The Shroud Codex - Jerome R. Corsi [41]
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