The Greatest Evil (36 page)

“Not to Vincent. These policies of his are neither broadcast nor secretive. When a couple shows up at St. Waldo’s to arrange for a wedding, they’re screened by one of the other priests. If it’s not a ‘problem’ wedding—if it’s a straight Catholic marriage with no complications—the associate priest handles it.

“But if there’s a hook, like cohabitation, Delvecchio takes it. If they refuse to live apart, they may get married somewhere else—but not at St. Waldo’s.

“And,” Koesler added, “since it’s Vinnie’s law, he can—and occasionally does—dispense with it.”

Tully’s brow raised in wonderment. “But not for his own brother?”

“Not for his own brother!”

“But why not?”

“I have no idea …” Koesler began to pace. “You know, Zack, in the course of giving you at least a partial biography of Vincent Delvecchio, I have begun to see him in a different light. Something’s knocking at my brain … it’s like a badly formed mist that’s trying to clear up so I can perceive Vincent with a clarity I didn’t have before.”

“What about Martha?” Tully asked, “the last peg in this story?”

Koesler stopped pacing. “Martha …” He shook his head. “Bullheadedness I think, on both their parts. Delvecchio got it into his mind that his aunt caused his mother’s cancer by shunning her. And the cancer became fatal when Martha refused reconciliation. Martha, for her part, divorced herself from a Catholic Church that she felt had caused her husband’s sulci—uh, death.” Father Walsh’s long-ago doubts again crept in. Koesler shook his head as if to rid his mind of cobwebs.

“Later, Martha married again,” he continued. “There were no ‘surprises’ in this wedding. Depending on who was judging it, Martha was either a widow, or a woman who hadn’t had a valid marriage. The man she was marrying was a Catholic and a widower, who, like Martha, was free to marry. But due to Martha’s private war with Catholicism, they married before a judge. They moved away and I lost touch with them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had died by now.

“In any case,” he concluded, “I don’t know anything more about them.” He shrugged. “Not a very happy tale, is it?”

“No. And Vince Delvecchio seems to be at the heart of each event in this tragedy.”

“Yeah.”

The doorbell couldn’t be heard in the basement. So the two priests were startled when Mary O’Connor appeared at the door of the meeting room. “Fathers, Bishop Delvecchio is here.”

The two men looked at each other. “Well, Zack,” Koesler said, “let’s go fight the dragon.”

“Easy for you to say,” Tully replied. “You know,” he said, after a moment, “I’m actually trembling.”

They climbed the stairs and made their way to the living room, where the bishop awaited.

Bishop Delvecchio was not seated. Instead, he stood in approximately the center of the room.

He was thin to the point of gauntness, with a fragility that brought, to mind Pope Pius XII, though Delvecchio was much taller than the late Pontiff. His black suit seemed of modest material, but the creases could cut paper. A small patch of episcopal red was visible in front, where the clerical collar met the clerical vest. Stretched across his chest was the silver chain of his pectoral cross. His shoes were shiny enough to credit that black patent leather really could reflect up. Neither nature, age, nor use had contributed laugh lines around his mouth or eyes.

The bishop held a large manila envelope. Presumably it contained the papers that would make Father Koesler a Senior Priest.

Suddenly, Koesler’s eyes widened, as if the figurative bulb of discovery had lit above his head. “Look, pardon me,” he said without preamble to the bishop. “I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls. I won’t be long. Zack will entertain you till I get back.”

Father Tully, looking as dumbstruck as if he’d been poleaxed, almost glared at Koesler. “You wouldn’t do this to me!” he muttered through clenched teeth. But Koesler was already headed for the door.

As he started down the hall, he heard Tully offering Delvecchio a drink. The bishop declined.

Koesler had no time to commiserate with Tully. He had to make some calls. He prayed he Would be able to reach those who were on his mental list. If so, and if the responses were what he expected, this matter might well be wrapped up this very night.

29

As he came up from the basement, Koesler heard angry voices. Concerned, he hastened toward the living room.

The conversation ceased as both men turned toward him.

“Bob,” Delvecchio said, “I’ve had a really ugly day. And”—he glowered at Tully—”this evening has worsened a migraine: I pray you hold me excused. There really isn’t any ceremony called for; all I need is to give you this envelope. All the necessary papers are in here. This takes care of everything; all you’ll have to do is go talk to the boss. You may arrange that at your mutual convenience.”

“Wait,” Koesler said. He made no move to accept the proffered envelope. “You and I have to talk. We have to talk tonight. You don’t have to stay for the party … but, believe me:
We have to talk.”
He put special emphasis on the final four words.

Delvecchio stared at him for several moments. A knowing expression grew into a confrontational gaze. “Okay, Bob. Maybe you’re right. Maybe in the middle of a horrendous headache would be a good time for a showdown we’ve put off too long.”

“Let’s go to the basement,” Koesler said as he gestured toward the door. “We won’t be disturbed there.” He stood aside to allow the bishop to precede him. As he left the room, Koesler stage-whispered to Tully that they were not to be interrupted.

Tully nodded, but mouthed to Koesler, “This has
not
gone well!”

Koesler nodded understanding and followed Delvecchio downstairs.

They stood on opposite sides of the pool table. Koesler assumed that Delvecchio would fire the first round, if only to get everything off his chest and start to work on losing his headache.

But the bishop, silent, only stood and stared at Koesler malevolently.

“Vince,” Koesler said finally, “whatever happened to the kid who had to play the organ during Requiem Masses … the kid with the devil-may-care personality … the kid who was
fun
?”

“He grew up. He learned that rules are important. And that life is serious business.”

“Long as we’re talking about rules, how about the Golden Rule?”

“You’re a fine one to invoke the rule of doing to others as you’d have them do to you! How would you like it if
your
sister debated you in public on moral theology?”

“I suppose you’re referring to Lucy and the abortion question—”

“‘Question’? There’s no question. Not among Catholics. It’s a serious sin. And carries the penalty of excommunication!”

“Of course abortion is a serious matter. But that depends on how one defines abortion. And excommunication? You know as well as I that a person must know beforehand that an ecclesial penalty is attached to a sin before one can incur the penalty.”

“And you believe that Lucy didn’t know?”

“That’s what she said. You just didn’t ask her. And you should have.”

“You believe she was telling you the truth?”

“Of course I do! I believe she was telling me the truth about not knowing about the penalty
and
about believing that a person, for an adequate reason, could terminate a pregnancy within the first trimester—without sin.”

Delvecchio, arm raised, finger pointing at Koesler, said, “You know very well the Church’s official stand on abortion!”

“Of course I do. But we’re not talking about me; we’re dealing with what I believe is
Lucy’s
well-formed conscience.”

“Should we have gone along with Hitler’s ‘well-formed conscience’?”

“Hitler was a homicidal maniac. We’re talking about a sane, serious, and conscientious young woman. We’re talking about the supremacy of conscience.”

“Supremacy of conscience!” Delvecchio spat out the words.

“It is as John Henry Cardinal Newman said …” Koesler again invoked one of his favorite epigrams. “‘I will drink to infallibility. But first I will drink to conscience.’”

“You’re just playing with words!”

“And you were trying to intimidate your sister so she would be on the defensive if and when the media tumbled to the story of the Monsignor and his Sister the Abortion Doctor. But”—Koesler raised his hand in a stop-traffic gesture—“we’ll get back to Lucy later.

“Earlier this evening, Zack Tully asked me what made you tick. This as a prelude to taking you on about this Oath and Profession thing.

“In telling him what I knew about you, some questions came to mind. I found some answers in my own experience, as well as from a few phone calls I made here tonight.”

At any other time, or to anyone else, the bishop’s fish-eye might have been daunting. But Koesler, like a locomotive picking up steam, was not to be sidetracked.

“This steady march of yours to the conservative right wing began with Frank Morris’s suicide. You were in complete agreement that he should have no Church funeral, even though he had attended Mass regularly and tried his best to get his marriage ’fixed up.’ The denial of Christian burial dumped all the guilt of suicide on Frank. You were involved in this, even if in an innocent way. But you found a rule that absolved you. Rules could be helpful.”

Delvecchio looked as if smugly safe in his bunker barricaded by rules.

“But by far the most serious question I had concerned your mother’s death.”

For the briefest instant, Delvecchio’s eyes lost their focus. Then they snapped to attention with a snakelike fixedness.

“Specifically, I wondered about her medication for pain,” Koesler said. “The morphine bottle remained untouched even into the mid-stage of her cancer when she was in considerable pain.

“I asked her about that. She explained that she intended to join her suffering to that of Jesus on the cross. It was a heroic decision. I’m sure I couldn’t have carried it off,” he added reflectively.

“But after she explained this, I paid no further attention to the bottles at her bedside. You’ll recall the doctor wanted her to medicate herself. And so she did.”

Delvecchio gazed at Koesler unwaveringly, but wordlessly.

“When she died and the medications were being removed, I noticed the morphine bottle was empty. I assumed the pain had become so unbearable that she had begun taking the morphine. It didn’t occur to me what a coincidence it had to be that she had run out of the pills just as she had died. For surely if she had run out of them, she would’ve asked one of us to get her some more.”

Though it was cool in the rectory, especially in the basement, a thin line of perspiration had formed on the bishop’s upper lip.

“Then,” Koesler continued, “I ran back in my memory the sequence of events as your mother died.

“It was early afternoon and we were taking turns sitting with your mother. I remember you went upstairs. You stayed about twenty minutes. You were followed by your brother. Then he came down and told us he thought she was going. We all went upstairs. She was, indeed, breathing her last. She seemed to be having a most difficult time getting a breath. And then she died.

“One of the calls I just made was to Dr. Moellmann, the medical examiner.”

Delvecchio started, then seemed to regain his composure. But so attentive was he that it was as if an electrical current had switched on inside him.

“I presented it as a hypothetical question,” Koesler clarified. “I described the bottle containing the morphine and asked if a person took all the pills at one time in a suicide attempt, how long would it take for this person, already near death from cancer, to die?

“He said about twenty minutes—just the length of your visit. Allowing for you to dissolve the tablets and have your mother drink the lethal amount, and for Tony’s brief visit, that would pretty much use up the time between your visit to your mother and precipitate her death throes while Tony was with her. ”

Then there was her special difficulty breathing. The doctor said that death in such cases is caused by asphyxiation.”

Koesler paused. The bishop stood statue-silent, his gaze penetrating.

“Dr. Moellman added,” Koesler went on after a moment, “that after all these years there would be no trace left of the morphine in the body.”

He paused again. This time he gave no indication that he would continue for the moment.

“That’s not the way it was …” Delvecchio seemed to have regained total composure. “That’s not the way it was at all,” he said more firmly.

“How was it?”

“Mother was planning suicide. She wasn’t taking her pain pills. She was squirreling away the morphine so that if the pain got to be too much, she could end it. That was obvious.”

“Did you ask her about it … or talk to her about the morphine?”

“Of course not. It was obvious. She wouldn’t have told me the truth if I had asked; she’d be afraid I’d take them away from her.”

Koesler shook his head. “You just assumed all that. I talked to her about the pills and, as I told you, she didn’t take the pills because she wanted to join her suffering with that of Jesus on the cross.”

“What are you saying, Bob?” Delvecchio was now obviously on the verge of losing control.

“What I’m saying is that with a very badly mistaken intention … you killed your mother.” Koesler made the accusation reluctantly.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Delvecchio shot back. “It was the indirect voluntary—the double effect. I gave Mother some pills. The immediate effect was to prevent her suicide and save her from hellfire. The secondary effect was her death—which I did not directly want,” he added quickly. “My God, I tried to organize a prayer campaign for a miracle that would save her!”

Koesler shook his head again. “Vince, even if you could introduce the double effect principle—which I refute from the outset, since she told me why she wasn’t taking the medication, and it was
not
for suicide—it wouldn’t qualify. You’re torturing the concept. You didn’t give her ‘pills’; you gave her a lethal overdose of morphine. The first consequence would be her death. Only secondarily would it save her from hell.