Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  She tested this relationship until she was satisfied that it was working and would continue. She was an extremely attractive woman who had been pursued by other men. She had never allowed herself to make a lasting commitment. Until now.

  Yes, she was sure.

  And, without his quite understanding how she had arranged it, they were married in an east side Catholic church.

  Saving a woman from a mugger was by no means a first for Zoo Tully. But it was the first time he’d saved a woman who would become the love of his life.

  From that time on, anytime he heard of any sort of similar attack on a woman, it became a personal thing with him; at such times he would relive his experience with Anne Marie.

  Tully lifted his head from the reports. “Manj, check with the Bloom-field cops. See where they are on that rape-murder.”

  “Right, Zoo.”

  More members of the squad trickled in while Mangiapane was on the phone. When he hung up, he took his notepad and approached Tully. Angie, who had so empathized with the victim, joined the two men.

  “They’re still putting things together, Zoo. But so far, they think they’ve got a multiple rape—real violent. The vagina is pretty well torn up. A single bullet. She got it in the mouth. Real rough.”

  Moore shuddered. Tully grew grim.

  “They think somebody bumped her car. They figure she stopped and got out. And that’s when they got her.”

  Tully shook his head. “She got out!”

  “Yeah. That bump was more like a ramming. The vehicle was hit twice. Her husband said the car was in perfect shape before. Now it’s got a couple of benders in the rear. One of ’em is a heap of damage.”

  “Any make on the perp’s car?”

  “Not yet. They found some black paint chips. Figure it’s at least a black body and considerable damage on the grill, maybe even on the hood or fenders.”

  “Have they got it on LEIN?”

  “They’re getting it on now.” Mangiapane, notepad in hand, started back to his desk. Then he turned. “I was just thinking … if the guy does a lot of his driving in the Bloomfield-Birmingham area, that car’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Here, it would just be one more smackedup heap.”

  True, Tully thought. But not quite a needle in a haystack. The perp’s car might very well be one of the high-price ones. If, that is, the perps were from one of those northern suburbs. A Mercedes or something like that might well draw some attention in Detroit.

  But if it’s a clunker … well, there was no dearth of rattletraps and battered vehicles on Detroit’s streets.

  It was undoubtedly the best clue available right now.

  Before returning to his case study, Tully had one parting thought. He’d give a lot to find the bastards who’d done this. After Anne Marie’s brush with serious injury at the hands of a mugger, it was too easy to imagine something like this happening to her.

  Oh, yes, Tully would indeed like to be the one who found those SOBs.

  15

  The list of things Father Koesler took on faith grew longer as the years passed.

  As, for instance, his part in an upcoming panel. He had not volunteered, he had not even agreed to it; he had simply accepted the assignment.

  Just as in the “good old days” when, periodically—every five years ideally—priests received from the Chancery letters directing them to some parish where they would serve until they got another such letter.

  These letters were never, or at least very seldom, challenged. They were, for most priests, one slight notch below “God’s will.”

  Actually they were a pseudo-scientific labor on the part of those priests who made up the assignment board. In the fifties and sixties and earlier, tons of priests were moved about the diocese each June and September. It was the job of the assignment board to direct their fellow priests to parishes or special work without making any spectacular blunders, such as returning a priest to a parish he’d already served, or mixing languages, such as assigning an Italian-speaking priest to a Polish parish and the like.

  Once the list of assignments was made up, the bishop might check it over. More likely not. But since the bishop had appointed his priests to the assignment board, and since the bishop was the administrator of God’s will in the Ordinary’s diocese, by extension the assignments were God’s will.

  Thus when the priest received a letter, which invariably began: “For the care of souls, I have it in mind to send you to …” he went.

  For the most part, that routine no longer had much if any impact. Generally, parochial openings were listed and priests were free to apply or not. However, there were exceptions. Father Koesler’s position as moderator of the panel on dogmatic theology was very definitely a case in point.

  He had of course studied dogma in the seminary, some forty years ago. Since then he had tried to stay current. That had not been difficult during the period between his ordination in 1954 and the Vatican Council in 1962-65. The seminarians of that era in the final four years of their training enjoyed an excellent theological education. And things developed with all deliberate sluggishness.

  After the Council, change became the coin of the realm. The race was on to come up with the latest biblical interpretation, the most relevant liturgy, a morality whose direction shifted at credentialed whim.

  It was all too much for Koesler. He could not completely abandon a treasured and classically formed past, nor unreservedly embrace an untried present and future.

  And so he became what he had always been at the core—an eclectic, choosing what he carefully and prayerfully considered to be the best of those two worlds: pre-and post-Vatican Council II.

  All of which, as far as he was concerned, hardly qualified him to moderate a panel on dogmatic theology.

  But then his opinion on this assignment was not asked. Someone downtown was counting on his spirit of obedience. Someone downtown knew him pretty well.

  Besides, the subject was not the complete field of dogmatic theology. That, indeed, would have been well beyond his capability—even as a mere moderator.

  No, the subject had been narrowed to a discussion on papal infallibility.

  The very fact that this topic was going to be publicly treated gave weight to the rumor as to what the pope had in mind for his trip to Detroit.

  Was he going to raise the doctrine of Humanae Vitae to the status of an infallible pronouncement? Why else would the very topic of infallibility be scheduled to be debated as a prelude to the papal visit? But, even then, what good would discussing it do?

  As Koesler proceeded through his morning ritual—breakfast, reading with greater or lesser attention the morning paper, shower, shave, etc.—he decided he might as well let infallibility rattle around in his head.

  At the outset, he had to admit he seldom if ever even considered the concept. It was symbolic of the aforementioned gap that separated the pre-and post-conciliar Church.

  Before the council, infallibility for Catholics in general was a given. However, oddly enough, it seemed that this peculiar power had been used only once. Since the doctrine of infallibility was defined at the First Vatican Council (1869-70), only the dogma that Mary, the Mother of Jesus, after her death was assumed bodily into heaven had been proclaimed in 1950 by Pope Pius XII.

  So, as infrequently as he ever thought of it, Koesler always wondered why in the nearly two thousand years of the Church this awesome concept had been invoked only once.

  Additionally, after Vatican II, all sorts of what hitherto would have been fairly ordinary pronouncements became tagged with the stamp of infallibility—for example, the proclamation of someone being named a saint.

  Still, for the vast majority of Catholics, the Assumption of Mary remained the least common denominator. While other pronouncements of the pope, with or without the consent of the world’s bishops, might be argued over, virtually everyone agreed that the Assumption doctrine bore the stamp of infallibility.

  And it was exceedingly
difficult to get very worked up about that. Whether or not Mary’s body and soul were in heaven would not have anything to do with war, famine, pestilence, or the destruction of our environment.

  If it had not been rumored that the present pope intended to introduce infallibility to a teaching that would have far-reaching consequences, no one would be giving infallibility a second thought.

  Now, even the rumor of such a papal act could, on the one hand, cause most serious problems for an already overpopulated world and, on the other, further fragment an already tortured Church. In addition, such a proclamation would drive deeper the wedge that divided Christian churches.

  And so Father Koesler was involved. Not by his choice but through fiat of some ecclesial bureaucrat.

  He was dressed, groomed, and ready to go. The only question was how to get there.

  Mass transportation was unreliable. There was his car. But considering the Christmas rush as well as preparations for the pope, he figured he would drive that short distance only to have the devil of a time trying to find convenient parking.

  He decided to walk.

  The temperature hovered between thirty-two and thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit so the snow on the ground as well as that which was now gently falling was turning to slush. He would need boots. And, because the wind was blowing across the river, he would have to bundle up.

  When finally he was ready, he resembled a little boy whose mother has wrapped him like a mummy only to find he had to go to the bathroom. Thank God, he thought, that wasn’t the case.

  He left the rectory via the front door, and walked the few yards down Jay Street, noting the marker designating his church as a national monument. Then he went south on Orleans toward the river, turning off at Lafayette. He decided to walk through Greektown. There was always so much traffic on those cluttered streets that it seemed warmer than it actually was.

  He turned south again on Randolph and reached Jefferson. He was only five uneven blocks from Cobo Arena. But he was also only a short distance from the river with nothing to block the windchill as the breeze whipped around the RenCen complex.

  He was a little more than halfway across Woodward, the main thoroughfare of downtown Detroit, when it happened.

  He heard the acceleration, a motor suddenly racing, roaring. He half turned his head in time to see a car bearing down on him.

  Instinctively he tried to roll his body out of the vehicle’s path.

  It was that turn that saved him. The car brushed him with little more contact than a bull might have on a sidestepping matador. But he was down in the slush.

  The car didn’t even brake, but spun left on Jefferson and headed east. A woman screamed and afterward thought it was her cry that saved the priest. In reality, the car was past him by the time she’d reacted.

  Koesler felt a fool lying in the muddy slush. He tried to get up, but strong arms held him down. “Better stay still, Father, till we find out if you’re hurt.” The voice belonged to a well-dressed pedestrian.

  The woman, who—mercifully—had stopped screaming, dug his glasses out of the slush. Koesler tried to clean them with his coat sleeve. No improvement.

  A policewoman who had been directing traffic a block away came running.

  Koesler insisted on standing and, with help, he did. Nothing broken. A little tender here and there.

  The officer, after being assured the victim was not seriously injured, sought eyewitnesses. As usual, the majority of the bystanders didn’t want to get involved. But the two who had come to Koesler’s aid stayed the distance.

  “Did you see the vehicle? Get a license number?”

  “Not very good. When I heard the motor roar, I glanced at the car but I was more interested in staying out of the way,” the man said.

  “‘Staying out of the way’?”

  “Yes. I’m quite sure he was headed straight for the priest. Father was in the street—with the light, I should add. I was on the median. I was mostly concerned that the car wouldn’t jump the median and hit me.”

  “License?”

  “No way.”

  “How about make and color?”

  “Dark. Black or dark blue. An expensive model—BMW or Jaguar or something like that. Sorry, that’s about the best I can do.”

  The officer took down the witness’s identification and urged him to call if he remembered anything else.

  “How about you, ma’am?”

  “Is he all right?”

  “The priest? He seems to be. My partner will see to him. What can you tell me about the accident?”

  “Well, we were crossing the street, Woodward, when this car raced forward. I screamed. I think that’s what saved the Father. I’m Catholic,” she added, uncertain whether her religious preference was relevant.

  “Did you get a—uh, do you know what make car it was?”

  “Dark. Black, I think.”

  “But the make? Chevy? Plymouth?…”

  “A big expensive car, I think. Maybe one of those Lincoln Town cars or maybe the big Mercury.” She knew she wasn’t being helpful. But she had been frightened.

  “Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all?”

  “Well … yes … The front of the car—what do you call it … the grill …?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “It was sort of smashed in … like it had been in an accident before and hadn’t been fixed.”

  “Are you sure of that? A damaged grill?”

  “Yes. I’m certain. I remember thinking how odd that was.” She looked at him. “You know, the rest of the car looked so new and expensive, I wondered why anyone who owned such a nice car wouldn’t have it repaired right away. Of course, if he drives like this all the time, the car’s going to be a wreck in no time.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Anything else?”

  “Uh …” She thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Are you sure the Father is all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll see to him. But, about the car: Think now, did you see anything else? Anything at all? You said, ‘If he drives like that’: Did you see the driver … or any passengers?”

  “Oh … yes, yes, I remember now: a couple of young people, I don’t know, maybe in their teens … or early twenties. A boy and a girl … a man and a woman … but young. And he was driving.”

  “Do you think you might be able to recognize him—or either of them—if you saw them again?”

  “I don’t know … it happened so fast. Maybe …”

  “I see. Would you wait here for a moment, please. I’ll just see about Father. Then maybe you could come to headquarters and look at some photos. Maybe you could help us come up with a couple of composite pictures.”

  “Oh … I don’t know. I haven’t got a lot of time …”

  “It’s for Father.”

  “Uh …” She took another look at Koesler. He was beginning to look like a poster captioned, SEND THIS KID TO CAMP. “Well … all right. If it’ll help …”

  The policewoman turned her attention to Koesler, who was being interrogated by her partner, who was about out of questions. No, the priest had no idea who the driver might be or why the car had seemingly been aimed at him. No known enemies. No clue whatever as to why this had happened. But, and by all means dominant in Koesler’s mind, he had not been injured. He had just been turned into a mess.

  “Funny thing,” Koesler mused, “I think I owe my life to my father.”

  His father is still alive! The policewoman thought that amazing.

  “When I was a kid,” Koesler explained, “I once walked right into a moving streetcar ….”

  “A what?”

  “You don’t remember streetcars, do you?” Koesler smiled. “Anyway, I wasn’t hurt then. But I hardly ever left home, even when I was an adult, that my dad didn’t remind me, ‘Keep your chin up.’ In other words: Don’t walk into moving vehicles. I looked up this morning and just barely got out of the way. It was, I must say, close.”


  “Did you have business downtown, Father?”

  Koesler looked forlornly at Cobo Arena. So close and yet so far. “I was trying to get there.” He nodded toward the huge building. “I’m supposed to be part of a program … uh …” How to explain it in the least cluttered terms?“… welcoming the pope. It’s really quite important that I get there. I gave myself a little extra time this morning.” He looked down at himself. “Looks like I’m going to need it.” He resembled a soiled snowman.

  “We can help you, if you’ll help us,” said the officer. “Where’s your parish?”

  “Old St. Joe’s … on Jay and Orleans.”

  “Okay. We’ll take you there and you can change. Then you can come with us to the station and fill out a report. Then we’ll get you to Cobo. How ’bout it?”

  “Fine with me,” Koesler said. “Just in case we run a little late at the station, could you let the panelists I’m supposed to be with know what happened?”

  “Sure. We’ve got so many cops downtown today, we could almost relay the message by word of mouth.”

  They flagged down a blue-and-white and loaded Koesler and the woman in. She spent most of the short drive asking Koesler if he hadn’t heard her scream. And wasn’t it that very scream that had alerted him to the danger? And wasn’t it this sequence of events that saved his life?

  Koesler honestly could not recall a scream. But he allowed her the benefit of his panic. Undoubtedly she had screamed if she said she did. She was thrilled that she had been given the opportunity to tell him that it was she who probably saved his life.

  Saving the life of a priest seemed to her an extremely appropriate immediate preparation for Christmas.

  16

  Bonnie, mouth hanging open, sat half turned toward Rick. “I can’t believe you did that!”

  Rick smirked.

  After running down Father Koesler, he completed the left turn onto Jefferson. He was going so fast, and with the wet, slippery pavement, he fishtailed, just missing another pedestrian who had stepped off the curb in anticipation of a green light. Hearing the roar of the engine, the man had looked up to see the car seemingly out of control.