Pat was smiling at the idea of the two old war-horse buddies shamelessly pulling each other’s leg.
Then she brought herself back to the present. “But that’s not what you’re looking for.”
“It tells me something about Salden, so that’s good. But I am looking for something he might have been working on that would cause somebody to want to kill him.”
“Right.” Lennon continued to feel uncomfortable rummaging through Salden’s basket. As if she were invading his privacy. But she was more than eager to help find his killer. She tapped more keys.
“Here’s one,” she said. “Granted I’m not sure I can read all these shorthand notes accurately. But this one looks like some sexism popping up at St. Andrew Episcopal Church in Rochester. As I recall, that church just recently got its first female priest, who also happened to be called to be its rector. That was a lot for some parishioners to swallow. I think this is the one Hal had in mind with this notation.”
“A conflict,” Tully said. “If he was working on this story, he put himself in the middle of some pretty strong feelings … no?”
“Probably.”
“A guess might be-especially since the story was under the … whatchamacallit of ‘sexism’-“
“Slug.”
“Yeah, the slug … of ‘sexism’-that he would have been in a position to defend the woman priest.”
“He would be. Yes. He wouldn’t treat the story with his opinion showing. But he could slant it in his column. That is, if I’m right that this is the story he’s referring to in this note.”
“So those who oppose her becoming rector would be angry to damn mad. They might have no reasonable outlet for their anger at, say, their bishop or priests. So maybe they direct it at a reporter?”
“Could be,” Lennon admitted. “But, see here-at the end of this note-there’s a ‘K’ standing all alone. I don’t know what that means. But it meant something to Hal, or he wouldn’t have added it to the note.”
“Well, we’ll put that on the back burner. Anything else in there?”
Pat began tapping keys as the information in the CRT kept marching across the screen. Nothing appeared to Pat to be of any consequence. Then she stopped typing and seemed to be studying the screen.
“Something?” Tully asked.
“I don’t know. There’s an emphasis line and an exclamation mark here. Very unlike Hal.”
Tully studied the screen, not really knowing what he should be looking for-or at. “Whatta we got?”
“Just some words: ‘shells, just shells! look into … trace down! could be key!’ Then again, off to the side there, another ‘K.’ But I still don’t know what that might mean.”
“Hmmm …” Tully tried to decipher. Something was knocking at the back of his consciousness. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you say Salden used to work on the sports page?”
“Yeah. Along time ago.”
“But it was part and parcel of him, wasn’t it? You said he was completely committed to whatever he was working on … right?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a symbol in baseball for a strikeout: the letter ‘K.’ That’s what this might be? That he struck out on these stories?”
“Could be. That would be just like Haclass="underline" mixing metaphors, so to speak. But that leaves us with nothing but the oversize exorcist. And that definitely is not what you were looking for.”
Tully thought for a moment. “Anything else come to mind, Pat?”
Lennon ransacked her mind. “Noooo …” She drew out the “no” to an elongated syllable. “There’s the story about the missing priest. It’s Pringle McPhee’s story at the moment. It would have been Hal’s. But that’s the horse before the cart: Hal was murdered before the priest turned up missing.”
“That’s it?”
Lennon hesitated. “I … uh … might just as well ask you: How did that De Vere column go over with your Alice?”
Tully winced all but imperceptibly. “Not so hot. I’ll know better if ever she starts talkin’ again. And your Joe Cox?”
“He’s out of town.” She did not care to add, “probably permanently.”
“It would be interesting to know how he’d react to it. He’s always been the one with the roving eye. I wonder how he’d feel if the shoe were on the other foot-even if it wasn’t true.”
Tully made to leave, “Seems like you and I got the name without the game.”
“Yeah,” Pat agreed. “It’s a lucky thing you’re the one who packs the gun. I think I’d shoot her.”
For the first time this morning, Tully smiled broadly. It was an engaging smile, “I think you’d have to get in line, Pat. Thanks for your time.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
He left. Lennon, rocking gently in Salden’s chair, watched as he walked away. All his mannerisms reflected his personality. The way he walked, his speech patterns, his bearing, his rare smile, all spoke of a person brimming with self-confidence. It was not the posturing of a braggart. It was the quiet statement of a dependable, mature adult.
Take that, Joe Cox!
Tully turned the corner and was gone. Lennon thought of what he’d said: The name without the game. The name without the game.
Interesting.
17
The box containing the mortal remains of Monsignor Clement Kern had been unearthed. Evidently that was enough for that day. The grand opening of the casket had been postponed.
Meanwhile, the unopened casket rested on a bier in the nave of the church just outside the sanctuary. And the church, quite naturally, was that of The Most Holy Trinity in old Corktown where Clem Kern had been assigned for thirty-four years.
Tradition has it that when the Lodge Freeway was constructed, linking Detroit’s northern extremities to downtown, the highway was supposed to go right through the site of Trinity Church. This prospect made Cardinal Edward Mooney, then archbishop of Detroit, a happy man. Trinity long had been a financial loser and a drain on archdiocesan funds. Mooney was said to have been ecstatic over the proposed demolition of the building. Some thought the Cardinal himself would come and bless the bulldozer that would do the deed.
Then, according to the story, a city councilperson, who would live in infamy in Mooney’s heart, spoke up to save the little parish that had been there when the Irish immigrants circled their wagons around it and later when the poorest of the poor had huddled within it for warmth, shelter, and sustenance. The courageous councilperson won out. And now, when motorists tool down the Lodge, they relive that administrative fiat as they head directly toward the little old church, only to veer off eastward at the very last moment. Trinity survived, to be transformed by the selfless ministry of Clem Kern into a monument for the ages.
It was now the third day since the casket had been removed from the earth of Holy Sepulcher Cemetery. It was the day as well as the hour when the casket would be opened.
The prime purpose for this otherwise ghoulish enterprise was to establish, insofar as it was possible, that the body of the man who might one day be venerated as a true saint actually was the body of the Servant of God in question.
There was another reason. There was always the possibility that in the process, the exhumers just might stumble upon another miracle. In the past, there had been some marvelous discoveries at this stage in the process of canonization. Sometimes the body was found in a remarkable-miraculous? — state of preservation.
St. Catherine of Siena as well as St. Clare of Assisi were cases in point. Enshrined within altars in their respective hometowns, they looked as good as new after centuries of inanimation-or so it is said.
Then there’s the blood of St. Januarius, which liquifies each year on the anniversary of his death, until last year. Still, not a bad track record.
And, among many surprisingly preserved saints, there’s the case of St. Francis Xavier. He died on a small island off the coast of China. His associate buried him on the spot, taking the trouble to throw quicklime over the body. Later, after scraping away the soil and lime, Francis’s body was discovered to be remarkably lifelike, even supple. He was to be entombed in the wall of the cathedral in Goa. Workers found the hole in the wall not quite deep enough. So they simply forced the body into the space, breaking the neck in the process. Francis Xavier’s body is still on display. It is, by now, quite mummified. But, considering all that was inflicted upon the poor remains, he’s holding his own.