Authors: Jerome R Corsi
“I feel a bit weak,” Bartholomew said, “but that is probably to be expected. Father Morelli is planning to stay with me at the parish and I don’t plan to resume active duties immediately. I may say Mass every day if I can, but I plan to get a lot of rest.”
“Father Morelli, can you hold him to that promise?” Castle asked.
“I will do my best.” The priest from the Vatican answered as honestly as he could.
“Okay, then,” Castle said. “I will prepare the paperwork and you will be released this afternoon. I want to see you in my office two days from now.”
Saturday evening
Outside St. Joseph’s Church
Day 10
Long lines have been forming outside St. Joseph’s Church on Manhattan’s Upper East Side since six this morning,” Robin Blair, the anchor for Channel 5 television’s early evening news report, said in introducing her story. “Our correspondent Fernando Ferrar is on scene. Fernando, what’s drawing the crowd?”
“You might not believe it, Robin, but these people are lined up around the block outside St. Joseph’s Catholic Church,” Ferrar said as he broadcast live from the street outside the church. “And what they’re doing is waiting to go to confession.”
Ferrar, born in Puerto Rico, was becoming a fixture on the New York local news scene. Already, his uncanny ability to sense a good story and capture a tough-to-get interview had drawn the attention of the network bosses who were always on the search for promising news talent that might break into the big time of network nightly news. He fancied himself to be a younger Geraldo Rivera and he hoped his career would have equally as meteoric
a rise. Like Geraldo, Ferrar had an angular, almost sculpted face made even more distinctive by the presence of a neatly trimmed but ample mustache. His sandy brown hair and his chocolate-rich brown eyes made him a heartthrob not only in the Latino community but with the Anglo television audience as well.
“What’s going on?” Blair asked. “Do these people know something we don’t? Is the end of the world finally at hand?”
“It’s the parish priest here at St. Joseph’s,” Ferrar answered. “Father Paul Bartholomew is inside, hearing confession right now, and these people have lined up to see him.”
“I’m Catholic, too,” Robin Blair said in astonishment, “and I can’t believe it. You mean you’ve got a line there that runs blocks long just because people want to go to confession?”
“That’s right, Robin. People have lined up outside St. Joseph’s because they believe Father Bartholomew has the ability to do more than just forgive their sins. They also believe he has the power to heal their illnesses.”
In his Fifth Avenue apartment, Castle had just turned on the television with the remote, but he stopped surfing channels when he heard Ferrar mention Father Bartholomew.
Castle had settled into his recliner in his spacious living room overlooking Central Park, ready to watch a Yankees game on his wall-sized flat-screen television. He had decided not to go to the Bronx that evening to see the game in person from his season box behind third base. It had been a long day and he wanted to relax, with the likelihood he would drift off to sleep, especially if the Yankees got a comfortable lead in the early innings. This was one of the final games of the regular season and the Yankees were going into the postseason playoffs with the best record in the major leagues.
Even better, it was a year that had the possibility of turning into a subway Series, with the Mets looking like they could win
the National League Championship Series. If that happened, he planned to see every World Series game in person. Castle was one of those New York fans who liked both the Yankees and the Mets, depending on which team was doing best in any particular year. In a subway Series, he would resolve his conflict by pulling for whichever team happened to be the home team that night.
Once he saw the news report come on about Father Bartholomew, he forgot momentarily about the baseball game.
“Tell me, sir, what are you doing standing here in line outside the church?” Fernando Ferrar asked an older gentleman standing in line.
“I’m here to see the priest,” the man said.
“Is St. Joseph’s your neighborhood parish?”
“No, I’m not even Catholic.”
“Then, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you here to go to confession?”
“I’m here because they say the priest can heal illnesses and my arthritis is so bad I can barely walk, even with this cane.”
“How about you, ma’am. Are you here to see Father Bartholomew?”
“Yes, I am,” the woman answered, a little nervous. “Am I on television now?”
“Yes, ma’am, you are.”
“Well, I’ve never been on television before.”
“Do you have something you want the priest to cure?”
“Not me, it’s my daughter. She just learned she has breast cancer. I want to see if Father Bartholomew can cure my daughter. She’s supposed to have an operation next week.”
“That’s about it, Robin,” Ferrar said, speaking directly into the camera. “Hundreds of people lined up around the block just like
you see here, to go to confession with Father Bartholomew here at St. Joseph’s on the Upper East Side.”
“He is the same priest that people say suffered the stigmata, the nail wounds of Christ on his wrists,” Robin Blair asked. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, the same priest.”
“Does he still have the stigmata?”
“I haven’t seen Father Bartholomew today,” Ferrar replied, “but from what those coming out of the church say, he still has the bandages on his wrists.”
“Well, there’s probably going to be a lot more people tomorrow, after this report,” Robin Blair said, wrapping up with Ferrar.
Castle’s cell phone rang and he could see on the caller ID that it was Archbishop Duncan.
“Are you watching the local news?” Duncan asked, with concern obvious in his voice.
“Yes, I just saw the news report with that Spanish reporter outside St. Joseph’s,” Castle said.
“This could turn into a circus,” Duncan said, obviously alarmed. “Are you sure releasing Father Bartholomew from the hospital was a good idea?”
“The priest is obviously well if he can hear all those confessions,” Castle answered. “Unless you want me to commit Father Bartholomew to a psychiatric facility, we don’t have much choice.”
“Just the same, this situation is beginning to get out of hand.”
Castle understood the archbishop’s concerns. Yes, putting the priest in a psychiatric facility would limit the access of the press. But, in his gut, Castle wanted more data. He wanted to see what would happen when Father Bartholomew returned to St. Joseph’s. Seriously disturbed psychiatric patients had a way of acting out
their illnesses that made treating them easier. With Father Bartholomew back in the parish, would the stigmata heal or flame up again?
Since he took Father Bartholomew as a patient, Castle had studied enough about Padre Pio on the Internet to realize that Padre Pio had manifested stigmata for what amounted to around four decades. At fifty-four years old, Castle did not have four decades left for active psychiatric practice. Besides, a million dollars was a lot of money, but even a million dollars did not pay for decades of analysis with a priest who was determined to act out for the rest of his life the passion and death of Jesus Christ. Bartholomew was yet a young man. Castle wanted to know what was going on with him right now, not after the years of psychoanalysis it might take to cure him, if he could be cured at all.
“Committing Father Bartholomew will cause a lot of attention, too, especially after the reports on the stigmata begin circulating,” he said. “Besides, I’m scheduled to see Father Bartholomew in my office on Monday. Let’s give it until then.”
Reluctantly, the archbishop agreed. “We’ll leave it in God’s hands, then,” he resolved.
“At least for now,” Castle said. “But I share your concern. With the media publicity Father Bartholomew is already getting, this is not going to be a case confined to New York City for long.”
“Next thing we know, people are going to be camping outside the church all night, just to get in to see Father Bartholomew,” Duncan said. “From there, word of mouth will take over and we will have people all over the country—probably all over the world—following what happens at St. Joseph’s. How many people do you think there are with cancer in this city that would like an instant cure? If there’s one, there’s thousands and pretty soon they will all be demanding to see Father Bartholomew in the confessional.”
“Wait until Fernando Ferrar catches on to the Shroud,” Castle noted. “When he figures out how much Bartholomew looks like the Shroud, it will be the perfect story to go viral on the Internet. All it would take is for Ferrar to do another YouTube video about Father Bartholomew, Jesus, and the Shroud of Turin to add to the videos on the Internet showing Father Bartholomew getting the stigmata while saying Mass.”
“No need to wait,” the archbishop said with a tone of resignation. “The videos showing how much Father Bartholomew and the man in the Shroud of Turin look alike are already running on the Internet. Just go to YouTube and search Father Bartholomew’s name. You will find one running that’s particularly well done. By my count, a half million people have already viewed it.”
“This case just gets bigger and bigger,” Castle said, amused.
Sunday evening
St. Joseph’s Parish
Day 11
Outside St. Joseph’s the street scene was mayhem. People were running from the church screaming. “Get help quick” summed up the panic as people dialed 911 on their cell phones. Inside, the faithful who had lined up to have their confessions heard by Father Bartholomew stood up or kneeled in bewilderment, worried that the collapsed priest lying on the church floor had died. Dozens of people were recording the scene on cell phone videos, determined to be the first to broadcast Father Bartholomew’s collapse to their friends or to the world via the Internet. Outside, hundreds who had lined up around the block, waiting for their confessions to be heard, started pushed their way inside, determined to get a look for themselves before the miracle priest died.
“You’ve got to get over here right now,” Morelli insisted to Dr. Castle on his cell phone. Morelli’s voice sounded panicked.
“Slow down,” Dr. Castle said, trying to get Father Morelli to
calm down enough to explain what’s going on. “Where are you and what’s happening?”
“I’m at St. Joseph’s. Bartholomew is unconscious. He was hearing confessions again tonight and he had some kind of seizure. Evidently, he staggered out of the confessional and collapsed on the church floor. There were a lot of people in the church waiting to go to confession and there’s a large crowd outside that was waiting for their turn.”
“Where’s Bartholomew now?”
“We just carried him off the main altar. We’re in the sacristy.”
“Okay, stay with him. I’ll be right there.”
There was no time for Castle to call his driver and limo. Hailing a cab would be a lot quicker. With any luck, if he left immediately, he would be at the church before the ambulance arrived.
Running out of the apartment, he grabbed his medical bag. He had called downstairs to the doorman and by the time the elevator landed him on the ground floor, the taxi was waiting for him.
Driving the few blocks to St. Joseph’s, Castle called the emergency room at Beth Israel and ordered them to be ready to receive a priest who was likely to be in a coma after suffering a seizure. He wouldn’t know if the priest had suffered a stroke or heart attack until he got to the church in what he estimated would take less than five minutes.
Pushing through the crowd outside the church, Castle made his way to the sacristy. Father Bartholomew was lying on the floor, unconscious.
“Can you tell me how Father Bartholomew collapsed?” Castle asked, opening his bag to get his stethoscope.
“I didn’t see how it happened,” Morelli answered. “The nuns called me after Father Bartholomew had already collapsed. Evidently Bartholomew was hearing confessions and he had some kind of seizure. He came out of the confessional holding his heart
and he fell unconsciously to the floor right outside the confessional. The nuns carried him to the altar. When I arrived, the nuns helped me move Father Bartholomew here, into the sacristy, where we could get him away from the people in the church.”
Just then the paramedics arrived and took over.
“His pulse is weak,” Castle said, “and I’m having trouble getting a read on his blood pressure. He’s likely going into shock.”
Quickly the paramedics lifted Bartholomew to the stretcher.
“I’m riding with you,” Castle said, showing the paramedics his identification. “He’s my patient.”
The paramedics agreed, but they moved to block Morelli from getting into the back of the ambulance.
“This priest works for the Vatican,” Castle intervened. “He needs to ride in the ambulance with us.”
The paramedics looked like they were going to object, but in the rush they decided it was easier just to agree. Giving Morelli a hand, they lifted him into the ambulance and closed the doors.
“Head directly to Beth Israel,” Castle directed. “I’m on staff there and I’ve already called ahead.”
Once they were safely in the ambulance and the door was closed, the driver did his best to rush down Lexington Avenue with the siren blaring and the lights flashing. Within a block, a police cruiser joined them and led the way. Fortunately, it was almost 8
P.M.
on a Sunday evening and the midtown traffic was relatively light. The ambulance and its police escort made quick progress toward Union Square.
Inside the ambulance, the paramedics and Dr. Castle were doing their best to stabilize the priest. Castle took a hypodermic from his medical bag and injected Father Bartholomew with a stiff dose of tranquilizer.
But instead of the tranquilizer causing Father Bartholomew to
rest quietly, the priest began twisting violently. Castle wondered what could possibly be going on in the priest’s mind to cause this apparent seizure. Was this an allergic reaction to the tranquilizer, or was it something else?