Shadow of Death

man . . .”

There was a stirring in the church of St. John XXIII as people sat down rather firmly. Those still standing on the periphery leaned heavily against the wall.

Koesler shook his head penitently. He had daydreamed through the Mass. Evidently, now Cardinal Boyle was about to address the congregation. He had removed his liturgical vestments and stood attired in black cassock with cardinal-red accessories: piping, buttons, combination cummerbund-sash, and zucchetto. Koesler was again made aware of what an eye-popping color cardinal red was. Its 3-D-like vividness was almost breathtaking.

The Cardinal approached the lectern, adjusted his glasses, and, without script or notes, began to speak. In Italian.

Lost again! Koesler tried to understand what the Cardinal was saying, but failed. This puzzled him somewhat. Throughout this week in Rome, Koesler had managed to communicate rather well with the locals by means of a combination Latin-English-Italian.

Suddenly, it dawned on him: He had gotten on so well only because the Italians had taken the trouble to try to understand him, while, at the same time, they had spoken very slowly, simply, and distinctly.

As he sat and listened to the Cardinal speak at a normal—and, thus, to him, incomprehensible—pace, Koesler’s appreciation of and gratitude to all these kind and considerate Italians grew.

Evidently, the Cardinal had completed his remarks, whatever they were, for he stepped back from the microphone.

The monsignor who had earlier been seen leaping near the front door as a dead giveaway that the procession was not coming, stepped forward to make an announcement.

The announcement was made first in Italian, then in English. The English version ran something like: “Anna now, Hissa Eminenza Boyla, shesa gonna give-a hissa beneditzionay to-a heverybody. You come-a hup to-a da communionay railing.”

At that, it was better than Koesler could have done in Italian.

Those standing along the walls were first to form a line that began in front of the altar dedicated to St. Joseph. In no time, a double line stretched almost completely around the interior of the church.

As far as Koesler could ascertain, no one from the Detroit contingent had joined the line. The Detroiters seemed to be remaining in their pews. After all, there was no hurry; the buses would not be returning to their hotels until after the ceremony. And they weren’t going anywhere without their buses.

But unexpectedly, there were two exceptions, both from Koesler’s pew.

First, Toussaint rose and quickly strode up the center aisle to stand beside Cardinal Boyle. The clergy surrounding Boyle would have prevented Toussaint from this approach except for two considerations. Few people ever remained in Toussaint’s path when he was going somewhere. One would have been as inclined to stand in the path of elephants enroute to their water hole. And secondly, Toussaint’s clerical garb provided him with entree.

When he reached the Cardinal, who had not known of Toussaint’s presence in Rome, Boyle greeted him warmly.

Toussaint was followed like a shadow by Koznicki, who had excused himself as he made his way around Koesler, then purposefully continued up the aisle. Koznicki, in turn, might not have been able to approach the Cardinal except that, like Toussaint, and for the same reason, people seldom deliberately attempted to block the Inspector’s trajectory. And, as he approached the Cardinal, Boyle motioned him to come closer.

So, as Cardinal Boyle turned to welcome the lines awaiting his blessing, he was flanked by Ramon Toussaint on one side and Walter Koznicki on the other. Koesler could not imagine a more dedicated brace of bodyguards.

As each person reached the head of the line, he or she knelt before the Cardinal, who gave his blessing and might or might not exchange a few words, depending on the initiative of the recipient.

The line shuffled and moved slowly, almost imperceptibly. Noise in the church was at a low decibel count. It consisted of shoes shuffling along the tile floor, people shifting in pews, soft speech, and whispers. All in all, it was mesmerizing. Koesler had all but drifted off into a light nap when . . .

. . . all hell broke loose.

It began with a startlingly loud shout. Instantly, Koesler was on his feet heading toward the front of the church. In this endeavor he had little luck because as those in the rear seemed to be trying to approach the altar, those in the front seemed to be trying to escape it. Thus, a pile of humanity gridlocked the center aisle.

Koesler’s height helped him see part of what was going on. As soon as he had heard the shout and stood, he saw Toussaint dive forward, taking someone to the floor with him. Not a second later, Koznicki followed Toussaint down.

Then, things became further jumbled. Several other people seemed to fall onto the squirming figures before the altar. Most likely they had been pushed on by those behind trying to see.

Pandemonium ensued. Women screamed, men shouted; most of the Detroiters tried to get closer to the action as most of the locals fought to get out.

Koesler noted that Joe Cox, Pat Lennon, and Irene Casey, who had been seated near the front of the church, had managed to get very close to the action. In fact, Koesler watched in bewilderment as Cox and Lennon were absorbed into the pileup. Irene undoubtedly would have suffered the same fate had not Cardinal Boyle stepped forward and assisted her up to the step next to himself.

Koesler looked every which way to find a passage to the altar. He spotted the by now familiar jumping-jack figure of the small round pastor clambering along the rear section of the center aisle headed for the narthex. Once out of the melee, the monsignor began leaping up and down again, and shouting, this time for the police.

They came soon enough, and promptly, like an icebreaker, began clearing a path to the altar. Koesler followed in their wake.

He hadn’t seen such a sight since the Super Bowl. And that had been via television, not on the spot.

Bodies were sprawled every which way. All one could see was arms and legs and heads and rumps, purses, hats, and shoes.

The police began righting people, starting at the top of the pile and moving downward. It reminded Koesler of a referee unstacking a pileup of football players to ascertain who has possession of the ball. From what he had seen, Koesler was positive that when the police got to the bottom of the pile, Toussaint would be on top of whomever was the cause of all this ruckus. And Koznicki would be on top of Toussaint. Koesler began to feel sorry for whomever was at the bottom of the pile.

The carabinieri peeled Cox off the pile. Making no move to smooth his rumpled jacket or pull his clothing together, he located his notepad and pen inside his jacket pocket and began taking notes. A reporter to the core.

Next up was the redoubtable Joan Blackford Hayes. Oddly, she seemed totally unmussed.

The police righted Lennon, who shook loose from their hands and began rearranging her clothing. “When I catch the sonofabitch who was pinching,” she addressed the still squirming pile, “I’m going to make some human pasta!”

Then the carabinieri reached Koznicki, the Inspector got to his knees as he displayed his identification. They stepped back and allowed him to assist Toussaint.

The deacon very slowly and cautiously raised himself from the man he was covering. “I would appreciate it. Inspector, if you would take the weapon.”

Koznicki painstakingly gripped the man’s wrist. His arm had been twisted behind him by Toussaint. Koznicki removed a vicious looking knife from the man’s hand. There was blood on the blade.

“Are you cut?” Koznicki asked anxiously.

“Just slightly, I think,” Toussaint replied.

Together the deacon and the Inspector lifted the man to his feet. Immediately, the Italian police handcuffed him. Koesler elbowed to his friends’ sides. “Ramon, you’re hurt!”

“It is not so much, Bob.” There were several gashes on the back of Toussaint’s right hand.

“We’ll get you to a hospital immediately.” Koznicki, using his pen and his handkerchief, tied a tourniquet around Toussaint’s arm.

Now that Toussaint had received first aid, all attention was focused on the assailant. He was a black man of moderate build, plainly dressed except for the scarf on his head. He had said nothing and appeared determined to