William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

Mayor Cobb had completed his statement, but remained standing close to Archbishop Boyle. As long as the TV cameras would grind away, Cobb would linger on.

As was his wont, Boyle had a prepared statement, which he read carefully. It was a solemnly composed declaration asserting his unworthiness for the honor that was about to be accorded him in Rome. But he would accept the Cardinalate in the name of and to the honor of the good people of the Archdiocese of Detroit. He thanked all who had come to wish him well, as well as those who would be accompanying him.

He folded the statement and tucked it in the inside pocket of his black suit coat. The gold chain carrying his pectoral cross and appearing across his chest swayed gently.

He removed his eyeglasses and looked expectantly at the reporters. The questions were not long in coming.

First Reporter: Archbishop, you’re considered to be a liberal as far as the Church hierarchy is concerned. Do you see this recognition on the part of the Pope as an endorsement of your policies in Detroit?

Boyle: Oh, no, my dear young man. “Liberal” and “conservative” are labels attached to people for the sake of convenience. But in reality, most people are liberal, if you must, about some issues, and conservative about others.

First Reporter (determinedly): But, compared with other dioceses, especially in this country, there seems to be a lot of freedom. Some priests say if you can’t get away with it in Detroit, you can’t get away with it anywhere. Care to comment?

Boyle (smiling tightly): I suppose you would have to ask the priests whom you are quoting about that.

Second Reporter: Will any of your policies change in the diocese once you’ve been made a Cardinal?

Boyle: No, my dear young lady. I have no plans to change anything in the archdiocese. Things change, of course. That is only part of life. But such changes will not spring from the honor that has come to me.

Third Reporter: What’s the purpose of your stopovers in England and Ireland?

Boyle: In England I will visit my dear old friend Cardinal Whealan, the Archbishop of London. And in Ireland—he permitted himself a smile—well, my parents, may the Lord rest them, were born in County Dublin. My visit there will be a touching of roots and a bit of a vacation for me before getting back to Detroit.

Something wasn’t quite right. Koesler couldn’t put his finger on it. But something was definitely amiss.

Third Reporter: How long have you known you were going to be made a Cardinal?

Boyle (after a pause): It was, I believe, March 27th that the Apostolic Delegate to this country phoned me.

Second Reporter (consulting her notes): But it was released to the media on the 28th.

Boyle (smiling): You seem surprised.

Second Reporter: Yes. I thought you’d have to keep the secret longer!

Boyle (chuckling): Our motto is not secretum gratia secreti.

Mixed sounds of incomprehension and laughter.

Koesler was still trying to detect what was wrong. There was some movement in the crowd immediately in front of Cobb and Boyle that seemed inappropriate, even problematical. But though he was taller than most of those standing nearby, Koesler was unable to isolate it.

Fourth Reporter: Archbishop, this may be a bit premature, but there is talk of the Papacy . . .

Boyle, with what might almost be classified as a frown, began shaking his head.

Fourth Reporter: . . . as a Cardinal, you will be in the running to become Pope. Some pundits have said—

It was unreal. Koesler could only think of similar episodes he’d seen in the past. But it had always been on TV, never in person. A sungun was knocked over and several cameramen and reporters near the front seemed to collapse in a heap. Several people were shouting. A woman screamed.

It was over as quickly as it had begun.

The square peg Koesler had sensed in the crowd was a young black man who was now prostrate on the floor by virtue of his being knelt on very decisively by Inspector Koznicki.

The Inspector had worked the man’s right arm behind him and was prying a large knife from his fingers. Everyone else seemed stunned into inactivity.

A phalanx of Mayor Cobb’s bodyguards, airport security officers, and members of the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department converged on the two men and assisted Inspector Koznicki as they swept up the captive and hustled him into a nearby room, into which a seemingly incredible number of people immediately crowded. The door then closed.

One minute there was mass confusion. The next, all was peaceful and quiet. There were now far fewer people in the waiting area. The missing were all in the room with the would-be assailant.

The media people pulled themselves and their equipment back together and crowded around the closed door.

Whatever was going on, the next news would emerge from that room.

5.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard Trans World Airlines charter flight 1302 to Rome . . .”

“I wonder why it is,” Father Koesler asked his seat partner, Inspector Koznicki, “all stewardesses sound alike?”

“I suppose it is their training.” Koznicki wedged his way deeper into the narrow seat in a futile attempt to find comfort.

“At this time, please give your attention to the flight attendant at the front of your cabin . . .”

“Maybe,” Koesler suggested, “if we get out of our suit coats . . .” He was experiencing almost as much discomfort as Koznicki.

The two wrestled out of their jackets.

“The laminated instruction card in the seat pocket in front of you explains and illustrates the important safety features of this aircraft. The card should be read carefully before takeoff . . .”

“That feels better.” Koesler let out a sigh. “Now, what’ll we do with them?”

“Let me take your jacket, Father. Wanda can hold them until we are airborne. Then we can put them in the overhead compartment.” Koznicki was referring to his wife, in the aisle seat. She was accompanying her husband on this, their first vacation together in years that would be unencumbered by any of their children.

“The emergency exits in the 707 aircraft are the forward left door, the forward right door, the rear left door, and the rear right door. In addition to the four cabin doors, there are four over-the-wing window exits . . .”

Koesler fixed on the nearest exit, then returned his gaze to the attendant at the front of the cabin.

She continued explaining emergency procedures.

The plane taxied to its final ground turn onto the far end of the runway. The pilot braked; the hum of the engines rose to a whine, then a full-throated roar as the plane gathered momentum, raced down the runway, and pulled itself upward.

“I’m glad that’s over!” The color began returning to Koesler’s white knuckles.

“Yes,” said Koznicki, “they do say that takeoffs and landings are the most dangerous times in flying.”

“No, dear,” a smiling Wanda Koznicki corrected, “the most dangerous time in flying is the automobile trip to the airport.”

All three smiled.

A steward passed by, pushing a cart filled with small bottles containing a vast variety of potables.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Koesler asked. “I mean, we’re still climbing!”

“Well, Father,” said Koznickl, “this is a charter flight. It may prove to be more of a party than your usual flight.”

The prophesy was correct. Archbishop Boyle’s Irish-blooded relatives were the principal reason the liquor cart was not put to rest until the very early hours of the following morning.

“And you’re sure,” said Koesler, pursuing the conversation they had begun earlier, “that the young man who attacked Archbishop Boyle was acting alone?”