruel … and Vincent’s stay at St. Joe’s Retreat was an easy target.”

“They were really handling this business with kid gloves.”

“That’s the way it must’ve seemed to the power group. Anyway, eventually they assigned him to the chancery.”

“But first they had to ordain him.”

Koesler laughed. “Good point. He was ordained by Archbishop Boyle in the chapel of Sacred Heart Seminary. To tell you the truth, Zack, I think they overdid it. He must’ve thought of himself as a curiosity.

“Ordinations happen in class groups and, at least at that time, in good numbers. Here was an ordination that Delvecchio had worked for harder than almost any other candidate I ever knew. But he became a priest all alone with a small group of relatives and friends looking on. One nice thing: A fair number of his classmates, who had been priests about five years now, showed up.” Koesler, remembering, nodded. “That was nice.”

“Did you take part?”

“Vince asked me to preach. I did.”

“So you still were close.”

“We’ve never been that far apart. The distance, such as it is, has been established by Delvecchio. But that’s okay by me. Whatever he wants our friendship to be is all right.”

Tully sank his second stripe. But scratched on the shot. He backed away from the table. “How did he work out in the chancery?”

“In the beginning, not well. Mostly because they were reluctant to give him a lot of contact with the people who composed the chancery’s clientele, he was made a member of the team that purchases land for future parishes.”

“Land speculation?” Tully’s eyebrows knitted. “Doesn’t sound like a job for a priest.”

“Right. But priests had been doing this for a very long time. Actually, I guess, it started with the growth of the suburbs. The trick was to carefully study the directions in which the developers were expanding and get a central location for a future parish. With enough land for a church, rectory, school, parking, and maybe for an athletic field.”

“A big job.”

“You bet. And one with little room for error. A mistake could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. And that’s sort of what got Vincent out of that business.”

“How so?”

“Archbishop Boyle second-guessed himself and the chancery’s brain trust. The boss thought the strain might be too much for Vince.”

“They were sort of treating him like a raw egg … afraid he would break?”

“Exactly. So then he became the guy in charge of triage.”

“Triage?”

“He was the first in the chancery to handle people who were blindly seeking help from the archdiocese. They didn’t know whom to see … whom to talk to. They had a need … or a gripe. So they’d call the chancery. They got Delvecchio.”

“How’d he do?”

“Depended on the nature of the call. There were times—not often—that I called the chancery and got Vince. He communicated efficiency, curtness, and not a lot of warmth. After I introduced myself he would relax a little … but not much.” Koesler circled the table, seeking the best shot.

“There’s a story that might help to understand Vince at this point in his life …” Koesler rested his cue on the rack. Neither player was in a hurry. “Vince used to relate the story with some frequency. Working in the chancery, he spent weekends helping out in various parishes. Two things flowed from that setup—”

“Let me guess: One, you never get to know people very well because you hop around from parish to parish. Two, you’re able to repeat yourself because no one group has heard just about all your stories.”

Koesler grinned. “That’s it. But as he wandered around retelling anecdotes, one story in particular came up with some frequency. Apparently he seldom uses it anymore. But he surely leaned on it in those days.”

Tully placed his cue against the table and sat down to better take in the story that had been a favorite of Father Vincent Delvecchio in his early days as a priest.

19

At the first ring of the alarm clock, Father Thompson swung his left arm in an arc. His hand hit the button, silencing the bell.

He’d been resting on his bed fully dressed. Of course he wasn’t wearing his clericals. Gray slacks, a blue jacket, and black loafers.

He brought the clock case close to his face. Just barely could he make out the luminous dial in the darkened room. Eleven o’clock. Just right. He would be there in plenty of time: 11:30
P.M.
was the earliest that Mary Lou could get out of the convent without anyone’s knowing.

He pulled the car to a stop one block from the convent, killed the lights, and let the engine idle. He lit a cigarette and waited.

This had been going on for the past six months. It had begun innocently enough—didn’t all such affairs? Father Thompson had met Sister Gratia during a civil rights march sponsored by the NAACP.

He was young, powerfully built, and handsome. She had an attractive face. That—plus delicate hands—was all that could be seen. The rest was covered by a religious habit.