Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  It was, in fact, her allegiance to and regard for her Church that prompted her anxiety over the evening’s topic of conversation.

  Anne Marie was disturbed at all the possible consequences of the pope’s looming visit. If he were indeed to do what the priests thought he intended, her Church would become a laughingstock to most of the world. Of perhaps greater impact, the Church would be decimated. So many, particularly those who respected and generally followed the directions of the hierarchy while liberally interpreting their faith, would be torn away from their Church, their tradition.

  And, as had been intimated this evening, the pope could be walking out on an extremely flimsy branch. Someone might well try to sever that branch. Someone might well try to kill him.

  No matter what, she would never wish anything like that on the pope. Moreover, even a mere attempt on the pope’s life would draw her husband into the picture. His squad had been spared the assignment of protecting the pope. Yet if there were a homicide—or even an attempted homicide—Zoo’s squad undoubtedly would be the first to respond. And Zoo suddenly could be in danger’s path.

  The bathroom light was extinguished. Only the night light provided any sight lines.

  She felt the mattress give as Zoo slid into bed. Usually they welcomed each other with an embrace. But tonight Anne Marie didn’t turn to him. He wondered about that. He snuggled close to her and gently stroked her breast. Her breasts, like the rest of her body, were firm and rounded. As the song went, “lovely to look at, delightful to hold, and heaven to kiss.” But tonight there was no response.

  Tully did not now need a seasoned sixth sense to know something was wrong.

  Propped on one elbow, Tully asked, “Something wrong, babe?”

  Anne Marie turned onto her back. “I can’t get tonight’s conversation off my mind.”

  “Tonight’s—that? You mean about the pope? Shoot, that’s got nothing to do with us, honey. No need to trouble yourself. He’ll be in and out of town before you know it.”

  “But I am troubled—worried. What if what those priests were saying actually happens?”

  “They’re just guessing, hon. Educated guesses, I s’pose, but still just nothin’ more than guesses. Anyway,” he said reassuringly, “whatever happens’s got nothing to do with us.” Silence. “Has it?”

  This Catholic stuff could get into a person’s bloodstream. Not his. But possibly his wife’s.

  Anne Marie’s concern was twofold. She was troubled for her Church. She did not want to experience what might prove to be the second great schism. Also, she was worried about her husband’s role in the upcoming drama.

  There was no point going into the first of these concerns. It would make no sense to Zoo. Privately she thought he was as apprehensive as she about the danger inherent in this papal visit. “What if the priests tonight are right—about the kooks out there who want to get to the pope?”

  “About that, they’ve got to be right on target.” He rolled onto his back. Under the covers he held her hand.

  “That is one of my main worries—about you … and the danger you’d be in.”

  He chuckled softly. “Homicide cops don’t get in trouble … at least not usually. We’re the whodunit gang. I’m not in any trouble, hon. All the while the pope’s here, I’ll be off doing my thing. And I won’t be running out of work. We got a backload of cases crying to be solved. That’s why Walt got us excused from the protection detail; he knows better than anyone how much there is for us to do. He left my squad intact just for that.”

  “But what if someone attacks the pope? What if someone … actually kills him?”

  Tully shook his head. She could hear the pillow rustle. “It’d be our jurisdiction all right. But he’s a head of state. All hell’d break loose. I don’t even want to think about that.

  “Of course,” he mused, “all hell’s gonna bust loose anyhow. He couldn’t have picked a much worse time to come here. Just days before Christmas. There’ll be strike forces and special agents all over the place. Whole areas of the city’ll be cordoned off. And people are still gonna be doing their last minute shopping. No, I don’t wanta think about it.

  “The only good thing”—he continued to think about it—“is that this isn’t gonna be one of those multination conferences where the heads of state from around the world get together. All we have to protect is the man in white. So, there is a silver lining.”

  Anne Marie felt somewhat reassured, at least with respect to one, and perhaps her predominant, concern.

  She turned to him, sliding her arms around his neck.

  It was an invitation to which he readily responded. Now this, he thought, is more like it!

  8

  Father Koesler removed his boots before opening the door and starting on what for him had become a mad dash to deactivate the alarm system. In actuality, he had ten seconds from the time he opened the door before the alarm sounded and, as the salesman had accurately described it, all hell broke loose. But such was Koesler’s concern for the residents of this sparsely populated neighborhood that he wished neither to disturb them nor rob them of sleep.

  Old St. Joseph’s, Koesler’s benefice, was only a few blocks north of the Detroit River and a few blocks east of the city’s prime avenue, Woodward. Once, many years ago, it had been a bustling parish, but time and migration had taken their toll.

  Now, the complex of rectory and church stood quite alone. Highrise apartments and columns of condominiums stood apart as if challenging the old parish to become at all relevant to their fast-lane lifestyle.

  Koesler had been attempting to do just that in the few years he’d been pastor of St. Joe’s. Gradually he was gaining a bit of ground. The number of weekend liturgical participants was growing, sometimes imperceptibly. But he was counting.

  This marked the end of a busy Sunday. He had presided over two morning liturgies and had several scheduled appointments in the afternoon. Then there was the Koznicki party this evening.

  Koesler had always enjoyed visiting with these longtime friends. His friendship with Lieutenant Tully was cordial. And Anne Marie’s gregarious personality would make her welcome in any gathering.

  As for Paul Smith, this was another example of the tight fraternal ties that bind priests in a virtually universal companionship. The “universal” aspect of this connection had suffered somewhat since Vatican II. Prior to the Council, the Catholic clergy had little to debate. At least into the twentieth century, development of doctrine was minimal and tortoiselike—while moral theology lay entrapped within 2,414 Church laws.

  Then, as the Vatican bombshell hit, some priests raced ahead of the vanguard, some stood still, hoping it would all go away, and some were destroyed.

  Koesler liked to consider himself eclectic, picking and choosing his way through the ecclesial debris, preserving what seemed best to serve his people, and disregarding what might harm them. Though he would not describe himself as “liberal,” that label would be pinned on him as an epithet by traditionalists.

  Their motto could have been popularized as, “The Church: Love It or Leave It.” Of course, by loving it, they must accept totally all that is commanded by Rome. Various categories of ecclesial philosophies are claimed by or attached to today’s priests. Where once there was near unanimity, now there are sharp and deep divisions.

  The mere fact that Paul Smith was just entering his seventies did not automatically place him in some foreordained slot. But Koesler was at a loss to pinpoint exactly where in the ecclesiastical spectrum Father Smith fit in.

  Smith was only five years older than Koesler but, even though they’d been ordained to serve in the same archdiocese of Detroit, they’d never been close. Which is not to say they were unfriendly in any way, only that they seldom traveled in the same social or fraternal circles.

  Koesler naturally was aware that Smith had been a high achiever in the seminary and that he’d been selected to study abroad just before and after ordination. Seminarians like
Koesler who had what might be described as an unexceptional school career—completing their studies in the states as was the normal course of events—knew that those who were sent to Rome, Louvain, and the like were being groomed for special offices … teaching, officiating in the Chancery or Tribunal, or becoming bishops.

  Not everyone sent abroad to prepare for special ministries scaled the ladders of promotion. Smith was in this group. Filled with promise as a seminarian, he seemed to lose his fire after ordination. Thereafter he lived a normal, fairly prosaic priestly life. He was an assistant—or as later titled, associate—pastor; then pastor in several different parishes; and then came retirement.

  Some of those who retired did so in spades, to homes they had prepared for themselves in Florida, California, or even Hawaii. Some stayed in harness, but worked at their own pace in parishes they chose. Some of these migrated south for the winters. They were now, compared with their years of parochial assignments, masters of their fate.

  Paul Smith had chosen in retirement to work in St. Gregory’s parish. Nor did he go south for the winter. Since Smith happened to work in the Koznickis’ parish, Koesler figured to be drawn more close to Smith in the foreseeable future. Koesler had no problem with this. Smith seemed a friendly, knowledgeable priest and, blessedly, had a sense of humor.

  Sleep beckoned. It was a bit early for Koesler’s bedtime, but he’d had a busy day and tomorrow would be even busier. Besides his regular parochial duties and appointments, there was that blasted symposium panel he was supposed to moderate. And there was the rehearsal scheduled for tomorrow morning. Tonight he was trying to rationalize his way out of preparing for said rehearsal. Surely there would be time for that early tomorrow. Surely, as moderator, he would have need of little or no preparation.

  Surely he was kidding himself.

  He poured a few fingers of Scotch into a tall glass, adding ice and water. Just enough liquor to taste but not anywhere near enough to impede concentration.

  He went to his office and took from a desk drawer an official-looking packet. The packaging was impressive. It looked as if it contained highly sensitive materials reserved for the eyes of a few of the elect. But appearances can be deceptive.

  He knew that almost any priest in the archdiocese could get a packet like this … and without pulling all that many strings. But, on to his homework.

  There would be six panel discussions in all. Each would be held in various large meeting rooms in Cobo Hall. This huge structure, named after a former mayor of Detroit, was located just west of Woodward at the edge of the Detroit River. Both underground and roof parking were available. The hall itself could be set up to accommodate almost any size gathering from a gigantic auto show to a relatively small meeting. Depending on the configuration, one might be looking merely at four walls or one might enjoy a breathtaking view of downtown Detroit, the glorious river and/or downtown Windsor in Canada.

  Tomorrow—Monday—was sort of an orientation exercise: get to know your fellow panelist and moderator. The six conferences were labeled: Dogmatic Theology, Moral Theology, Canon Law, Liturgy, Evangelization, and Stewardship.

  The purpose of these conferences was anyone’s guess. Papal visitations were a relatively new wrinkle. During the reign of Pius XII in the thirties and forties, the pope was known as the prisoner of the Vatican. If he was a prisoner, the confinement was self-imposed. The beloved John XXIII also stayed home. But beginning with Paul VI, popes began amassing air travel miles.

  Even so, when a pope came to town, he just arrived, visited, said what he came to say, and departed—all with the maximum hoopla.

  However, consensus held that this visit to Detroit was going to be unique in a number of areas. And staging panel discussions as a prelude to the pope’s arrival was just that—unique.

  Koesler paged idly through the booklet he’d been sent. It had been prepared by several experts in various ecclesial fields: seminary professors, chancery personnel, and assorted other bureaucrats. The identity of these scholars and officials was not disclosed. Rumor had it that some contributors were women. Rumor had it that this—women contributors—was the reason for this wholesale masking of identities. The pope, in effect, seemed to think that women’s place was in the laundry, the kitchen, the bed, or at prayer.

  It was thought that there was no point in disturbing the pope needlessly. Thus there was no need of publicizing the scholarly contributions of local women. So there were no bylines. Some of the male contributors were not pleased. There was nothing they could do about it. This was Cardinal Boyle’s territory. And that’s the way he allowed things to operate.

  The anonymous authors of the day-to-day and hour-by-hour agenda reminded Koesler of malpractice-worried physicians. Every item, every second seemed carefully and totally scheduled.

  For example, the panel discussions themselves were covered by the following “key elements”:

  List of those to be credentialed; pre-event timeline; event timeline; clean site; security; staffing; lighting (with technician); sound system and backup (with technician); standby generator (with operator); decorations (curtain with logo, flags, other decorations, platform); steps to platform (12″); plantings (floral, greens); chairs (2); stool (1); podium; box lunches; check temperature control; stage hand(s);first aid station(s); post-event cleanup; list of volunteers to be thanked.

  That, thought Koesler, ought to do it.

  The two chairs undoubtedly were for the panelists, the stool for himself.

  The item that most caught his eye was the first: “List of those to be credentialed.”

  Fanning through the booklet, he noticed photos of some of the participants in this papal affair. But these were big shot Church functionaries. A smattering of Cardinals, some archbishops and bishops. Koesler thought these worthies would be “credentialed,” though he was uncertain exactly what the word denoted.

  While he was looking over the list of bishops, it occurred to him that there were precious few Europeans. Mostly Americans and a smattering of Orientals and Canadians.

  The top-heavy listing of Americans was to be expected. Those especially who had been made bishops most recently would be lemmings should the pope gesture toward a cliff edge. So loyal were they.

  Koesler wondered at the absence of representatives from European and Second and Third World countries. Was this a statement? Were they voting with their feet—staying away in protest of what the pope was expected to proclaim?

  Koesler thought that hypothesis held considerable water.

  Next he turned his attention to the panelists in the various conferences.

  Somebody had a sense of humor.

  Koesler did not personally know any of them. But he had heard of all of them. And he was familiar with their work as well as their conservative or liberal platform.

  This is where all the opinions about this papal visitation came together.

  The prime projected guess as to the raison d’être for this convocation was, of course, that the pope was going to bump the doctrine on birth control as established in Humanae Vitae from Ordinary Magis-terium to infallible pronouncement.

  That was the supposed bombshell.

  But adding weight to that supposition were these preparatory conferences. Koesler bet that these panel discussions were aimed at setting the scene for what the pope would do once he took center stage here. The panelists were supposed to prepare the ground for the seeds of dissension that would follow, (thus theoretically neutralizing all such opposition and quashing any such dissent).

  Probably the topics were prepared in Rome, maybe by the Curia—the top bureaucratic Church agency. But obviously, either Rome had not picked the participants, or the people Rome had picked had been artfully waylaid. The participants listed were more apt to ruffle feathers than make smooth the path.

  Without exception, each and every panelist and moderator was American. European hotshots such as Bernard Häiring, Hans Küng, Edward Schillebeeckx were conspicuous by their
absence.

  All those listed were American citizens. Many were teaching or otherwise functioning overseas. While they were not the big guns, they were probably just as learned and informed. They merely had not been packaged and marketed. They represented both conservative and liberal camps … although the conservatives preferred the appellation “orthodox” (not to be confused with the Orthodox Church).

  It was the liberal faction that most interested Koesler.

  For the pope’s purpose, it would have been more advantageous to have the liberal wing represented—but not strongly. Church spokesmen who favored the individual instead of the institution were needed, but as a sort of window dressing.

  It seemed obvious to Koesler that these panel discussions were intended to lead into the most conservative pronouncement in recent memory. To achieve this, the liberal camp must be set up as a straw man whose only purpose is to be knocked over.

  But the liberals who would be streaming into town even at this very moment were not by anyone’s lights weak or ineffectual opponents destined to deliver a token opinion before obediently falling on their swords.

  These gentlemen would give battle.

  All of this, to Koesler, portended an interesting couple of days. And it indicated to him that, as far as Rome was concerned, something had gone very wrong. He had no way of telling where the glitch had occurred. But unless he missed his guess, somebody, buried perhaps in Detroit’s bureaucracy, had thrown a wrench in the Vatican’s works. That somebody, even now, was scurrying to protect his rear.

  And well he should.

  The next two—or even three—days might just be a lot of fun!

  The only fly in that ointment of merriment would come if someone were to actually attack the pope.

  Koesler consoled himself with the memory of Inspector Koznicki’s assurance that no one not credentialed to the inner sanctum of these events would be able to approach the pope.