Shadow of Death

of a Catholic newspaper. Even if she had been allowed to respond, there was little she could have said to a man like that. He was a priest and she was of the laity. She could not overlook his privileged position. Nor would he allow her to overlook it.

Furthermore, what could anyone say to someone like Father Cavanaugh, whose mind and heart were closed?

“You look as if you just lost your best friend, Irene.” John Howe, gray-haired business manager of the Detroit Catholic, knocked pro forma on the open door as he entered her office.

“I feel like it. I just had a very depressing phone call.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

She shook her head.

“Well, then,” he brightened, “I’ve got some good news: The archdiocese is going to pick up the whole tab for your trip to Rome!”

“Well, there’s a break.”

“You said it! In our present financial condition, it would have been pretty tight, to say the least. I was going to offer to pay half and see how the chancery would react. But Monsignor Iming called just a few minutes ago and said they would take care of all your travel and hotel costs. You’re on your own for food and out-of-pocket expenses. But we can handle that with no problem.”

“That’s just great!” Irene beamed.

“Of course,” he grew serious, “that covers just Detroit to Rome and back.”

“No London or Ireland, eh?’’

“I’m afraid not.” He smiled. “You’ll just have to wait for an Irish Catholic Press convention for a visit to your homeland.

“Unless,” he shrugged lightheartedly, “unless you find something that needs reporting in addition to the Rome story.”

“That’s another definition of ‘fat chance.’ It’s not as if a visit to England or Ireland per se constitutes a breaking news story. I mean, what can happen to an archbishop after becoming a Cardinal?”

“I guess you’re right. Well, anyway, have a nice ‘Roman Holiday.’”

4.

Maybe this is what it had been like at the Tower of Babel—a confusion of tongues, Father Koesler mused.

He was standing near Gate Three in the Michael Berry International Terminal at Detroit’s Metropolitan Airport. He was attempting to remain at the fringe of the crowd. But it seemed that if one was not part of one crowd, one was swallowed by another.

Koesler did not often utilize Metro’s international terminal, so he was not familiar with its day-to-day operation. But, at this moment, it was clearly proving its cosmopolitan character. People of seemingly every known complexion, costume, and tongue milled in groups of varying sizes. Caftans and muumuus, prayer beads and rosaries, tilaks and beauty spots.

The group on the fringe of which Koesler was trying to stay was Detroit’s Rome-bound contingent . . . two chartered planeloads.

The center and focal point of this group, quite naturally, was Archbishop Mark Boyle, on his way to becoming His Eminence Mark Cardinal Boyle. He was surrounded by representatives of the local news media, friends, well- wishers, and the merely Catholic curious. The Archbishop stood bathed in the unreal glare of the television lighting. Nearby and sharing in the periphery of the sungun, Koesler could identify many of the movers and shakers of the archdiocese as well as the city of Detroit. It was as if they constituted the dramatis personae of a play about to unfold.

Maynard Cobb, Detroit’s mayor, was presiding at the battery of microphones. He was developing the theme of how proud the city was of its new Cardinal. He had already explained that the press of civic duties prevented him from accompanying the group to Rome. But, he affirmed, he hoped to be able to join them there before all the induction ceremonies were completed.

Maybe. But Koesler made a wager with himself that they would not see Cobb again until they returned to Detroit.

Although they had met only a few times, and very briefly at that, Koesler was convinced that Cobb was practically perfect for his job. In his early sixties, graying, with a vocabulary suited for a White House visit or, alternately, appropriate for the nadir of the black ghetto whence he had sprung, Cobb could feel Detroit coursing through his body, and he fought for his city every step of the way.

While not, to anyone’s knowledge, a religious man, Cobb was well aware of the national and international publicity a new Cardinal would draw to Detroit. And Cobb was determined to milk that limelight for all it was worth.

Standing next to Cobb was Archbishop Boyle, with his characteristic bemused expression. He seemed quite content, even though theoretically he was the center of attraction at this affair, to stand aside for the mayor.

Those who knew Boyle—and their number was not legion—understood that Boyle did not take himself overly seriously. Above all, he was the epitome of a Christian gentleman. Shortly, the reporters would begin asking him questions. Then he would bloom. He had been an educator. No matter what else he became, he would always be an educator. And when he explained his answers to the reporters’ questions he would be right at home.

Koesler recalled the photo story the Detroit Catholic had published the week after Boyle’s nomination was announced. The photos spanned the time from Boyle’s youth to the present. He had been an outstandingly handsome young man. Slightly more than six feet tall, he was still handsome, with thinning white hair, sooty eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, and attractive Irish features. It was not difficult for those associated with him to be very proud of him.

Nor was the Archbishop without a sense of humor. Though many might think of him as dry, the wit was there. Unlike some, Archbishop Boyle was sufficiently secure in himself and his position that he did not require that his face be ubiquitous in the archdiocesan newspaper. So that when he and several other Catholic functionaries were scheduled to fly to Rome for the first session of the Vatican Council, and Father Koesler, then editor of the Detroit Catholic, had sent a photographer to snap the Archbishop and his entourage boarding the plane at Metro, Boyle had commented that the Detroit Catholic should just take photos of him on the boarding ramp of each of the airlines that served Detroit, and then in the future they could run the appropriate photo automatically; no matter where he was bound, they would already have the correct shot in their files, he said.

It was impossible not to be aware of the man standing on the other side of Boyle in this impromptu tableau. Inches taller than the Archbishop, and large in every direction, Inspector Walter Koznicki, chief of the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department, seemed relatively uninterested in the proceedings. But then Inspector Koznicki seldom was what he seemed.

Over the past several years, a warm relationship had developed between Inspector Koznicki and Father Koesler. The priest had proven helpful in the solution of several homicide cases involving the Catholic community. The initial professional association of the two men had blossomed into a friendship based on mutual respect.

Inspector Koznicki was not in attendance today in his professional capacity. He was taking a vacation, and was a member of the delegation on its way to Rome. As a prominent Detroiter, and also a Catholic, Koznicki had been invited to join the other VIPs appearing with the Archbishop and the Mayor.

As the sungun played about the tight-knit group before the cameras, Koesler recognized some of the other important people, all of whom were familiar faces.

There was Liz Taylor look-alike Joan Blackford Hayes, director of the Office for Continuing Education for the archdiocese. She long had been the token female in the Boyle administration. However, as is so often the case with most women who have risen to a high bureaucratic level, she was far more qualified than any man in a comparable position.

Koesler recalled a meeting he had attended with, among many others, Mrs. Hayes. Attired in a striking red ensemble, she had raised her hand to ask a question. Archbishop Boyle, seeing the upraised hand and the red apparel out of the corner of his eye, had said, “Yes, Monsignor . . . uh . . . er . . . Mrs. Hayes.” At that moment,