character.
Small groups of people sat or stood in clusters throughout the room. Beyond the swinging doors were several trauma rooms outfitted to handle, at least initially, almost any medical emergency imaginable. But the waiting room held its own peculiar trauma. Friends or relatives of emergency patients generally were confused, bewildered, isolated, and helpless. They had delivered a loved one to this emergency facility or had arrived after the delivery and had joined the vigil. Something or nothing was being done for the patient, but the friends and relatives had no idea what, if anything, was happening. Periodic intercessions with the desk attendants more often than not proved fruitless. The patient was doing as well as could be expected. Or, doctor so-and-so was in attendance. Or, we’re still trying to find out what’s wrong.
Just questioning the attendants was made to seem such an imposition that the more meek simply sat, entwining their fingers and wondering. The more dauntless went right on asking for—even demanding—updated information, on the theory that their squeaking might win a little medical oil for the subject of their concern.
Slightly more than half an hour before, the relative tranquility of the emergency department had been shattered when a gurney bearing Adrian Cardinal Claret had been wheeled through in the company of several Toronto police officers and a couple of clergymen in liturgical vestments.
The Cardinal had been whisked through the waiting room so quickly that none of the visitors had recognized him, even though his picture had appeared often enough in newspapers and on television. All the visitors could surmise was that the new patient must be a very important person.
They were correct. St. Michael’s top trauma team had been summoned. No sooner was the Cardinal wheeled in than they began working on him.
“I can’t believe this actually has happened,” said Father Ouellet. “I mean, who would want to harm the Cardinal?”
“It’s the times,” Father MacNeil reflected. “We live in violent times, Maurice. But the Cardinal . . .” He shook his head. “Why would anyone want to attack him? Such a good man!”
Two men with the same and similar questions on their minds approached the clergymen.
“Inspector Hughes, RCMP.” One of the men proffered his identification in a manner which seemed to demand that each priest examine it carefully.
“You would be,” Hughes consulted his notepad, “Fathers Ouellet” —Ouellet nodded— “and MacNeil.”
“How did you know?”
“We were at the church.”
“The cathedral.”
“Yes.” The Inspector accepted the correction impassively. “Which of you was standing near the Cardinal when he was attacked?”
“I was,” said Ouellet.
“I see.” Both the Inspector and his associate were taking notes. “Can you describe the assailant?”
“Let’s see. I think it was the third or fourth person to receive communion from the Cardinal . . .”
“Talk about a Judas,” MacNeil interjected.
“Yes, it was the third.” Ouellet was positive.
“Male or female?” This was one of those times, Hughes determined, when information would have to be pulled out piecemeal.
“Male.” Ouellet was surprised by the question. It would never have occurred to him that a woman would be capable of such a wanton attack.
“Height?”
“Let’s see. I was standing one step up and the man’s head was about the same height as my shoulder. I would guess about six feet, give or take an inch.”
“Weight?”
“I have no idea. Not fat. Not thin. Perhaps 190 pounds.”
“Race?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“White, black, Oriental, Hispanic, dark, light?”
“Oh . . . black, very dark.”
“Any distinguishing marks?”
“Marks? Uh . . . oh, yes; his hair, It was, uh, what do you call it, uh—”
“Natural?”
“Yes, I guess that’s it.” Ouellet could see the outside doors to the waiting room. A group of newcomers was entering hurriedly. They looked about as if searching for something or someone. “Are those the Metropolitan Toronto Police?”
Hughes glanced over his shoulder. “No, those are newspaper reporters. They will be followed shortly by the TV people.”
He returned to his task. “How did the assailant strike?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“But you were standing right next to the Cardinal?”
“Yes, but . . . well, you see, I was holding the paten under the man’s chin, so I couldn’t see what he was doing with his hands.”
“Neither could the Cardinal, then, eh?”
“That’s right.”
A doctor emerged from the inner sanctum. Everyone looked at him expectantly, each hoping for information about his or her loved one.
The doctor looked around. Noticing the two clergymen, he started toward them. He reached them at about the same moment as the reporters.
“I’m sorry.” The doctor shook his head. “We did all that was possible. At first it didn’t seem to be a major wound. It was an abdominal cut approximately an inch and a half long. There was minimal tenderness.”
The doctor was elaborating more than was necessary for the two priests. But the media people, as well as the RCMP representatives, were taking notes.
“We probed the wound. There was an upper angle toward the left shoulder. At that point, I ordered an X-ray. We were looking specifically for air and shadows. Of course an IV was started as soon as the Cardinal was admitted.”
“Did the Cardinal regain consciousness at any time?” a reporter asked.
“No, not really. At one point, he tried to sit up. We were struck by his grayish coloring and intense perspiration. But he said nothing.
“At about the time we discovered that the Cardinal’s spleen had been ruptured, he slipped into deep shock. We immediately started closed chest massage, gave him blood, and attempted to restore his blood pressure. But we couldn’t control his internal bleeding. Irreversible shock set in and at that point, he expired. I believe it was a combination of his age and the shock. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe it.” A most rare tear wound its way through the furrows of MacNeil’s face. “Adrian is gone. I was talking to him—joking with him—just minutes ago.” He paused. “He was a good man.”
“Who could have done this to a man like Cardinal Claret?” asked Ouellet of no one in particular. “Why would anyone do it?”
“If we can discover the ‘why’ Father,” Inspector Hughes said, “we may very well find the ‘who.’”
“Death to da Pope! Death to da Pope! Death to da Pope!” He accompanied his chant by banging on a steel drum.
The noise was absorbed easily in the cacophony of Yonge Street outside.
The room in which the men had gathered was large and relatively bare. A table, a few chairs. Most of the men lounged on the floor or squatted against the wall. Several shuffled to the drum’s rhythm. The room was not unlike a hall hired and furnished by neo-Nazis, except that where one might expect to find a picture of Adolf Hitler, there hung a portrait of Haile Selassie, the late Emperor of Ethiopia.
If one did not already know, it would have been almost impossible to make out whose likeness it was, due to the nearly impenetrable smoke that almost literally filled the room. Those who were not puffing their own massive
