trays and an appointment book, still open to the day of the murder. Vail leafed through it. Meetings, writing deadlines, dinners and consultations were entered on every line, sometimes only fifteen minutes apart. For the fateful evening, he had scribbled in “Altar boy critique” and “tape sermon” followed by “Subject-Descartes: I think therefore I am. Ergo, if all problems can be solved by human reason, does God become obsolete? Explain.”
It was an interesting thesis and Vail jotted it down in his notebook, more out of curiosity than because he thought it might be relevant to the case. Then he tried the drawers. The one on the upper left was locked. He took a paper clip from the center drawer, bent it double and slipped it into the keyhole, twisting it, sensing the tumblers, then feeling it catch and twist the lock open. He slid open the drawer. Inside was a small leather journal.The front half was an address book, the back half was marked “Personal Appointments.”
He checked the appointment pages randomly. For March 9, Rushman had penciled in “Linda 555-4527.” There were very few other notations. It would seem the archbishop had little time for personal endeavors. Vail scribbled the information down in his own notebook and closed and relocked the drawer. He got up and looked at the titles of other books on the shelves but was interrupted by a soft Irish accent.
“Excuse me, Detective, may I help you?”
The priest who had entered the room was in his fifties, portly, with pure white hair and a pleasant, almost cherubic face. But his features seemed to sag from the weight of the past few days and his eyes were bloodshot, either from lack of sleep or from crying. He wore a black band on his left sleeve.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m not a policeman, Father, I’m an attorney.” Vail hesitated a moment before adding, “I represent Aaron Stampler.”
“I see,” the priest said, apparently neither shocked nor upset by the admission. “I’m Father Augustus Delaney,” he said, and held out his hand.
“Vail. Martin Vail.”
“Poor Aaron,” he said. “God bless the lad. I pray for his forgiveness.”
“Did you know him?”
“Oh yes. A pleasant lad, y’know. God knows what terrible demons captured his soul that he should commit such an act.”
Vail decided against his usual sermon on the quality of innocence.
“It’s an irony, isn’t it?” Father Delaney said softly. “The bishop is not only the victim, but his privacy is violated even in death. What a shame the dear man can’t rest in peace.”
“I agree,” Vail said. “Look, Father, this is probably a very dumb question, but what exactly does a bishop do?”
The priest smiled and walked around the desk to check the mail. “Why, he runs the show, Mr. Vail,” he said, leafing through the letters. “The Holy See—the archdiocese.” He returned the unread sheaf of paper to the letter tray and turned the pages of the appointment book until it was current.
“There are fifty-three hundred square miles in this See,” he went on, running his finger down the list of appointments as he spoke. “Seven colleges and universities, several hundred elementaryand high schools, twelve hospitals, three hundred and twelve parishes and missions, over a thousand priests, over a hundred brothers and approximately three thousand nuns. Also thousands of deacons and lay workers.” He looked up and smiled. “Impressive territory, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very,” Vail answered.
Delaney leaned against the comer of the desk with his hands folded together and said, “Bishops are the bond between parishioners and priests and the Vatican. ‘Teachers of doctrine, priests of sacred worship, and ministers of governance,’ that’s the job description by canon law. An immense job, sir; the stress of it has destroyed more than one good priest.”
“And how did the archbishop handle it?”
“He thrived on it. His schedule was
It was an interesting thesis and Vail jotted it down in his notebook, more out of curiosity than because he thought it might be relevant to the case. Then he tried the drawers. The one on the upper left was locked. He took a paper clip from the center drawer, bent it double and slipped it into the keyhole, twisting it, sensing the tumblers, then feeling it catch and twist the lock open. He slid open the drawer. Inside was a small leather journal.The front half was an address book, the back half was marked “Personal Appointments.”
He checked the appointment pages randomly. For March 9, Rushman had penciled in “Linda 555-4527.” There were very few other notations. It would seem the archbishop had little time for personal endeavors. Vail scribbled the information down in his own notebook and closed and relocked the drawer. He got up and looked at the titles of other books on the shelves but was interrupted by a soft Irish accent.
“Excuse me, Detective, may I help you?”
The priest who had entered the room was in his fifties, portly, with pure white hair and a pleasant, almost cherubic face. But his features seemed to sag from the weight of the past few days and his eyes were bloodshot, either from lack of sleep or from crying. He wore a black band on his left sleeve.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m not a policeman, Father, I’m an attorney.” Vail hesitated a moment before adding, “I represent Aaron Stampler.”
“I see,” the priest said, apparently neither shocked nor upset by the admission. “I’m Father Augustus Delaney,” he said, and held out his hand.
“Vail. Martin Vail.”
“Poor Aaron,” he said. “God bless the lad. I pray for his forgiveness.”
“Did you know him?”
“Oh yes. A pleasant lad, y’know. God knows what terrible demons captured his soul that he should commit such an act.”
Vail decided against his usual sermon on the quality of innocence.
“It’s an irony, isn’t it?” Father Delaney said softly. “The bishop is not only the victim, but his privacy is violated even in death. What a shame the dear man can’t rest in peace.”
“I agree,” Vail said. “Look, Father, this is probably a very dumb question, but what exactly does a bishop do?”
The priest smiled and walked around the desk to check the mail. “Why, he runs the show, Mr. Vail,” he said, leafing through the letters. “The Holy See—the archdiocese.” He returned the unread sheaf of paper to the letter tray and turned the pages of the appointment book until it was current.
“There are fifty-three hundred square miles in this See,” he went on, running his finger down the list of appointments as he spoke. “Seven colleges and universities, several hundred elementaryand high schools, twelve hospitals, three hundred and twelve parishes and missions, over a thousand priests, over a hundred brothers and approximately three thousand nuns. Also thousands of deacons and lay workers.” He looked up and smiled. “Impressive territory, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very,” Vail answered.
Delaney leaned against the comer of the desk with his hands folded together and said, “Bishops are the bond between parishioners and priests and the Vatican. ‘Teachers of doctrine, priests of sacred worship, and ministers of governance,’ that’s the job description by canon law. An immense job, sir; the stress of it has destroyed more than one good priest.”
“And how did the archbishop handle it?”
“He thrived on it. His schedule was
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