“Don’t misunderstand me, Tempe. What was done to these children is vile and disgusting. And sinful. Any priest who engaged in such behavior must be punished to the full extent of the law.”
“But you feel the situation has been misrepresented by the media?” I didn’t like where this was going.
“Much of the coverage has been fair and justified. Some has not. All I am saying is that another scandal would be devastating to the church.”
Morris dropped the hand and lifted his mug. Didn’t drink.
“A few rogue priests do not define who we are. Deep in my soul I believe the clergy is made up of moral and honorable men. Men who love God and their fellow human beings and want to make a difference in this world.”
Morris looked past me for a moment. But I saw his face reflected in the secretary glass. In his eyes I saw pain, perhaps fear.
My mouth went dry. I braced myself, certain Morris was about to tell me Granger Hoke had sexually molested children.
I could not have been more wrong.
Morris turned back to me, face tired and sad.
“In 1998, Granger Hoke was defrocked for performing unauthorized exorcisms.”
“Exorcisms.” Not sure if the feeling washing through me was relief or shock.
“Yes.”
“As in driving out demons?”
“I suppose you could put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“As defined in the catechism of the Catholic Church, an exorcism is the public and authoritative demand, in the name of Jesus Christ, that a person, place, or object be protected against the power of the Evil One, and withdrawn from his dominion.”
“Satan.”
“He is real, in some form.”
“This isn’t the fifteenth century, Father.”
“No. It’s not.” Patient smile. “But evil still exists in this world and exorcisms are still performed. In fact, the Vatican reviewed the process and revised the rite in 1999, though use of the traditional Latin form is still permitted.”
“Performed under what circumstances?” I’d seen The Exorcist, The Rite, but that was Hollywood. I was having trouble wrapping my mind around the concept of Lucifer in America in the age of Silicon Valley and Twitter.
Morris sipped his tea before answering, perhaps compiling a list in his head.
“Indicators of demonic possession include supernatural abilities and strength, speaking in foreign or ancient languages not known to the subject, knowledge of hidden or remote things to which the subject cannot be privy on his or her own, aversion to holy objects, profuse blasphemy, sacrilege.”
I could only stare.
“The underlying assumption is that the subject retains his or her own free will, but the devil has taken control of his or her physical body. The ritual involves prayers, invocations, and blessings that—”
“Who can perform an exorcism?”
“Technically, anyone.”
“Technically?”
“Yes. But the church recognizes the dangers inherent in exorcisms conducted by untrained individuals. And the potential for charlatanism. So only an ordained priest is permitted to perform the rite. And only with the express permission of his bishop. Don’t misunderstand me, Tempe. Exorcisms occur extremely rarely, and only following careful medical and psychiatric evaluation.”
“Granger Hoke is an ordained priest.”
“Was.”
“Fine. What was the problem?”
Morris raised the mug to his lips, lowered it without drinking.
“At one time, the function of exorcist was part of the ordination of priests. In hierarchy, the office fell somewhere above deacon and below full priest. Few seminaries now train exorcists, and today any ordained priest may perform the rite. But only those appointed by the bishop or archbishop are allowed to do so with the blessing of the church.”
“Official exorcists.”
“Yes.”
“How many are there?”
“Typically, one per diocese or archdiocese.”
“And Hoke wasn’t one of those sanctioned.” I could see where this was going.
“No.”
“Yet he kept doing it.”
“Though reprimanded and told to desist. But unauthorized exorcism wasn’t the only issue. Hoke was eventually relocated from the Midwest to North Carolina. In the mid-nineties, while pastor of a small parish in Watauga County, he began deviating from traditional Catholic teachings, shifting toward a more fundamentalist, Pentecostal doctrine.”
Morris nodded to himself and looked down at his mug.
“Did you know that exorcisms are performed by charismatic, Pentecostal, and many other brands of Christianity? I read recently that, by conservative estimates, there are at least five or six hundred evangelical exorcism ministries in existence today, quite possibly far more.”
“Hoke put a hellfire spin on his preaching?”
“He did.”
“And it got him booted.”
“Defrocked. After that he vanished for a while, eventually reappeared in Avery County and established the Jesus Lord Holiness church. Though ordered not to do so, he calls himself a priest, wears a cassock and collar, says Mass, administers the sacraments, and preaches his own distorted version of Catholicism.”
“Which features a starring role for Satan.”
“Yes.”
Somewhere beyond the quiet of the study, a door closed.
“Are exorcisms legal?”
“As long as the subject agrees of his or her own free will.”
“So the church has no way to stop a rogue like Hoke.”
“Sadly, no.”
“Anything else?”
A second slipped by. When Morris answered, his voice had the same guarded tone I’d heard on the phone. “No.”
In that brief hesitation I knew he was lying. Or at least holding back.
“Thank you, Father.” I stood.
Morris walked me to the door. Said “God be with you.” Offered a blessing. I took a pass.
“Remember what I’ve said about honor among priests, Tempe. I believe in it. And I believe in the church.”
I didn’t respond, knowing my voice would betray my suspicion about his forthrightness. I started down the steps.
“Tempe.”
I turned.
“Be careful.”
I left him, bathed in lamplight, framed by the needlework woman in her halo and robes.
—
Back home, I hit the fridge, made myself a ham and salami sandwich, and popped a Diet Coke. My mind was snapping with a horrifying new solution to the puzzle. But there were still gaps.
Nerves humming, I booted my Mac, eager to dig up everything I could on Granger Hoke. To snug into place the last missing pieces.
And found zip.
But I learned volumes about exorcism.
Hours later, I slumped back in my chair. The room had darkened around me. The cold cuts and bread felt solid as a rock in my gut.
I knew the victims. The probable cause of death. The meaning of the trace.
Inexplicably, I felt an overpowering desire to talk to Ryan. More than a desire. A need.
I lit a lamp and relocated to the couch. Dialed.
Ryan answered sounding, well, nothing. When motivated, the man is a master at disguise.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he said.
“Did you get my email?”
“Yeah.” Too flat.
“You do understand why I had to cancel?”
“It’s a mean business we’re in.” There was a nuance I couldn’t read low in his voice.
“Are you working something?” To avoid treading dangerous ground.
“Homicide. Farmer found facedown in his barn outside Saint-Amable. Jean-Guy Lessard.”
“Is it going well?”
“Not for the asshole I’ve got in the box.”
“What’s the story?” Barely interested. Wanting to get on with my own.
“Lessard feels sorry for the neighbor kid, hires him for odd jobs as an excuse to toss money his way.” I heard the flare of a match, a soft fizz, an expulsion of air. “Tuesday, Lessard goes into town, so the kid decides to check out the safe. Lessard returns early, surprises him. The kid panics, puts three slugs in his chest.”