*****
After the meeting, as Cardinal Rhinehart walked back to his room in the new Domus Sanctae Marthae residence for visiting cardinals in Vatican City. He was thankful for the air conditioning and the private bathroom—unlike previous primitive facilities in the Apostolic Palace where too many cardinals had been crammed into small rooms with beds separated by hanging blankets and not nearly enough bathroom facilities. He took a brief nap to unwind from the somewhat hostile meeting. He knew the time had come to defrock Murphy. He cared only about the bad publicity. He was not the least concerned about the effect on Murphy, the man, or chimera, or whatever he was. What had the cardinal upset were the repercussions in the archdiocese when the word got out. And rest assured, it would leak out. He thought of the impossibly tangled lives of his flock. He could have a revolt on his hands. But he had some time. The defrocking could not officially take place until he returned to Washington. His itinerary called for stops in Vienna and Paris. These were important meetings that he could not miss. Stephen Murphy would have to wait.
After his nap, Cardinal Rhinehart sat on the edge of the bed and placed a call to Bishop Hernandez in Tucson.
He had difficulty concealing the anger in his voice after the unpleasant meeting at the Vatican. “The Vatican,” he said caustically, “has ordered that your monks—and I emphasize that they are your monks, must stop their abusive practices. Cardinal Hartzinger specifically mentioned the simulated crucifixions. He was well aware that a dozen priests died at the monastery in the past year. The cardinal also said that the monks, who are chasing Stephen Murphy, must be contacted and returned to the monastery before harm comes to Murphy.”
“Eminence, I would love to oblige but Brothers Michael and John are somewhere in Rome and until they call in, I have no way of communicating with them.”
The cardinal felt like ripping the phone cord and throwing the phone across the room, but he said quietly, “I’m leaving shortly for Vienna. Cardinal Hartzinger wants action not excuses. I am aware that you are not officially under my jurisdiction, but as one of the leading prelates in America, I have been tasked to see that these things are done.”
“I will do my best, your Eminence.”
*****
Later, strolling through the sculptured gardens of the Vatican, Cardinal Rhinehart couldn’t escape the thought that if either the monks from the Passion Monastery or the Knights of Carthage in Rome, somehow managed to do away with Murphy, it would conveniently solve his problem. He had no compunctions that a chimera—a being without a God-given soul—could be eliminated without committing a serious sin. Is it any worse than euthanizing a horse with a broken leg or putting to death a dangerous animal?
42
Alitalia flight 270 from Rome landed at three in the afternoon at Dulles Airport. Steve, groggy from the long flight, retrieved his suitcase from the carousel and hopped into an airport taxi. The driver headed east on the Dulles accessway for ten miles and turned north on the Capital Beltway that surrounds Washington, DC. Steve’s destination was the Regal Hotel in Germantown, Maryland, located in the heartland of companies known to be on the leading edge of research in microbiology, gene therapy and DNA testing.
As soon as he reached his room, Steve called the BioGene Company to confirm his appointment for the next morning. Yes, Dr. Richardson was expecting him.
He took off the Roman collar. He examined it. Ring around the inside of the collar. He took another from his suitcase. The black suit stretched out on the bed was not too wrinkled. It would be all right for the meeting. It could stand another wearing before cleaning and pressing. After a warm relaxing shower, Steve studied himself in the mirror. He needed a shave as usual. He wondered if electrolysis that some women used could free him from the drudgery of shaving twice a day. He remembered a Chinese friend from long ago who as a poor teenager in a small town in China was upset about shaving every day for the rest of his life. It may be that razors were scarce or nicked and painful to use. With oriental stoicism, the young man decided to pluck out every hair in his beard thinking he would never have to shave again. After his sore face recovered, his beard grew back. Steve looked in the mirror, and with a wry smile, just decided to keep on doing what he did twice a day.
He ordered a light dinner from room service. He was nervous about being in the Washington area, where all his troubles seemed to have begun. He wouldn’t want to run into anyone he knew. He even planned to avoid his old parish for fear that word of his return might leak back to the Archdiocese.
At nine the next morning Steve was ushered into a small conference room in the main building of Biogene’s sprawling complex of office buildings and labs. The secretary showed him to a seat in Dr. Richardson’s office and offered him coffee which he accepted. A few minutes later, the doctor, tall, blonde, attractive, studious looking in wire rim glasses, professional looking in a white lab coat, walked in and sank into an executive chair behind her desk. The label over the breast pocket of her lab coat had the embroidered name ‘Shelly’.
As she tidied a few papers on her desk, she studied the priest who sat in front of her. “Father Murphy, how can I help you?” she asked.
“Well, doctor....”
“Let’s drop the formalities. This is not a typical doctor’s office. This is a lab. Everyone calls me Shelly.”
“I need an examination.”
“I just told you this is a research establishment. If a physical is all you want, you’ve come to the wrong place. I suggest you make an appointment with a GP or an internist.” With that, Shelly rose from her chair to usher the priest to the door.
“I don’t mean that kind of examination. Let me tell you my problem straight out—I am a clone.”
“My, my, a Catholic priest clone. Bet the Vatican loves that!” Shelly said, with a smirk as she sat down again behind the desk. “Let me ask, how do you know you’re a clone?”
“I have some records. They’re pretty old, hard to read.”
“Considering that you are, say about....”
“I’m fifty.”
“Yes. You don’t look it by the way,” Shelly remarked, studying the priest’s dark hair, slightly gray at the temples and rugged athletic build. “You could pass for forty.”
“Thanks. I’d like to leave the papers with you for a few days to give you time to look them over.”
“I don’t want to sound rude, but how do you know I want to look them over?”
“Please. I need help with this. My cardinal and the Vatican authorities know about my situation and there are some who’d be happy if I just disappeared or died or whatever. They’ve put me under pressure but I’ve refused to resign the priesthood and just fade away.”
“They could defrock you.”
“True. But that might bring out the whole story—bad publicity, scandal. They’d much prefer to keep this quiet, although, quite frankly, they may be at the point of doing it anyway.”
“Look Father Murphy, it can’t be that bad. So you’re a human clone. A clone is really only a delayed twin. Is that so terrible?” Shelly shook her head, convinced the priest was overly concerned about his situation. Although she had never met one, there were strong rumors of the existence of other human clones. “The early furor has died down. People now seem to be taking it in stride.”
“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid,” Steve said, deciding to drop the bomb. “I suspect I may be a chimera; that is, a human-animal hybrid.”
Shelly suddenly leaned forward in her chair. She stared at him over the rim of her reading glasses. “Now you have my attention, Father Murphy. This is straight out of Greek mythology. Tell me more.”
Steve recounted the story of his mother and Jonathon and the medical center in northern Maine.
“I’m beginning to get the picture,” Shelly said, “but what was the point of experimenting with a chimera? Sounds unethical. And, by the way, what animal are we talking about?”
“Don’t know. The cloning records are fa
irly complete, but the chimera experiments offer a sketchy explanation. Marginal notes are about all there are to go on concerning the aspects relating to producing a chimera. And several pages of the report have been lost. About a year or so ago, I went up to the center and talked to the director. He said he thought the doctor who did the cloning might have mixed in animal cells to stop the genetic transfer of Lou Gehrig’s disease. My brother has it by the way and is dying of it. It’s been prevalent in our family for many generations. It’s the only reason that makes sense.”
“That might explain it,” Shelly commented. “The experimenter could have been trying to stem the course of the disease—sort of an early attempt at something roughly akin to gene therapy but at the level of the cell.”
“Well that’s the miserable story,” Steve said glumly. “Can you study these old records and run DNA tests and do whatever else is needed to get to the bottom of this? Call it a research project. I’d be happy to pay whatever it costs. Frankly, it’s driving me crazy. I was pastor of a church for years and now I don’t even know if I’m a valid priest or even a valid human being.”
Shelly studied the priest, her interest growing. “Tell me, Father Murphy, have you tried to compare yourself with other men? What I mean is...do you think you have any characteristics—physical or mental—that would distinguish you from other men? Let me put it this way: characteristics that you think may not be completely human?”
“I can run like the wind. And I’m stronger than most men…in my age category, of course. I’m not bragging. Since you asked, I’m just telling you what I’ve observed about myself.”
“I’m not doubting your abilities, but I can understand why, believing you are a chimera, you started thinking you might be part deer, part large primate and part human.”
“When you say ‘primate,’ what animal are you referring to?”
Looking him straight in the eye and with a slight smile, Shelly said, “a gorilla.”
Steve winced.
Seeing his pain, Shelly quickly added, “I’m not really serious, I just wanted to see your reaction. The animal characteristics that you think you observed may just be a fantasy that grew in your mind after you saw the medical records. You may be a fast runner and strong and not be a chimera at all. By the way, is that medical center in northern Maine still in existence?”
“Yes, but their current operation strikes me as completely legitimate. The human cloning business is no more than ancient history at the center.”
“Father Murphy, let me explain the reason for my interest in this case. I am a researcher as I said before. If tests show that you are a living, breathing chimera, and if I can have your permission to document this case in a research paper, there would be no charge for the testing. You would not be identified in the paper. I would make some reference to the subject being a cleric, but no denomination would be mentioned. However, considering that the cloning was done years ago, the chances are slim that a successful chimera was produced. So, in a way, there is little for you to worry about. If there is no evidence of a chimera, I couldn’t prepare a research paper and I would have to ask you to pay some nominal charges for the testing and preparation of a report. Is that OK with you?”
“Fair enough,” Steve answered, somewhat relieved to hear the comment about the unlikelihood that human cloning in the early days could produce a chimera.
Shelly picked up the phone. “This is Doctor Richardson of BioGene speaking. I want to schedule a subject for a full body MRI, blood chemistry, DNA sampling and hair analysis. Today is Monday. I would like the testing complete by Friday.” Cradling the phone on her shoulder, she asked Steve, “They can begin on Thursday and have results by the weekend. Is that OK?”
“Yes, of course. It will give me a couple of days to do a few other things.”
Shelly stood up and walked around the desk. Standing next to Steve, she knew she was tall, but he was several inches taller. He was handsome, no doubt about that. Why were so many priests so good looking? What a waste! As she walked him to the door of her office, she said, “As I mentioned before, we are a research lab. The tests will be conducted at the medical center about a block from here. You will report there at nine on Thursday; nothing to eat after mid-night on Wednesday.”
As Steve left, Shelly wondered, what if he is part animal? The thought gave her a fleeting erotic thrill that she couldn’t explain.
*****
On the morning following his visit to BioGene, Steve rented a car and drove up the interstate from Rockville, bypassing Frederick, Maryland and then headed west to the little town of Brunswick located on the Potomac River near historic Harpers Ferry. He was searching for the sister of Father Elmer Gustafson, his former inmate at the Passion Monastery.
“Never heard of Elmer Gustafson,” the post office clerk said, “but there is an Anna Gustafson living in town. Four houses down to the left.”
At Anna Gustafson’s house, Steve learned from a housekeeper that Ms Anna was at work. “She’s a teller at The Farmers and Mechanics Bank in Frederick.”
So, back I go to Frederick, Steve thought with a shrug.
Finally, locating the bank, Steve introduced himself to a woman who had a strong resemblance to his former friend, although she seemed about ten years younger. “I’m inquiring about your brother, Elmer,” he said. “He and I were friends at the Passion Monastery in Arizona.”
“Yes, I know about that place,” Anna commented. “That’s where the church sends the bad apples.”
From the sour look on the woman’s face Steve picked up vibes that Anna Gustafson immediately concluded that Steve, like Elmer, was one of the ‘bad apples’.
It took some coaxing to get her to agree to lunch at a nearby restaurant.
Over lunch, he described the months he had spent with Elmer at the monastery. He noticed that Anna was extremely reticent about making any comments concerning her brother. Steve knew the problem. Elmer had acknowledged that he was a three-time-loser alcoholic and his sister had become completely fed up with him.
“Ms Gustafson, I spent a lot of time with Elmer and I feel we became close friends. Under difficult circumstances, I might add. I know he had a drinking problem. Not at the monastery, of course, but from earlier times. He was completely sober at the monastery and in therapy. Please believe that I’m here to see you as a friend of Elmer’s, not as a representative of the church.”
“Why were you at the monastery?” Anna asked bluntly. “And how did you get out? I notice you’re still dressed as a priest.”
“My situation is complicated and I could try to explain that I was sent there through no fault of my own, but I doubt you’d believe me.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t believe you,” Anna commented as she poured dressing on her salad and then looked up at Steve with obvious distaste in her eyes. “Again, Father, how did you get out?”
“I escaped. I ran away. In fact, I’m still running.”
“Ran away from helpful therapy?”
“I wasn’t in therapy. Please, can’t we just talk about Elmer?”
“I have strong mixed feelings when I think about Elmer. The way he screwed up his life—it’s too difficult to talk about. The church transferred him all over the place until he became such an embarrassment they sent him to that monastery.”
“I know it’s unlikely that he could have gotten a letter out to you, but in case you have heard from him, I’d like to know how he’s doing.”
Anna stared head down at the plate in front of her. A full minute passed. Then she looked up: “Elmer’s dead.”
“What? How?” Steve asked in shock.
“They said it was an accident.”
“Don’t you have any other information about how he died?”
“No. All I have is a death certificate that came with his body for burial here in Maryland. The death certificate says he died from the trauma of an accident. That’s all. We buried him at a cemetery not far from here.”
*****
An hour later, Steve knelt in the grass at his friend, Elmer’s grave. The small headstone read: Elmer Gustafson. Rest in Peace. The emptiness, the utter simplicity of the stone brought tears to Steve’s eyes. No memorial, not even any dates listed. All that was left of a friend: a small stone, a name and a few words. He prayed for the repose of Elmer’s soul. He hoped someone had given him last rites before he died from ‘the accident’.
Steve stood up. He wiped the grass from his knees. He made the sign of the cross over the grave. Reaching into a small paper bag, he pulled out a single red rose that he had stopped to buy as he and Anna were driving to the cemetery. He laid it in front of the stone.
Anna was standing under the trees a dozen yards away. Their cars were parked beside the lane along which she had guided him to the gravesite. As Steve walked back to her, she saw the tears in his eyes. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I appreciate it. Elmer would appreciate it… if he knew. I hope you have a better future than Elmer did. Now I have to hurry back to work.”
After a polite handshake, Steve watched her walk quickly to her car and drive off.
*****
Steve would never remember what he did for the rest of that day. He drove through miles of Maryland countryside in a mental fog. In the evening he stopped for dinner in a place that would remain nameless in his memory. Later in the evening, back at the hotel, he slipped into casual clothes and went into the cocktail lounge for a drink. He was smoking again. He despised the habit, but still when traumatic events came along, the first thing he did was reach for a cigarette. There was one thing he wanted to find out but knew he never could: Where were Brothers Michael and John when Elmer had his ‘accident’? What a convenient way to dispose of someone who was troublesome—an accident in a remote place. And what authorities would question the word of the monastery—the word of the Catholic Church?