Chapter 22: Investigations

“You are absolutely certain, then? The coroner’s report shows no drugs, no hallucinogens, no substances of any kind?”

“No, sir. Father Bernard’s body showed no evidence of any substance that might have caused hallucinations or insanity. There are no drug traces or other physiological evidence pointing to a trigger for his breakdown.”

“Yet he virtually tore himself to pieces. His face was a mask of utter terror. This is not the act of a rational man, obviously. The simple conclusion must be that something, or someone, drove him to madness.”

The elderly man steepled his fingers and rested his extended thumbs against the bridge of his prominent, hawk-like nose. His thick gray brows wrinkled while he considered the possibilities. Something niggled at the back of his mind. His memory went back over a half century of service in the investigative branch of the church. Something like this, in the dim past, he thought, some earlier incident, forgotten and buried in the records...

“Call the research department, old country. Tell them to use the following keywords... “ As he spoke, the old man scribbled a list of words on a letterhead sheet, and handed it to his young assistant.

“This is urgent! It is to be communicated under encryption. Highest priority, for department head eyes only. Now hurry, and speak nothing of this to anyone outside our office.” The old man rubbed his forehead in nervous agitation. Yes, he thought to himself, I remember. We thought it was over, eradicated, obliterated. Perhaps we missed one, or like weeds it has sprung from the earth once more. No matter. We killed it before, we’ll kill it again. He reached across his massive desk and picked up a seldom-used telephone.

The high-speed film was processed the same night it was exposed. Black and white grainy images, typical of film pushed by aggressive development, yielded recognizable views of an elderly man of Caucasian descent, dressed atypically for his race. Shoulder length hair in odd streaks of gray and black hung loosely from his head, restrained by an intricately beaded headband. His clothing was typical for the the western ranching region, but his footwear was not. His tanned leather moccasins, high-topped and decorated with intricate bead work designs, and laced in the style of a rider’s leggings, were not at all typical of modern western wear for anyone, let alone a white man.

The elderly investigator studied the photos. The manner of hairstyle, the headband, the moccasins and leggings, all stirred his suspicions. He began to associate the manner of Father Bernard’s death to his early memories of long-forgotten church history.

“Call a courier. Have these images sent where you sent the list of search words. Have them research the bead work patterns on the headband, and the footwear. Again, highest priority, and strictest confidence. No speculations, no rumors. Is that clear?”

The assistant scurried to his desk, packaged the photos with a scrawled note in an envelope, locked that into a courier bag, and called their courier service. He felt a sense of foreboding. Something about his superior’s disquiet was contagious, disturbing. He had no clue to the possible cause, but since the grotesque death of Father Bernard, everyone in the church structure was nervous, unsettled.

If only we had dealt with that corrupt bastard as he deserved, early on, he thought to himself. Such thoughts could never be uttered, he knew. He should have been retired; quietly sent away.

Monsignor Arturo Vitelli was a suspicious man. He took nothing at face value. He was a natural-born ferret, a wraith, a shadow who could and did peer into every keyhole, crack, disguise, facade, and story until he uncovered whatever lay hidden behind. As a child, he had learned that his parents cheated on each other. He had secretly observed his father going to assignations with a young widow in their neighborhood of the ancient European capital city where his family had prospered and achieved power within the ruling church. He crept through the streets behind his father, unseen, and once he’d learned the house location, he had crept through the alleys and gained a vantage point where he could peer through windows and gaze upon the obscene sight of his father’s fat body bouncing upon the sprawled form of the younger woman. Oddly, he felt no arousal himself. Sex was of no interest to him. It was the pursuit of secrets that fueled his lust and became an insatiable appetite within his young mind.

His mother was much easier to reveal. Her lover came to the house when she thought herself to be alone, her husband away at his church offices, and her son at school. Arturo found a secret entrance into the house through the basement and up the back stairs. It was easy to bore a hidden spy hole from a back closet into his parent’s bed chambers. Even he, poisoned at an adolescent age with cynicism, was astonished to see that it was the young priest from their own district who was grunting and thrusting between his mother’s quivering thighs, her knees pulled nearly to her shoulders, her lusty, obscene cries heard but ignored by their embarrassed household staff.

Arturo kept a secret diary, filled with meticulous detail. Every fact, every careless word, every bit and hint of evidence uttered within his hearing was recorded. In time it would become his passport into the elite hierarchy of those who guarded the greater secrets of the church. None dared oppose him. None dared thwart Arturo Vitelli’s ambitions. He held secrets that if whispered in the proper ears would destroy any who dared. His father was first to learn the awful truth.

When the patriarch proposed that Arturo, youngest of his several sons, be sent to a distant monastery to learn humility in acolyte service, and further, to be limited to a small portion of the family wealth, Arturo insisted on a private meeting in his father’s office. He left with a guarantee of a fully-endowed education at any university of his choice, anywhere in the world, and a signed will and covenant guaranteeing him the bulk of the family fortune, accessible at any time of his choosing, with the further guarantee that all would be his upon his father’s death. Arturo graciously expressed his wish that his father’s death might remain far in the future, but the inheritance was assuredly his. In return the senior Vitelli was assured that no hint of his lusty indiscretions or his egregious venal sins would ever reach the ears of his superiors.

“And father, should I myself suffer an untimely accident or death, it would be a tragedy of the greatest magnitude. Certain parcels and letters would be revealed as my parting legacy, and I fear the results would be unfortunate for any whose name is recorded therein.” Many might speculate how such records could be found or intercepted, but the risks were too great and Arturo was careful never to overplay his hand. A sort of détente was reached, bargains struck, and over the years all the players in his great conspiracy of peaceful coexistence had learned to accommodate themselves to a certain level of trust.