Chapter 3
She slipped into his car looking surprising fresh after her busy morning and early afternoon. She smelled of "Loves Fresh Lemon" perfume--and he smelled of perspiration. "I'll be Chantal if you'll be Dave," she said, wondering what sort of response she would receive.
"That's okay by me as long as you don't mess with my people," he said, and they both smiled.
"Take route 209 South out of town. We'll be there in less than twenty minutes. We're headed out to the western part of Monroe County, the edge of the Pocono Mountains toward Brodheadsville."
"I don't remember any monastery out there," he said with a quizzical look. "What are you getting me into?"
"Remember that I said that this is new and small. The place was founded in 1987 by my friend."
"Hey, are you really sure he's legit? Give me his social security number and I'll put it through the police computer."
"Trust me on this one, Dave. In fact, the monastery was just listed in the Scranton Diocesan Directory and in the Official Catholic Directory for the first time last year. That's a real milestone for a young monastery. Francis was a member of a large international pontifical religious order for about twenty-seven years but always felt called to a more contemplative form of that life."
"I'm not sure what all this means but keep going, Chantal. I need all the enlightenment I can get."
"His original Order was made up of men with monastic habits on that spent most of their time running schools, parishes, and foreign missions and were about as talkative and active as most people except that they lived in communities and were celibate. Francis--that's his name--wanted more emphasis on silence and common prayer. I think they call the common prayer the Liturgy of the Hours these days; they used to call it the Divine Office. 'Office' implied a burden or duty; 'liturgy' has to do with the prayer of the People of God throughout the world, being united in praise and worship freely given. Francis is a positive person who reverences the power in words and symbols. He was also interested in a wholistic approach to the spiritual life, so his community has both men and women in it as well as a number of lay women and men associated with the monastery who live in their own homes but gather there for meetings, prayer, and the like."
"This sounds fishy, Chantal. Again, what are you getting me into?"
"No, Dave, honestly, you'll be pleasantly surprised. If you like, you can call the Bishop and check out his status. The Bishop approved the foundation of the monastery and it has been going very nicely. They work very hard to support themselves, keep a great deal of silence, and meditate quite a bit. They don't even have a TV--there would be little time for it anyway. Just don't look for a huge building and big arches and a bell tower and all of that, okay? If you want arches you had better head for McDonald's.
He's just about making it financially. They live on a shoe string. They seem happy and authentic. They have a few acres and a house with a few out buildings. I think the chapel's in a barn; they call the chapel an "oratory" which is based on the Latin word ora or prayer and there's a guest house for men where a couple of monks live. The women in the community, that is the nuns, and the women guests on retreat stay in the main building. At least that's what it was like when I was out there about a year ago. Once in a while Francis and I collaborate on cases. As I said, he's a clinical psychologist and I'm a forensic psychologist and sometimes our backgrounds blend very nicely together. His specialty, actually it's a sub-specialty, is behavioral medicine. He treats a lot of people who have physical illness such as chronic pain, cancer, HIV/AIDS through the use of behavioral science techniques. He uses clinical hypnosis and a technique called "Therapeutic Touch" quite often."
"This guy is sounding flakier and flakier to me Chantal. I am a city cop. I carry a gun and see the worst side of life everyday. I don't know anything about things like this."
AThat=s why I stayed with the Western things he does. Francis utilizes many Eastern healing techniques as well. He is especially fond of something called medical qigong, which is apparently spelled a number of different ways and includes slow physical movements, breathing exercises, as well as meditation. If I have things straight, medical qigong is not only a very ancient Eastern form of Therapeutic Touch but also an entire system of Chinese medicine.@
AAre there any scientific studies to back this stuff up, Chantal?@
AOh yes, just a search on the Internet can yield hundreds of studies with positive results, but many people, even well trained scientists, have their mind made up and are not open to looking at the data. Researchers and Western doctors are beginning to say, however, that Chinese medicinal herbs are very powerful and must be used with caution, the way Francis does.@
ALike I say, I know very little about such things.@
"Well, Dave, there's one way to find out. You'll just have to meet the man."
Turning left off the highway and down a winding country road lined with leafy green trees on either side took us into a quieter and more serene inner and outer space. I was feeling lots of pain inside but trying not to show it to Dave or to anyone else. I really hadn't had time to let it all sink in. Beth was dead, probably murdered. As I quieted down, Dave, in contrast, seemed to get more and more restless. A simple red wooden sign with white lettering under the mailbox, probably handmade by one of the monastics, marked the driveway. "Salesian Monastery," it said. As we drove up the bumpy driveway, a large cross made out of old telephone poles, and impressive in its stark simplicity, welcomed us. We parked under it and walked toward the main building--a white, fairly large raised a ranch house with a little barn red porch on the front.
"Brother Benedict. Brother Benedict." Chantal began to yell excitedly over toward a garden where a man in his late sixties with gray thinning hair and overalls was weeding the vegetables. He looked up, a little startled, or maybe a little annoyed, and finally a look of resignation came over his face. He got up quietly and walked toward the psychologist.
"Welcome, Dr. Fleur. I hope your presence here doesn't mean any trouble, or more work for our abbot. Please try to be as kind as you can to him.
"Okay Brother, it's a deal. Detective Gold, I'd like you to meet Brother Benedict, one of the members of the community."
"Pleased to meet you" went back and forth.
"A detective, huh,@ muttered the monk. I suppose this one will be more trouble than ever! Abbot Francis is expecting your folks. Let me show you over to his office in the Hermitage."
We walked past the main house and, hidden away alongside the building, were a white mobile home. We opened the rear door which had a vinyl magnetic "Welcome" sign on it and then went into a small waiting area where we sat down on an old orange couch. The inside door to our left was closed and on it was a computer generated signs covered in plastic saying "Brother Francis de Sales, SMC, EdD." A stack of old Catholic Digest and New Covenant magazines sat on an end table, along with a few books and tapes that the monastery was peddling from their home and by mail order.
On the other side of the door lay a man in his late thirties stretched out on a massage table. He was dressed in faded grey gym shorts and his face radiated serenity. Shoulder length brown hair made him look like a left over from the sixties. His eyes were closed, as if in prayer. On one side of the table, a Thomas Merton looking man in his late forties wearing a light gray tunic and navy blue scapular with a hood lowered over his shoulders, the garb belted in the middle, was moving his hands slowly from head to foot a few inches above the physical body of the person on the table. The monk's intently listening face seemed to be registering feelings or perhaps some other type of information. On observation, it was difficult to discern if what the monk was receiving was coming from within him or through his patient. The abbot returned to the head and scanned down the body with his hands, lingering most especially around the heart. The patient turned on his side and the monk scanned the back from head to foot several times.
"Okay Mike, you can sit up whenever you like. Just take your time and make the transition gently and easily, opening your eyes gradually."
Mike just lay there for about two minutes, then opened his eyes and asked: "Dr. Francis, how did you know about the pain in my heart last time?"
"I can't completely explain it, Mike, but sometimes I get intuitive understandings when I do Therapeutic Touch. Some would call it a gift of the Holy Spirit, something unearned. At any rate, the information can be diagnostic of physical, psychological, or spiritual situations."
"That helps some. I felt electricity moving through me this time even more so than last and I saw some flashes of light,@ the patient said. "I had a pain in my heart that was very old and I knew I had no cardiac condition. But I now know what it is." He paused for a moment before continuing. "I've been estranged from my parents for some years. They were very neglectful and verbally abusive and I cut myself off from them. I need to do something with that but I'm not sure I know what just yet."
"Keep thinking about it Mike and maybe we can come up with some strategies next time. Then we'll get rid of that pain in your heart--okay?"
"Not only okay, Dr. Francis, it's awesome!"
"See you next week at the same time Mike. I'm going out in the waiting room now to greet some people who want to see me. You can leave by the office door whenever you are ready. Take your time. By the way, Mike, I'd kill for your hair!"
"Thank you, and I'd kill for your intuition."
The abbot walked through the door and into the waiting room, shut the door behind him, and startled Dave by giving Chantal a big hug along with a kiss on her cheek. "It's so good to see you again, Francis. Thanks for taking time out of your busy day."
"It's a wonderful excuse to be able to see you, Chantal. This must be Detective Gold."
"Yes, ah, Brother, Abbot, Doctor."
"Francis is fine. I like 'Brother' best, but most of the time I wind up getting called 'Abbot,' so whatever works. A few calls me 'Doctor.' The developmental researcher Erik Erikson says that we can experience an identity versus role confusion crisis as we move through life. I've been through it about six times now. How about if we walk around outside a little. It's a glorious day and I am sure that we all could use a little fresh air since our work coops us up a lot."
The other two nodded and followed Francis out the door. They walked past the main building. Brother Benedict quietly kept to his weeding as they walked down the driveway and out to the country road they had just driven in on. "Abbot, we are dealing with a possible murder or suicide of a woman theologian, an ex-nun, on whose computer was a Biblical quotation stating that those who lead little ones astray should have a rock tied around their necks and be thrown in the sea."
"Yes, Detective, Chantal told me that on the phone earlier today and she also told me that it was Professor Beth Johnson-Angelo who is the deceased."
"That's right, do you know her?"
"I've met her and her husband, Dr. John Johnson-Angelo, once or twice at professional conferences. I know her more through her writing in the theological journals than through the conferences, however."
"What exactly does that quotation mean, Abbot?"
"Well, Detective, I'm not a scripture scholar but my understanding is that Jesus was talking about how horrible it is to scandalize people."
"Eh, you mean like shock them?"
"Well in the Biblical sense, to scandalize means to act in such a way that you encourage other people to act in the same way and sort of lead them into sin. In my view of moral theology we are responsible for our own behavior, and that includes the behavior of one who gives bad example which would lead another into sin. For example, if your rabbi were having an affair and it became public and shocked others and weakened their faith and perhaps helped to lead them into sin he or she would be scandalizing them, and in the literal interpretation of this passage it would be better, without the forgiveness and mercy of God intervening, that this person be drowned."
You could see the computer whirling in the detective's head. Chantal's eyes were filling with tears and Francis continued walking on quietly for a moment just to let everybody be with whatever was going on within. Just then a car slowed down as it drove toward them. A smiling lady with curly hair turned silver by her children and grandchildren stopped and said hello to everyone. She told the Abbot she had been over to the office supply store and would get back to the typing. He thanked her and made a quick round of introductions, and Dotty drove off.
"Are Catholics always so pleasant?" the detective said.
"I don't think so, Detective, and I don't think Lutherans are always so pleasant either. Dotty's a Lutheran Christian and one of the most pleasant people I know, along with being the most realistic and Christian person as well."
Chantal appreciated the opportunity to lighten her inner feelings. "Well, here we are. A Catholic abbot who is some blend of progressive and very traditional, along with a Jewish detective, an agnostic psychologist, and a Lutheran secretary. All we need now is a Buddhist."
"Well, Francis smiled. I do have a good friend who is a Hindu Swami but let's save that for another day."
Detective Gold just raised his eyes and wondered why he came, grateful for the fact that at least the abbot had a woman for a secretary.
They had walked to the end of the bright country road and were near Route 209, the main highway. The trio turned around to walk back.
"Here's my hypothesis, Detective," said the abbot. "Beth either felt she led people astray by her writings and took that Biblical passage more literally than most of us would and killed herself, or there's some psychopath out there who felt the same way and did it for her."
"Now we're getting somewhere Abbot. Thank you."
Chantal couldn't quite absorb what she was hearing. AHow would anybody, why would anybody kill Beth,@ she thought out loud. "I think what you need, Detective, is a psychological autopsy to help you."
The detective shrugged and said: "Me and behavioral science never got along real well. We have the police shrinks to help us from time to time and they're always over-booked and underpaid as it is. Besides, what cop would want to let others know he's a little crazy?"
"I'll do the psychological autopsy, Chantal offered, if that won't be interfering too much detective."
"Well, I suppose it won't hurt anything, if you can tell me what it involves?"
Chantal described the process of clinical interviews with people close to Beth--friends, relatives, associates, analysis of her writings, her behavior, her schedule, everything that would reflect on who this person was and whether there was some motivation to take her own life or not.
"Her husband's in pretty bad shape, Francis. I wonder if you'd be able to see him for a few sessions to help him out. I'm just a little too close to the situation for that."
"It would be my pleasure, Chantal. Have him call the monastery and we'll work it out."
They had strolled to the beginning of the driveway and the sound of a bell was heard pealing over by a little barn. "It's about time for our Evening Prayer or Vespers, which is the older and more traditional term for this part of our Liturgy of the Hours or Divine Office. If you don't need me for anything else I'll go in and sing for my supper. It's my turn to play the keyboard this week so I suppose that I've got to make an appearance. I don't want to lead any of these little ones astray by not showing up and giving bad example. You're welcome to join us if you like, folks."
"Maybe I'll take a rain check on that Abbot, especially since I'm not Christian."
"That's fine, Detective, but what we'll be singing are psalms from the Psalter of the Jewish Bible along with a Christian reading and some prayers for our world at large. Thank you for passing them on to us. The psalms are the backbone of our liturgical prayer."
"Interesting, I didn't know you guys were into that. I thought our Bible was passé."
"Not only is it not passé, my friend, but it is the foundation of our faith. We are grateful."
Brother Benedict, now in his blue and grey habit, nodded in our direction and walked into the oratory. There was a woman in a modified nun's habit also in view of the trio. She wore a simple grey tunic and navy blue scapular with a matching blue veil which covered the back of her head. The monastic woman, or nun, could be seen through a window sitting at her choir stall. A younger man also in a grey tunic but wearing the white scapular of a novice rather than a blue one, was walking down the steps of the main building, and another nun was walking not far behind. Chantal watched Dave. His eyes took everything in and recorded it. They drove slowly out of the driveway, pensive and silent.
"Why the cross?" asked Dave.
"Oh, you mean that big cross of telephone poles--that was constructed with the compliments of Commonwealth Telephone Company."
"No, I don't mean that one, Chantal. I mean the one around the Abbot's neck. Nobody else had one on."
"It is a monastic tradition, as I understand it. The Abbot or the Abbess is the spiritual leader of the community and wears a cross to symbolize that. Kind of like a Bishop does. A Bishop runs a Diocese and wears a cross as a symbol of that. And like a Bishop who has a staff or crosier or shepherd's crook, or whatever you would like to call it, the Abbot or Abbess has one as well, except that his or hers is often simply a plain wooden staff as opposed to something that might be made of metal and more ornate."
"What does he specialize in again, Chantal."
"Behavioral medicine, Dave. It's the medicine of the future. I don't understand all of it but I know he uses clinical hypnosis and self hypnosis training to enhance the function of patients= immune systems, to relieve the side-effects of chemotherapy, to reduce anxiety, to help women deliver babies with hypnosis rather than medications, situations like that."
"Ah, that's interesting work for a monk. I still think he ought to be making jelly or bread or something." After a few moments thought, Gold asked,
"What about this Therapeutic Touch, Chantal? I heard people talking about something called Reiki. Is it related to that?@
"I believe that it is Dave. I really don't know too much about it. It's something that was developed by a nurse practitioner named Dr. Dolores Kreiger and has been taught all over the world. I understand that it lowers blood pressure, it stops babies from crying, it speeds up the healing of wounds, and it raises the hemoglobin level in the blood. Some people report getting intuitive information of a diagnostic nature by doing Therapeutic Touch on their patients."
"What do you mean, like, if they have a bad liver or something?"
"Yes, Dave, it can be physical situations, but emotional or spiritual things are also sometimes reported to be revealed to the practitioner."
"Chantal, this getting weirder by the minute."
"I know; I thought I'd save the best for last."
"Does your friend get any of this 'intuitive information' as you call it?"
"I'm pretty sure he does although he's very quiet about it. Some of it is because of confidentiality and some of it is because I don't think he wants to come across like a quack to the scientific community, or like a heretic to the spiritual community. I don't think he's either."
"We'll see, Chantal. Maybe he's both."