Requiem for Moses

by William Kienzle

  Koesler looked shocked. “Is he alive?! His eyes popped open. He made sounds.”

  “Since this event last night, there has been no statement from a physician or a family member regarding his condition. Could the phenomenon have some rational explanation? Air remaining in his body and escaping? I seem to recall that the man’s sister caused quite a commotion. Might that have had something to do with the event? Cause the release of trapped breath? There are many questions that as yet have no answer.”

  “You’re right about the sister.” Koesler smiled briefly. Calling Aunt Sophie’s carryings-on a commotion was a vast understatement. “And you’re right about the questions. If he is dead now, that would seem to bolster the possibility that he did not really come back to life. That’s a question that should be answered very soon.

  “Presuming he is alive, I don’t know what to believe. He looked dead. And then he seemed to be alive. Not very much alive—but alive. However, there are other explanations that come to mind.”

  “Such as?” Boyle prompted.

  “Homicide. Or, maybe more precisely, attempted murder.”

  Boyle was acutely aware of Koesler’s involvement in the investigation of several murders in the past. The Cardinal was inclined to write off Koesler’s suggestion that attempted murder might possibly have been involved here. Surely, with such a history, the priest’s consciousness had to have been raised to the point where he viewed any questionable death as a possible homicide. Boyle did not dismiss the possibility out of hand. But neither did he consider it likely … although at the very least, it was worth considering. “Why murder?”

  “The thought occurred to me last night as I talked with a business partner of Dr. Green, as well as with the doctor’s children and a former mistress.”

  Boyle pursed his lips. “You think these people might have considered murdering the Doctor?”

  “I remember thinking in each instance,” Koesler replied, “that it was lucky the doctor had died—or seemingly died—of natural causes. Because if he hadn’t, with all that he had done to these people, each one of them would be a suspect if he had died under suspicious circumstances. Last night, I didn’t give it a second thought. The man had died of natural causes. So, no matter what he had done to these people to make them hate and despise him, it didn’t make any difference. None of them could have been a murderer simply because he hadn’t been murdered. But, today …”

  There was a period of silence while both men considered alternative explanations for this phenomenon.

  Koesler attempted to find a logical conclusion to this affair. “When Dr. Green was brought into St. Joseph’s Church last night, he was either dead or alive. If he was alive, he was in the deepest state of unconsciousness I’ve ever seen. If he was alive, he had to fool a lot of people.

  “But it seems to me that if he was in some unconscious state, it had to be caused by something. An accident? Attempted suicide? Attempted murder? An illness?

  “And if he was dead …”

  “… we have a miracle on our hands,” Boyle completed Koesler’s thought.

  “By this afternoon,” Boyle said, “I will have formed a committee for the purpose of evaluating this event. But I want you, Father Koesler, to play a backstage role. This request I make of you will be just between the two of us. I have no idea whether the police will conduct their own investigation. But you have worked with the police in the past. Perhaps it would be good, in case they do not begin their own investigation, that you would suggest that possibility to them.

  “And know, Father, that my office is open to you. We must do our very best to reach a final judgment in this matter as quickly as possible.”

  Boyle rose. The meeting was over.

  Koesler left the Cardinal’s office in a distracted state. What if this case were designated an attempted murder? Was it blind fate that had steered the crime’s climax to St. Joseph’s Church? Was it merely an accident that at least five people had revealed to him individual circumstances that easily could have led to murder? Accident or kismet?

  In any case, particularly in light of the final commission the Cardinal had just given him, Father Koesler would have to be ready to get involved in—or even initiate—a police investigation.

  Chapter Eleven

  Father Koesler did not have to wait long before he saw the Detroit Police out in force.

  It was only with police aid that he was able to drive into his own parking lot and his own garage. Orleans and Jay, the corner where Old St. Joe’s was situated, was packed with what seemed to be hundreds of people.

  Also, because he had received no other directive, Bennie, the janitor, had unlocked the church doors. So all these people now jamming the street were merely the overflow who had been unable to squeeze into the church.

  It appeared as if the entire downtown contingent of police had been assigned to keep some sort of order in, at, and around the church.

  Two officers escorted Koesler from his garage to the rectory door. Reporters shouted questions at him as he made his way through the crowd. The police escort, expediting his passage, relieved him of any need or opportunity to respond.

  Inside, the rectory was a fortress—a fortress under siege.

  Bennie blamed himself for the present chaos. He had not looked outside before opening the doors. So the mob had been a distinct and bewildering surprise.

  However, even if he had been aware of the size of the crowd waiting to enter, he probably still would have unlocked the doors. That was what he was supposed to do.

  It was all Koesler could do to try to keep Bennie from blaming him self for the sack of Rome. Antoinette, whom Koesler privately referred to as Mrs. Bennie, tried to console her husband, with only minimal success.

  Mary O’Connor, secretary and general factotum of the parish, was undone. Koesler had never seen his longtime friend so flustered. When he entered her office, she was on the phone. As she wordlessly handed him a stack of call-back messages, she lifted her eyes toward heaven. Several strands of her always-neat, snow-white hair were out of place.

  He leafed quickly through the messages. Many were from individuals he could not place. Some were from reporters and columnists whose names alone were familiar. The rest did not seem to be genuinely pressing … particularly measured by his present state of total harassment.

  He made his way through the sacristy into the church—the identical trail he had taken last night en route to the infamous wake. At least none of the crowd had invaded the sacristy.

  The body of the church was another matter. It was Babel. Nearly everyone was speaking English, but due to the numbers shouting to each other over the increasing din, it was Babel.

  The center of attention was the spot where last night the “corpse” had lain. Oddly, the empty casket had been neither moved nor removed. It was where it had been when last he’d seen it—still lying on its side, sort of cockeyed. To the onlookers, it must have suggested the open tomb of Lazarus—or Jesus.

  Whatever, people were circling it, and pointing at it, each giving any who would listen one person’s opinion of what this was all about.

  Daily Mass at St. Joseph’s was scheduled to begin in about twenty minutes. It was obvious that the normally quiet, meditative service could not possibly be held here. It would be impossible to clear the church of these sightseers. It would be impossible to get them to a state remotely approaching silence. It was impossible for Koesler to even get their attention.

  After a moment’s thought, he elbowed his way through the crowd to the steps leading to the choir loft. Once in the balcony, he turned on the venerable pipe organ, gave it enough time to warm up, and played a single G-major chord sforzando.

  Sudden silence. The crowd, as one, turned and looked to the choir loft whence a smiling Father Koesler gazed down at them. “Folks,” he announced, “there’s supposed to be a Mass here in a few minutes. How ever, due to circumstances known only to God, this doesn’t seem like a practical thought t
oday. So, those among you who have come for Mass, please go to the rectory basement where we will celebrate Mass.

  “Those among you who have come to see the site where it all happened last night, please remember that you are in God’s house, so, try to keep it down, if you please.”

  He turned off the organ and headed for the rectory. As he left the church, he was aware of a small, present miracle. The crowd had become almost reverential. It was much more subdued than just a few minutes ago, though by no means silent.

  There was plenty of space in the meeting room in the rectory basement for the small, faithful congregation that regularly attended daily Mass. This morning, however, was not a propitious time for reflective prayer. On everyone’s mind—those swarming the church floor, the Mass attendants, as well as the priest—was “the miracle.”

  At the conclusion of Mass, most of the congregation returned to the church, where they found an augmented crowd. Curiosity over what had happened last night was escalating.

  For Father Koesler, who best functioned in a cocoon of routine, it was lunchtime.

  Mrs. Bennie alternated between reassuring her husband and preparing a light lunch. With a long, deep sigh, Koesler seated himself at the dining table. He eyed the stack of phone messages. After lunch, he told himself.

  Both of Detroit’s major dailies, the News and the Free Press, were on the table. As one result of an almost universally despised joint operating agreement, the Freep remained the morning paper, while the News could be a morning pickup at newsstands. The front page and local news section of both papers heavily covered the miracle.

  Those parts of the paper Koesler had already scanned. He wondered desperately what was happening in For Better or for Worse, Overboard, and Mister Boffo. Just as he was about to find out, Mary O’Connor entered the room. She handed Koesler a single phone message. “This one I thought you’d want to take care of right away.”

  The call was from Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department.

  Koesler and Koznicki had met many years before during an investigation of the serial killings of some Detroit priests and nuns. Building on that chance association, the two men had become fast friends.

  This message was succinct if deferential. Inspector Koznicki requested Father Koesler’s presence at headquarters, immediately, if possible. A uniformed officer would be waiting to drive Father.

  Even though only a few long blocks separated St. Joseph’s and Police Headquarters, in view of the crowd, as well as the urgency of the meeting, driving was the way to go.

  Koesler apologized to Bennie, and particularly to Mrs. Bennie, for not being able to take lunch. He did not give any detail; this morning’s events spoke for themselves.

  He shed his cassock and donned a black jacket and a topcoat. He and his driver were on their way to one of the most well-known addresses in the city: 1300 Beaubien.

  Koesler was ushered into a Homicide squad room that had been vacated for this meeting. In addition to Koznicki and Koesler, present were Lieutenant Alonzo Tully and a woman Koesler had never met.

  Tully—nicknamed Zoo, a play on Alonzo—was a veteran Homicide officer, dedicated and thoroughly professional. Two women—first his wife, along with his children, then a significant other—had lost the battle with his work. As a homicide lieutenant, Tully headed a squad of detectives.

  His and Koesler’s paths had crossed several years before, again in a homicide investigation. Although Tully had understood from the start that Koesler’s only function in these occasional forays into crime-solving was to be as a resource for things Catholic, Tully had initially not been happy about that. He wanted no fingers in the pie save those of professionals. That the priest was a dear friend not only of Koznicki’s but also of the inspector’s family did not mitigate Tully’s opinion.

  But, over the years, Tully had not only mellowed, he had become quite receptive to Koesler’s contributions. Contributions made only when the puzzle had a distinctly Catholic tenor. In this present case the puzzle involved an allegedly dead body returned to life while being waked in Father Koesler’s church.

  This case almost defined the relationship.

  After the two officers greeted the priest, Inspector Koznicki addressed Koesler in his usual courtly manner. “Father, I believe you have not met Dr. Marian Price. Dr. Price is a teaching physician at Receiving Hospital. We have told her about you and why we have invited you to this meeting.”

  The doctor and Koesler shook hands.

  “Do you have any idea why we invited you here?” Koznicki asked.

  “If I had to guess,” Koesler said, “it would be the Dr. Green thing. But I suppose that’s because I’m up to my ears in this affair. I really can’t say why I’m here in the Homicide Division.”

  “It’s not that tough, Father,” Tully said. “It comes down to we don’t believe in miracles. So, we’d like to find out what happened.”

  “That’s not too far from the policy of my Church,” said Koesler.

  “It isn’t?” Tully was surprised.

  “Well,” Koesler said, “we do believe in miracles. We also believe that God doesn’t multiply them. So the Church’s reaction to something that is claimed to be a miracle is that it’s not a miracle until every other possible explanation is thoroughly examined and disproved. And right now, both the Catholic Church and the police department are on the same road—trying to find an explanation, other than a genuine miracle, for what happened last night.”

  Tully found Koesler’s reaction and the attitude of his Church unexpected. The lieutenant had supposed that the Church would readily greet the news that, as a result of a Catholic ceremony, a dead man had been brought back to life. Such an occurrence would do no harm to Church coffers, either.

  If truth be known, Tully had agreed only reluctantly to bring Koesler in on this investigation. Admittedly, the matter was made to order for the priest’s field of expertise. And, of course, the event had taken place in Koesler’s church, in Koesler’s presence. But Tully had feared the priest would have a closed mind—in favor of the miraculous.

  Tully smiled. Now they could get down to cases.

  “Understand, Lieutenant,” Koesler cautioned, “I don’t dismiss the possibility that it might, indeed, be a miracle. I’ve been to a lot of funerals. This is the only one where the corpse walked away, as it were. That’s where we differ—that possibility. But right now, we’re in exactly the same boat—looking for some other logical explanation.”

  “Fair enough,” Tully said.

  “In fact,” Koznicki said, “we have already begun the investigation. In attempting to discover what happened here, we have interviewed some of the major participants. We are trying to find out what happened that should not have happened, and what did not happen that should have happened.”

  After Koznicki shuffled through various reports on his desk, he selected one and replaced the others in order. “We begin with Dr. Green’s personal physician, a Dr. Garnet Fox. Dr. Fox said that Dr. Green’s health had been deteriorating. In the past six to eight months he had not been taking on any new patients. Also, increasingly, he had been referring many of his longtime patients to other physicians.

  “He suffered from arteriosclerotic heart disease and a very painful back. The back pain was acute and chronic. His appetite had been off. Dr. Fox suggests the almost constant pain would cause a loss of appetite. But no cause was found for the back pain. Every known test was applied, but no physical cause showed up.”

  “Which would mean,” Dr. Price broke in, “that either our technology at this point is inadequate—which is entirely possible—or the back pain was psychosomatic.”

  “Thank you,” Koznicki said. “Dr. Fox further stated that there is a stockpile of medications for chronic pain, even specifically for back pain. However, with continued use, over time, the human body is able to tolerate larger and larger doses—and thus requires increased amounts in order to control the
pain.

  “Recently, Dr. Fox has heard Dr. Green state—and this is a sentiment that Dr. Green has expressed more and more often—‘I’d rather die than go on like this.’

  “With all this background, Dr. Fox was not at all surprised when, yesterday, Mrs. Green called to say that she thought her husband had died.

  “Dr. Fox asked her to describe what she saw. She said there was no pulse, no evident respiration. His mouth was open. His tongue was dry. He had a glassy, fixed stare. His body felt cold to the touch. He was a bluish color. And there was pinpoint dilation of the pupils.

  “Again, given the condition Dr. Green had been in during the past months and his deep, abiding despair, Dr. Fox was convinced from the description the wife gave that Dr. Green was indeed dead.

  “Dr. Fox was quite close to the Green family and wanted to spare the widow from all the details that must be attended to at the time of death. So he told her he would see to the medical requirements. All she would have to do was select a funeral home, have a grave site, and decide what, if any, religious service she wanted.

  “Then, Dr. Fox called the medical examiner’s office. At his word, the M.E. signed to release the body. And Dr. Fox signed the death certificate, noting that death was caused by heart failure due to arteriosclerosis and hypertension. Chronic pain and loss of the will to live are bad enough, but they don’t cause death directly. However, in all probability, it was his weakened heart that took him.” Koznicki raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “That was it?” Father Koesler’s mouth had been hanging open in disbelief. “No professional person examined him!”

  “That was it, all right,” Koznicki affirmed. “But I would suggest that, up to this point, everything that happened had a logical cause. Dr. Green was a very sick man. Even in the event his back pain might have been psychosomatic, psychosomatic pain can hurt just as badly as physically caused pain.