“Gennardo’s not alone,” Kulinski renewed the conversation. “Guys like Budreau, Dye, and O’Dowd—even Flinty Feeny—were here from the beginning of the forerunner to this seminary. For a lot of years, they taught a nineteenth-century theology. Things like ‘probabilism’ and ‘intrinsic evil’ and that crazy ‘ordinary magisterium.’ Well, it’s like Bill here said, nobody believes in that stuff anymore … nobody, that is, with the exception of a few guys who should have been put on the shelf long ago. I don’t know how they’re able to coexist with the younger faculty members. By and large, the younger ones are up to date.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Zimmer, “that’s a pretty full shelf you’ve got there, Dick. Not all the older guys belong in retirement, would you say?”
“Well, O.K.: O’Dowd tries to keep up. And Dye is, at most, harmless. And they are nice enough.
“But they certainly don’t have the same fresh approach to theology that the younger faculty has.”
“I’m with Lennie,” said Doody. “I find this all very confusing.”
“You didn’t take those sex orientation classes, did you, Rafe?” asked Kulinski.
“No.” Doody blushed.
“Too bad. You would have learned a lot about things like wet dreams,” said Kulinski. “Come with me, Scooby-Dooby-Doody. I have some pictures in my room that will open up a whole new world for you.”
“You’d better go too, Lennie,” Zimmer urged Marks.
That very afternoon, Marks and Doody would learn what separates the boys from the girls. This information would have no effect whatsoever on the incidence of nocturnal pollution.
With the possible exception of the police chaplain, Father Koesler knew his way around police headquarters better than any other clergyman, indeed almost as well as any Detroit police officer. But his familiarity with the place was, as with St. Paul’s call to apostleship, as one born out of due time.
The early years of his priesthood had been spent in an undistinguished manner. He had been ordained for parish service in the Archdiocese of Detroit. Over the following years, he had been assigned to several parishes as an assistant pastor. He had also concomitantly spent twelve of those years as editor-in-chief of the Detroit Catholic.
Late in his career as editor, he had incidentally become involved in the police investigation of a series of murders of area priests and nuns. Then, while pastor of St. Anselm’s, he had been called upon by his friend, Inspector Koznicki, to participate in the investigation of two other homicide cases, each involving the local Catholic scene.
In the course of these investigations, Koesler had become conversant with police procedure, as well as the routine of police headquarters at 1300 Beaubien in the heart of downtown Detroit.
Koesler now strode confidently down the fifth floor corridor of headquarters until he reached the central office of the Homicide Division. He asked for Inspector Koznicki, then waited for the return of the sergeant who served as the Inspector’s secretary. He was promptly ushered into his friend’s office.
“I hope I’m not intruding. I was down at Ren Cen and decided to take a chance of finding you in.”
“Not at all, Father. Always a pleasure to see you."
“I was wondering if there are any further developments in our seminary case.”
“As a matter of fact, Father, yes. But we do not yet know what to make of it.”
Koesler, immediately attentive, took a chair near Koznicki’s desk.
“You will recall,” Koznicki began, “the incident involving Father Sklarski outside Robinson’s Cleaners … the one that may or may not be part of the series of attacks against seminary professors?”
Koesler nodded eagerly.
“Then you will recall that one of the people our men apprehended happens to be a neighborhood gang leader we have been after for a long time. We now have him on so many charges that he has decided to be somewhat cooperative in the hope of winning some concessions from the prosecutor’s office.
“By the way, would you care for some coffee? Tea?”
Koesler shook his head.
“Well,” Koznicki continued, “he swears—and I tend to believe him—that they had no intention of assaulting Father Sklarski. They are very aware of the routines followed by most of the priests at the seminary. But, by and large, they never considered the little they could hope to gain from the mugging of a priest worth the risk they would have to take of being apprehended.”
“Then what—?”
“I come to that, Father. He claims that word was put out that ‘a white dude’ probably dressed in black would be in that vicinity and would have something on his person worth stealing. And, of course, a gun would be a desired object.”
“But … who put out the word?”
“Unfortunately, the message had been passed through so many in the neighborhood that we have found it impossible to trace it to its source.”
“Well,” Koesler sat back with a bemused look, “isn’t that interesting!”
“Yes, it is. But did you notice the mention of how the neighborhood has taken cognizance of the routines followed by your priest faculty?”
Koesler nodded.
“And you will recall the importance we have placed on these very routines. These attacks have quite obviously been preceded by an enormous amount of surveillance. Who but someone who had spent hours planning would know, for example, that you always eat at the seminary on Friday evenings?”
“Certainly, Inspector, you have a point. I could not dispute it.”
“Then, Father, it would stand to reason that, at least while this investigation continues, it would be well for the professors if they were to break their routines. Do things at unpredictable, unplanned, other-than-usual times.”
Koesler began to laugh. Slowly, he brought himself back under control.
“Excuse me, Inspector,” the priest shook out a clean handkerchief and began wiping his glasses, “but of all God’s creatures, I believe we priests are among the most dedicated slaves to routine. At least priests of my generation and older. Our entire seminary training was planned to make us creatures of habit. ‘Keep the rule and the rule will keep you.’ We rose at the same time. Went to meditation and Mass at the same time. Dined—if you could call it that—went to class, studied, prayed, played, and retired at the same time every day. A bell ruled our lives.
“It was an ingenious system. And it produced slaves to routine: most of us still organize our lives compulsively in tight little routines. We say Mass at the same time every day. Arrange our class schedules for the same time. The second Tuesday of each month the parish council meets. The third Sunday of the month is for infant baptisms. And on Friday evenings,” Koesler paused and smiled as he put his glasses back on, “I eat dinner at the seminary.
“Some of the younger priests, especially those ordained in recent years, escaped our seminary regimen and can hang a bit more loose. But I assure you, Inspector, most of the priests now on the faculty of the seminary could break their habits of life as easily as a leopard could change its spots.”
“Not even to save your lives?”
“Not for any reason. I firmly believe the formation of a habit-filled life is quite beyond our control. We must live with our habits.”
“Apparently, Father, our assailant is aware of this and is taking advantage of it.” Koznicki smoothed his bushy dark mustache with an index finger so large it seemed the equal of two fingers on anyone else’s hand. “And that leaves us with one unpleasant if inescapable conclusion.”
Koesler looked at Koznicki quizzically.
“We must become familiar with the routines of the seminary clerical faculty ... at least as familiar with them as our assailant apparently is.”
There was silence as the Inspector’s words sank in.
“I’d better help you with this one,” Koesler suggested. “I’ll try to break this news to my confreres gently. I know from experience they will not take lightly what I am sure they will consider a
n invasion of their privacy.”
“Then, that is a good idea, and I am grateful for your help, Father. Try to impress on the other Fathers that this is for their protection. An ounce of prevention, you know.”
“I know. Now to convince them.”
“Good luck, Father.”
“Pray for me.”
Koesler said it with a straight face. Koznicki smiled at the role reversal.
It was just 11:30 a.m., the regular hour for Father Gennardo’s period of meditation. He entered the seminary’s inner courtyard and began pacing the worn brick walkway.
The path would take him around and around in the squared circle.
The Gospel reading at this morning’s Mass had been the Sermon on the Mount, or the Beatitudes. Gennardo decided, based on that reading, to meditate on the spirit of poverty.
Under the Sulpician method of meditation, he tried to conjure up an appropriate scene from the Gospels. He zeroed in on the Nativity. A traditional creché came to mind. In his mind’s eye he saw the mother and newborn child with Joseph protecting them. He saw the animals warming the three humans. He saw the snow. And, at this point, his stream of consciousness betrayed him.
The snow put him in mind of the light dusting of snow that had been added last night to the three inches already on the ground. It was only midday, but already it was trampled and gray.
This vision in turn led him to the memory of a time and place in his past wherein the snows of winter fell in unblemished blankets and remained white and smooth as a coverlet all season. That would have been at the erstwhile St. John’s Seminary of happy memory. St. John’s Seminary and the relatively uncluttered era of the 1950s and ’60s. That was a time to remember!
The memories came flooding in. There was the beginning of it all on that bitter cold day in 1948 when Bishop Francis Haas of Grand Rapids dedicated the cornerstone. He had told a shivering crowd that this occasion marked “the Church’s coming of age in Michigan.”
If that were, indeed, the coming of age for the Catholic Church in Michigan, Gennardo meditated, maturation had peaked a bit early. For now, the Michigan Church was decidedly going downhill, at least as far as the clergy were concerned. Currently, there were not enough seminarians to keep even these modest buildings open. If not for the non-seminarian students, the Archdiocese probably would have had to retrench again, and move into still less commodious buildings.
Lost in thought, Gennardo unconsciously quickened his pace.
He had completely lost his fanciful nativity scene. But the late St. John’s Seminary was coming in clearly. He could almost smell the newness of the buildings.
For no particular reason, he recalled one early morning when the seminarian leading morning prayers turned too many pages just before the end, and concluded with the final words of evening prayers, “Let us offer up the sleep we are about to take in union with that which Jesus took while on earth.” And that just prior to meditation period! It turned out that was just about the final straw for that young man. Stupid young man. It did not take us long to know that he did everything wrong. Nor did it take us long to dismiss him.
There was a loud ‘ping’; a patch of plaster exploded just above Gennardo’s head. Gennardo, lost in thought, paced on, accelerating ever so slightly.
Then there was the lad who broke everything—well, almost everything—he touched. Gennardo couldn’t recall his name. But he could visualize the trail of demolished articles the seminarian had left in his wake. It had not taken the faculty long to advise him to look elsewhere for a career. Imagine! He would have been an absolute menace to any parish he might have been assigned to.
But that, of course, was another time and another faculty. The lout might even have been able to be ordained with the present faculty and today’s need for priests. He could rely only on Ly Feeny and Al Budreau to join with him when it was time to stand firm for high standards for seminarians.
There was another loud ‘ping’ as something thwacked into the wood paneling just behind Gennardo. He turned briefly to look behind him. No one else was in the courtyard. He shrugged and continued pacing.
Of course, to be perfectly fair, we didn’t catch all the loony tunes even back in the good old days, thought Gennardo. There was the young man who, just weeks before his scheduled ordination, sent a postcard, of all things, to the Chancery, addressed, “To whom it may concern,” advising that he and his parents were planning a European trip after his ordination, and asking for an extended vacation before his first assignment. There had been some long, stormy faculty meetings attended by several priests from the Chancery regarding that young man. Eventually, he was ordained. And, while he was still a priest, his career had been on the underside of mediocre.
There was another decidedly noticeable ‘ping,’ as a patch of gravel behind Father Gennardo’s left heel kicked high into the air. Some of it splattered into the pool, startling the goldfish. Gennardo glanced at the water and noted its troubled surface. He looked up at the ceiling, but could see nothing indicating anything had fallen.
He lit a cigarette and continued pacing.
The pudgy man in black began to curse under his breath. How could he miss at this range? He stood in the shadows of the balcony overlooking the courtyard. He didn’t know how many bullets he had left. He had been so proud of the silencer he had been able to purchase. But what good was it if he couldn’t hit his target?
Maybe it was because he was using only one hand. Of course; that was it! He remembered all those TV movies: cops always held their weapon in both hands and stood with their feet apart, and then fired. They usually hit their target, too.
The man assumed the legendary stance, and waited for Gennardo to complete the square and come into view again.
Then there was the firebug, Gennardo mused. When he wasn’t starting a blaze someplace in the seminary, he was pulling a false alarm. It had taken a goodly amount of time and effort to discover the culprit, but when we found him, out on his ear he went. Faster than he could strike a match. Of course, he wouldn’t be kept in the seminary even today. There may be a drastic need for priests, and the present faculty may be lax when it comes to standards, but even today, no one would contend we should ordain a pyromaniac.
Another loud ‘ping,’ and below the surface of the pool was a goldfish that would never flutter another gill. Gennardo looked up intently. At long last, still unable to detect any irregularity in the ceiling, he walked on.
Then there was the lad, Gennardo reminisced, who, during noon prayers, when the prayer-hall was crowded with seminarians, unleashed a mouse. The room was filled with squirming students—all trying to evade the scurrying little creature. Ly Feeny had been furious. We kept our eyes on that student and, eventually, had a sufficient case to get rid of him. Imagine what he might have done if we had let him loose in a parish! Probably done the same thing at a Rosary Altar meeting.
Poor ladies!
The little man in black was beside himself. He just couldn’t go back to the group having failed again. They would remind him that his task was as simple as shooting fish in a barrel. And he would have to confess that that is exactly what he had accomplished. He looked at his weapon in disgust. He considered hitting it. He was, after all, a top-thumper: When things did not work—a normal experience in his life—he would usually thump them on the top.
Well, why not? He thumped the gun. It accidentally discharged.
Father Gennardo half spun and fell heavily to the ground. He did not move. Blood began to seep from his upper torso onto the bricks.
The little man could scarcely believe his eyes. He stared at Gennardo’s inert form. He could not describe how he felt. Certainly not any single emotion. Some combination of exhilaration and shame. He had better put as much distance between himself and this scene in as brief a time as he possibly could. He separated the silencer from the pistol, pocketed both, and fled.
As far as he could tell, no one had seen him.
As the EMS van
sped along West Outer Drive toward Mt. Carmel, the driver phoned the hospital security guard, who, in turn, notified the emergency room. A Code One—gunshot—designation alerted the hospital’s trauma team. Thus twelve medical attendants were on hand to greet Father Gennardo’s unconscious form. Five doctors, five nurses, an anesthetist, and a respiratory care expert went to work on the priest.
They were followed by an agitated Father Albert Budreau, who had found Gennardo and had closely trailed the EMS van to the hospital. Now, violet stole over his shoulders, a vial of consecrated olive oil and small ritual in his left hand and a ball of cotton in his right, Budreau was trying to catch up with the gurney disappearing into the trauma room. Budreau scooted through the doors in the gurney’s wake.
“Is it all right if I give him the Sacrament of the Sick?” Budreau felt a bit defensive.
“Yes, of course. But try to stay out of our way. We’ve got to find out what’s wrong.” Dr. Sam Blackford, chief resident surgeon, was, at best, an agnostic. On the odd occasion when a priest was a patient in emergency, Blackford was used to having several other priests attending to spiritual care. He didn’t mind. If they believed in religion sufficiently to be priests, they deserved whatever consolation they got out of this blessing.
It still wasn’t as bad as when a cop was admitted. Then there were so many other police in attendance, it was difficult for the trauma team to get close to the victim.
“Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piisimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum deliquisti, Amen.” Budreau made the sign of the cross with the oil on both closed eyelids, then wiped away the oil with the cotton.
“The entrance was right here, under the scapular,” said Blackford. “It looks like a small caliber.”
“I’m giving Father the anointing in the old Latin. He would like that,” Budreau gratuitously explained.
“That’s nice,” said Dr. Blackford.
Budreau traced a cross with oil on Gennardo’s ears. “Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piisimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per auditum deliquisti, Amen.”
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