YEAR OF THE DOG

How far back does scandal in the Catholic Church go? Is it only a few dozen individuals during a few isolated decades or does the corruption span social and political and financial levels for centuries...

CSU History Professesor Hank Rule has retired with plans to remain far from any limelight that the Baldpate case cast his way. However, when he gets another phone call from the sheriff of Estes Park - all of his plans change. What looks like a simple missing persons case soon escalates in the direction of an affair with a Catholic priest, an unexplained death and a ghost organization on the brink of accomplishing an ambitious and terrifying objective...

ONE…

“Hank, it’s almost one o’clock, do you plan to get out of your robe – today?”

Cleo Rule stood on the other side the screen door to her husband’s garage attic office. The midday sun was at her back casting her slender shape in silhouette.

“Really, is it that late already?” Retired CSU History Professor Hank Rule pivoted in his vintage oak desk chair, to face his wife of thirty-five years.

From a corner window an early afternoon sun hit only one side of his Hank’s face. The other half of his coffee colored skin was in shadow. “Shit! I’ve been at my desk since eight this morning and what little I’ve written is crap.”

With, her own brand of ancient Korean wisdom, Cleo spoke gently, but frankly. “It’s been eighteen months now, do you think you should see someone?”

Cleo opened the screen door then stepped into the cluttered, room. She picked her way to an antique piano stool - the only other place to sit.

“You mean a psychiatrist?”

She rested one arm on a pile of four reference books stacked at one end of an antique library table. The narrow table was at an angle to the north wall between Hank’s roll-top desk and the east wall, of overstuffed book shelves.

With each passing decade the Colorado State professor had filled his twenty foot by twenty foot space with books and reference papers that typically accompanied university teaching, research and publishing. His office was significantly larger than Cleo’s at her bookstore, but with less usable space. Hank was reluctant to part with anything. With two dated laptops, three vintage computers and monitors - he also kept original paper files in three tall metal file cabinets.Their four grown sons described their father’s office as; the-techno-museum. 

Hank’s first cell phone was in a box with thirty year old computer cables. The box of cables was on the same shelf as his 1988 IBM computer and monitor - that read six inch floppy disks. A nine-pound, still functioning Toshiba laptop was on the shelf above the vintage IBM, beside Hank’s second computer that read three inch file data disks. On the uppermost shelf was a clear plastic bin where each of Professor Rule’s former cell phones had been ‘laid-to-rest’.

Cardboard file boxes were stacked in random columns containing research material from published papers, specifically the research data for both his Master’s and doctoral thesis. Other files held additional research documentation he planned to use for potential, future papers.

After Hank retired Mrs. Rule expected they could find several days to purge his office together. However, at the height of The Count Of Baldpate investigation Professor Harrison Rule and Estes Park Sheriff Claire Gage were inundated with media intensity and numerous rounds of public speaking obligations.

When the Baldpate investigation had run its course Hank immediately dived into research for a book. He hoped the new material could make sense of a disturbing era of history that he had missed, exposed by the Baldpate case.  An era so concealed, its discovery had caused the death of several people including Hank’s best friend, Larimer County Sheriff Juan Mendoza. And then naturally over the subsequent months since, the piles of additional research material became wedged into the few spare gaps that remained in Hank’s home office.

Cleo maintained steady eye contact with her husband, a man she knew so well. “Maybe not a psychiatrist, maybe a talk therapist. You know everyone in the Psychology Department at C.S.U.”

Hank smiled then stood and extended both of his arms to grasp both of Cleo’s hands. Pulling her to stand in front of him, his arms encircled her tiny frame. “I have you to talk to.” 

At six feet Hank Rule was like a bear with paws hugging a sapling. His wife, at just five feet tall almost disappeared surrounded by two wide flannel sleeves.

Cleo’s head rested against her husband’s chest. “But you haven’t been talking to me,” she spoke into his sleeve, “not really.”

Hank kept her close. “I thought I could get over Juan’s death on my own - in time.” Tears stung behind his deep brown eyes, threatening.

“No, my darling hero, we’re not supposed to get over the death of anyone we knew well, respected and loved.” Cleo lifted her head looking up at the aging, but handsome face that had caused her many sleepless nights after they first met. 

“However, we are supposed to keep living at our absolute best, until it’s our time to go.”

TWO…

When Hank’s cell phone rang, the sound was muffled by a tissue box that blocked it and several papers covering the tissue box. 

Ultimately the call went to voicemail because Professor Rule couldn’t find his phone in time to answer it before the ringing stopped. Then he had to call the caller.“Claire, hi, it’s Hank phoning you back. I’m sorry. I missed your call because my desk is a mess…No, mess isn’t accurate. My desk is a jungle. How are you, how’s Ken?”

“Ken’s good, we’re both good.” The strong yet soft voice of Claire Gage his former CSU student who recently retired from the FBI, responded. “Ken is thriving, happily retired from pediatrics, but as you know he still wanted to make a contribution and keep relatively busy.”

“So, his newfound ability to paint is going well?” Hank wondered if he had any latent artistic skill.

“Yes, but not with local scenery. He’s illustrating a series of children’s books about the human body. Our golf game has improved. However, considering where we started with golf - that wouldn’t take much.”

There was a slight hesitation then Claire continued. “Your sweet wife called me yesterday. Cleo apologized for not keeping in touch and then she invited Ken and I to your house next Monday for a Labor Day barbeque.”

Hank smiled at his end of the conversation. He suspected his wife, the self-styled therapist, was at work. “We were reminiscing about Mendoza a few days ago, he and his daughters always came to our barbeques.”

“Every Labor Day Cleo and I fortify ourselves with fermented and distilled courage when both sides of our respective families collide here. Juan’s daughters still come, but on their own now. Our talk must have reminded Cleo of you and Ken.”

Claire laughed at Hank’s family description. “Aw yes, I remember your stories. The first meeting was a tricky diplomatic occasion of Cleo’s South Korean family with your Jamaican heritage. And don’t you have a Scottish stepfather?”

“Oh yeah, both he and my mother are eighty-eight now. Our families are a mini-nations-collection of highly opinionated personalities, which is why we only have all of them together on Labor Day. I’d be thrilled to see you both again, are you and Ken free to come?”

“We certainly are.” There was another short hesitation. “Coincidently Dr. Rule, I mean Hank I was planning to call you anyway this week. I needed to discuss something with you.”

She hurried on, “I know you’re retired, but I’d like to pick your brain if you don’t mind.”

“Only, because you’re a former student of mine.” Hank chuckled.  “So for what it’s worth you’re welcome to pick whatever you need.  However, one of our family gatherings may not be the best time.”

Hank was intrigued. “We could split the distance between, your office in Estes Park and mine here. The owners of the Damn Store just west of Loveland have good coffee and bad doughnuts.”

“I know the place, but I’m retired soon too - again. My first term as Estes Park Sheriff will be up this fall and I decided not to run for a second term. If you’re available tomorrow, say around nine I’d prefer that if it’s possible, to meet you at Cleo’s store. I know the coffee is just as good and we won’t be interrupted or overheard.”

Hank caught the concern in her tone, but made light of her chosen meeting place. “Overheard no, but interrupted entirely possible if we’re in my wife’s office at her noisy bookstore.”

Claire shook her head at her end of the call. “You and Cleo are amazing. I wish everyone could have the kind of relationship you two have.”

“Really? I don’t think so. I keep trying to loan her out, but no one accepts my offer…” Hank laughed at his own joke this time. “Nine in the morning will be perfect. Cleo and her manger Lorna Torley don’t open the store until ten.”

………..

Fronting North College Avenue – Cottonwood Books was kitty-corner and one block west of the Silver Grill Café. Al’s News Stand was its northern business neighbor and The Children’s Mercantile Toy Store was to the south. The store was open Wednesday to Saturday 10AM to 6PM and Sunday from noon to 5PM then closed all day Monday and Tuesday.

Inside the century old building, floor to ceiling book shelves lined both south and north walls. A wide round pinewood table surrounded by mismatched chairs was available for customers to use for research, homework or browsing through a prospective purchase. In the center of the store, directly behind the table were five rows of tall wide bookcases each displaying, a specific genre. A deep bay window at the front allowed for seasonal displays of new inventory with space for the weekly Saturday puppet show and morning story time.

The checkout counter was U-shaped and more or less floated between the north wall of books and the library table just inside the front door. Nearly every fixture that furnished the store came from antique auctions or was scrounged from thrift stores or built to fit into quirky corners and spaces.

As directed Claire Gage parked just off the alley, behind the store. When she got out of her car, the late August morning felt cool with a hint that winter could be early this year. She noticed that some leaves on a few Aspens in Estes Park had already begun to turn their typical yellow-gold.

When the rear doorbell rang Cleo had just opened two DHL boxes delivered only a few minutes earlier. Bent over in the narrow back entrance, she had to stand on one box to open her back door.

“Claire, good morning. Pardon the tight squeeze. If you step into the powder room I can reclose the back door and then you can just step over that slightly smaller box. Fortunately your legs are longer than mine.”

“Cleo thank you for allowing me meet with Hank in your office.”

“You’re welcome,” The older woman lowered her voice. “But I need to thank you as well. Seeing you again may be just the tonic Hank needs to set himself upright again.”

“He’s gathered piles of research for a book, but Hank is still frazzled trying to make sense of the meeting we had with the Bogodo Lama and the history the Lama shared about Dea Matri Luna.”

“Me too,” Claire involuntarily shivered, “whenever I stop to think about it, which is way too often.” 

“And, between you and me, the Baldpate case remains one investigation continuing to haunt FBI Agent Margaret Hawkins. She has since been promoted and has then been transferred to DC from Paris just a little over a year ago.” 

Cleo took a deep breath. “My office is at the top of those stairs and my cappuccino maker is on and ready.” She smiled then returned to unpacking her latest shipment of stock.

Cleo’s office occupied a long narrow landing area eight feet by twenty feet at the top of the stairs on the store’s second floor. A wide door, set between two sets of pine book cases Hank had finished building one year earlier, led to a one bedroom apartment rented by Cleo’s store manager, Lorna.

Hank had heard the voices of Claire and his wife, so when Claire was barely half way up the stairs the aroma of strong fresh coffee welcomed her.

“Oh, my, gosh this tastes so good. Your cappuccino alone was worth the drive.” Claire sat at one end of a seven-foot antique church pew.

Claire was tall and still slim with the longer sand colored hair of her youth cut layered to her chin. She had changed her glass frames from the ones Hank remembered a year ago. However, neither her years with the FBI nor the years since her experience in the Baldpate investigation had hardened her features. Her hazel eyes looked rested and relaxed.

Hank waited for his own cup to fill then he settled at the opposite end of the vintage oak bench, facing Claire. “Speaking of drive, what brings to Fort Collins?” 

Claire wasted no more time. “I have a widowed aunt, Sara Dell, who lives in Steamboat Springs. That’s not significant unless you factor in that she and her three childhood, lifelong friends Hedy Schwartz, Grace Porter and Lois Walsh were born, raised, and graduated from high school in Steamboat Springs.”

“And - except for their three years of teachers college in Greeley, when U.N.C. Greeley was only a teachers college, Aunt Sara, Grace and Hedy married their high school sweethearts. Then too they also taught school their entire adult working lives in Steamboat.”

“Their fourth friend, Lois Walsh never dated anyone steady in high school and then after she graduated from college out-of-the-blue, she accepted a teaching job in Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

“However, Lois’s slightly more adventuresome spirit soon faded and after only three years away Lois returned to Colorado. By then, the only teaching position open even close to Steamboat, was in Walden so she taught there until she retired.” 

“Anyway–that’s enough background. A week ago this past Tuesday evening my Aunt Sara called me because Lois Walsh had disappeared.”

“After the four friends retired they began playing Bridge every Tuesday afternoon and Friday morning. Each week the ladies took turns driving. Last Friday it was my Aunt Sara’s turn to drive so she picked up Grace and Hedy then stopped to collect Lois to go for lunch before their card game. Aunt Sara waited out front as usual then she honked, but Lois didn’t come out of her front door as usual.”

“The other three went to the restaurant then immediately called Lois’s landline and were surprised to get a recording that it was ‘no longer in service’. None of the four gals have cell phones, but they do have email and follow Facebook.”

“However, later that afternoon after Bridge Lois still hadn’t responded to any messages left by Hedy, Grace, my Aunt Sara or anyone else in their Bridge club.” 

“Since Lois was an only child and had no other known living relatives, the next morning my Aunt Sara reported her to the Steamboat Springs sheriff as a missing person. Twenty-four hours later the sheriff had a local locksmith open Lois’s front door.”

“Inside the small house Lois had inherited from her parents, nothing looked out of place or disturbed and her car was still in the garage.”

“The local sheriff took statements from all twenty-eight members of the Steamboat Springs Bridge Club, as well as Lois’s former principal and other staff in Walden. As of today it’s been ten calendar days since Lois went missing, but the sheriff hasn’t come up with any leads he can follow.” 

“Then - last Saturday Aunt Sara called me again. In with her morning mail, my aunt got this large brown envelope addressed to her.” Claire opened a quilted Vera Bradley bag, retrieving the envelope.

“There’s no return address and I could just make out some of the blurred stamp cancellation that looks like part of a date, that was only four days after Lois went missing.” Claire turned the envelop and pointed to the upper corner. “Then here there’s something with the letters ending in ‘o-n-a’ followed by some numbers.”

“Inside this brown envelope was a journal that Lois Walsh kept. The journal began in 1960 just after she turned fourteen.”

“The first twenty pages from 1960 to 1962 were pretty standard teen stuff until late 1963. Four months into the twelfth grade, Lois began secretly dating not a boy from their school, but a man she called J.T. who was twelve years her senior.”  

Dr. Rule finished his cappuccino and guessed that the rest of Claire’s had gone cold. “Ohhh, now the story’s getting interesting, but where do any of my history skills come into play?” 

Claire looked down at her coffee cup. She took a sip of the cold drink then swallowed the rest of her cup’s contents. “What do you know about priests in the Catholic Church, historically speaking?” 

The blunt leftfield question caught Hank by surprise. “In the context of…?”

“Were some of them ever married?”

“Yes and no, historically speaking.” Hank stood and returned his cup to the sideboard by Cleo’s desk then reached for Claire’s empty cup.“The vast majority of people forget that historically early Christians were Jews and the Jews considered marriage more of a spiritual state than celibacy.”

“There’s also some confusion in the general public between celibacy and chastity however, the Catholic Church makes a definite distinction between the two. To be celibate is ‘not’ to be married to another mortal. Chastity is not participating in sexual intercourse.”  

Hank continued. “Historically speaking, during the first two centuries there were constant systematic changes in the emerging catholic doctrine.”

“Christian leadership began to promote chastity as the gift of God. Since the life of a priest was to conform to that of the accepted unmarried Christ-life, then celibacy was merged with chastity and both became the new spiritual-state as opposed to marriage. However, chastity was only the new rule - in the west.”

Claire looked confused.

“It’s complicated.” Hank took out a bottle of water for each of them from Cleo’s small office fridge. “In Eastern Europe candidates for priesthood could marry with permission. However, if they had already been ordained they couldn’t become bishops. In Western Europe celibacy became law in 1074 mandated by Pope Gregory. Much later though that same Canon Law was eventually applied to the entire western hemisphere and all lands conquered by the New World explorers.”

“So, from 1074 to present day all newly ordained Catholic Priests–and nuns too–were to be celibate and chaste. No marriage and no sex.” 

Hank removed the cap from his bottled water. “Am I correct in concluding your aunt read the entire journal and the secret life of her childhood friend has been a bit of wee shock?”

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