“So, then, why wasn’t the overdose fatal?
“Instead, we have a body that is pronounced dead and is being prepared for burial. But the body is alive. Why?
“By the time his sister comes upon the scene, Green must have been in the most shallow stage of his coma. In other words, he was on the brink of regaining consciousness. From what I’ve been told and from what I’ve read in the News, once the sister arrived, Green’s body got jostled around quite a bit.
“What Green needed for, perhaps, a premature awakening, was a series of stimulants. That could come in the form of hearing prayers or hearing the voices of those standing nearby.
“There was quite a racket when the sister entered the church. And she kept the pandemonium going, or so I’m told.”
For just a moment, the image of Father Reichert disappearing from view knocked over by a histrionic Aunt Sophie crossed Koesler’s mind. He smiled. No one noticed.
“All these things,” Price went on, “could easily cause an anxiety reaction in someone just emerging from a coma. Then, to cap the climax, Green was dumped from the casket and pitched to the floor.
“If Green were dead and there were no miracle, this would have been no more than an embarrassment, especially to the family. Some of the bystanders undoubtedly would have packed the body back into the coffin and apologies would have been offered all around. It might even have quieted the sister.
“So, gentlemen, that’s pretty much how I see it. As I said, I can’t speak to the possibility of a miracle. I’ve seen my share of so-called miracles, just as almost every doctor has. Patients who beat all the odds, who respond to prayers said on their behalf, even when they were unaware anyone was praying for them. Science generally crumbles in the face of these … mysteries.
“But we’re on an entirely different plane when it comes to this incident with Dr. Green.
“Christians, generally, believe that Jesus Christ rose from the dead. And, prior to that, that He raised Lazarus, His friend, from the dead. But that, for serious intents, is about it.
“Science can go after this thing if we’re looking for tangible explanations. But if Green was really dead, then we have Jesus Christ, Lazarus, and Dr. Moses Green. That’s a little much for me to swallow.
“If Dr. Green was not dead, but in a coma, we are faced with a number of nagging, complicated questions. But I think I’ve outlined the sort of questions that beg for answers here.
“There’s just one last consideration I’d like to call to your attention, gentlemen. Back to that Newsday clipping I read earlier. We’ve all heard of cases like that—where a person somehow passes for dead but is discovered to be alive. Maybe on arrival at a mortuary, or being prepared for embalming, or about to be opened for an autopsy.
“What caught my eye especially in the clipping was Mildred Clarke’s age. She was eighty-six, yet she was able to survive refrigeration. Without such a thing’s having actually happened, I think we would be slow to believe it. If we read it in a work of fiction, we might deny the possibility out of hand.
“So don’t be terribly surprised if Dr. Green turns out to have been in a coma. Others, more frail than he, have done it—and survived!”
“Thank you, Dr. Price, and Father Koesler, for coming,” Koznicki said. “You have been very helpful, and I hope we will be able to call on you in the future if there is a need.”
Dr. Price smiled. She was quite attractive when she smiled. “Of course, Inspector.”
“It’s I that should thank you,” Koesler said to Koznicki. “This session has cleared a lot of cobwebs from my brain.”
Everyone stood. Koesler and Dr. Price prepared to leave.
“One thing for sure,” Tully remarked. “Someplace in what was said here is all we can muster for CYA. The two cops who were on the scene should have been more careful. But, after all, the guy’s own doctor and the M.E.’s office both certified death. That should be enough under most conditions.
“Same thing when they notified Homicide. It was a call. Maybe we should have gone. But that’s mostly hindsight. I can see where our guys would take the word of the doctor and the M.E. But, dammit, I’m not comfortable with all these unanswered questions—especially when one of the major questions is whether this turns out to be attempted murder.
“We should look for the answer to that. Okay with you, Walt, if I and a couple of my squad stir the ashes a bit?”
Koznicki nodded. “But not too long. See where it leads, and keep me posted.”
Chapter Thirteen
Father Koesler, Dr. Price, and Lieutenant Tully walked together down the hall toward the elevators.
As they neared Tully’s squad room, the Lieutenant said, “Father, if you got a few minutes, I’d appreciate it if you could clue a couple of my people on a couple of questions.”
Koesler thought of the pandemonium undoubtedly continuing in and around his church. Suddenly, Police Headquarters appeared to him as a place of sanctuary from the church. He felt like Alice on the other side of the looking glass. “Okay with me, Lieutenant.”
They bade the doctor good-bye as she continued toward the exit.
Homicide Division comprised seven squads. Each had its own high-ceilinged, rectangular, large and shabby office. Koesler and Tully entered the lieutenant’s squad room. Two detectives appeared to be waiting for their boss and the priest.
“You remember,” Tully said to Koesler, “Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore.”
The introductions were pro forma. Indeed they all knew each other. Fate—it could be nothing less—had linked them all in several homicide investigations in the past.
“I’d like you to tell us,” Tully said, “how you came to have a wake for a Jewish man at your church.” It was the first time in frequent queries when the accusatory tone was not used; this was for nothing more than information.
So Koesler told them about the—then—widow’s pleading the case. He explained the family situation. That the two children had been raised Catholic. And that though they might not be very active Catholics now, they certainly had no ties with the Jewish faith.
Neither did Dr. Green, who was, by anyone’s measuring stick, Jewish in name only.
Finally, Mrs. Green, a Catholic, had discussed possible funeral arrangements with her husband when death had seemed far off.
Koesler did not mention the opposition he’d encountered along the way—from many phone callers and principally from Father Dan Reichert. Nor did he mention his own instant research through canon law to ascertain the Churchly legality of this service.
None of that, Koesler felt, was relevant or pertinent to the police investigation. None of this had come up in the recent session with Koznicki and Price, for whom the main question was whether the incident could possibly be a genuine miracle, or, more probably, a state of coma. And, further, if a coma, then was its cause deliberate or accidental?
Now that a properly instituted investigation had begun, a wider area of interest was in order. Mangiapane and Moore took notes.
“So,” Tully said, “after Mrs. Green left you, what did you do?”
“I wanted to relax and read. What I actually did was answer the phone. It rang almost continually.”
“Was that unusual?” Moore asked.
Koesler smiled. “There are days when the phone doesn’t ring. Yes, this was very unusual. You see, I’d hoped there wouldn’t be much of a crowd. After all, the man died—oops, was declared dead—just hours before Margie came to see me.”
“That her first name—Mrs. Green—Margie?” Tully asked.
“Margaret,” Koesler said. “She prefers Margie. Anyway,” he went on, “my hope wasn’t successful. We had a churchful. I guess the two children and their friends—even enemies—got on the horn and informed a whole bunch of people.”
“What time did you get to the church?”
“About 6:30. I was early. I was supposed to meet with the widow—sorry, I guess I can’t quite get over the fact that he�
�s alive—anyway, I was supposed to meet Mrs. Green about seven. She was going to supply me with some background so I could say something personal at the wake. It never worked out.”
“So,” Tully said, “you were not in the church when the body was delivered?”
“Far from it. I don’t even know—though I could find out—when the body was delivered. By the time I arrived, quite a few people were there.”
“Damn,” Tully muttered.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s just possible someone might have given him a shot of Narcan,” Tully said.
“What?”
“Narcan. It’s a drug that reverses the effect of morphine. I’ve seen them use it in the E.R. a few times. It’s my guess as to one way they could’ve pulled this off. Say somebody knows Green’s OD’d on morphine—somebody who maybe even gave it to Green himself. Then, while Green’s on display in the church, this guy gives the doc a shot of Narcan. Little by little, it takes effect—and the doc comes out of it.”
“But why would anybody want to do something like that?”
“Beats me. Granted, this is all just farfetched conjecture. But if we knew that happened, and if we knew who did it, that person would have a lot to explain. Tell me, Father: While you were in church, did you stay close to the coffin?”
“No, not at all. For one thing, there was a steady flow of people in line to view the body.”
Tully considered this. “Less likely anybody could deliver a shot with all that traffic. If it happened, it probably had to be done early on—before the crowd gathered. Could be helpful … fewer people for us to check out.”
“Did you know many of the people at the wake?” Mangiapane asked.
“No …” Koesler thought for a moment. “I think … well, no … I did recognize two people. One is a priest, Father Daniel Reichert. He’s retired but still active—helping out in parishes.” Reichert’s archconservatism did not seem germane.
“He the one who got quoted all over the place … the one who’s claiming this is a miracle?” Mangiapane asked.
“The very one. But I don’t think you’ll be reading much from him in the future.”
The detectives recognized a “no comment” order when they heard one.
“Miss Lennon—Pat Lennon—was the other one I recognized—you know, the reporter from the News.”
“She the only media person there?” asked Tully.
“At the time, the only one I recognized. And I’m familiar with some of them.”
Tully smiled and shook his head. “How in hell does she do it?” It was rhetorical.
“You knew only two people in a crowd that size? And in your own church?” Mangiapane seemed amazed.
“The deceased … uh, the man in the coffin, was a long way from being a parishioner. As was the case with everybody there. This wasn’t a parochial event for St. Joseph’s parish; it was a wake for Dr. Moses Green. People who knew him or had some association with him attended. I didn’t expect many of my parishioners to be there … and there weren’t.”
“Father, you mentioned ‘enemies’ of Green being there,” said Moore. “Could you explain this … I mean, like how you might know they were enemies?”
He had been dreading that question. The word enemies had escaped his lips earlier. And when he’d used the word, he very definitely had in mind the five people who had spoken to him before the service was to begin. If he had it to do over, he would not have used that specific word. Yet he knew that one way or another he would be asked about anyone who had talked to him at the wake. As it turned out, except for a comment or two from Margie, those five were the only ones who had said anything at all to him.
He had thought about the question, but he hadn’t decided how he would respond. This was a troublesome area of no clear-cut moral determination. Five people had approached him. He had made an overture to none of them. None of them had come close to making their confidences a confession. So what each of them said was not protected by the “seal” of confession.
For one who hears confessions in a sacramental setting, the next step away from the “seal” would be a professional secret—the sort of confidence that protects communication between physician and patient, attorney and client. It also applies to priests when something is said in confidence and the person wants it kept secret. The only difference between the seal of confession and a professional secret is the possibility of a reason that would override the professional secret and force it to be revealed. Occasionally revelation is called for in a professional matter, but never may the seal of confession be broken.
The problem here was: Was what had been told him last night meant to be a professional secret? Was it meant to be a secret at all?
Would any of those five have said what they did, in such frank and open detail, if they had not been certain Green was dead? Probably not. But did that make a secret of what they said?
Not one of them had used any disclaiming language such as: “Just between you and me …” or, “I wouldn’t want this to be repeated …” They had merely told Father Koesler about their problems with Green and what they thought of him. And not one of them had a good word to say about Green.
More and more, Koesler recalled his reaction to each of the five: If Green had not died of natural causes, if he had been murdered, each one of these people could be a prime suspect.
And now Lieutenant Tully was looking into the affair, trying to determine whether this could be a case of attempted murder.
Even though none of them had requested confidentiality, should Koesler hand the police five suspects, one or more of whom possibly had attempted to murder Dr. Green? On the other hand, he wanted very much to be as cooperative as possible. This spirit of cooperation had marked his relationship with the police from the very beginning of his pseudoprofessional contact with them.
Now he had to make a decision. Sergeant Moore’s question about Green’s “enemies” still hung in the air. Koesler had mentioned that some of Green’s enemies had been present at the wake. How, Moore wanted to know, did Father Koesler know they were enemies?
“I may have misspoken … or, maybe, I overspoke,” Koesler said finally. “I guess I just assumed that in that large crowd there would be relatives, friends, and enemies.
“Specifically, five people approached me to tell me something of their relationship with Dr. Green. Not one of them did anything to hide the fact that they were talking to me. That much is common knowledge. Anyone present in the church paying attention could tell you who those five were. So I will give you their names—which is really all I know for sure about them.
“But to be perfectly frank, I would feel awkward going into what they said. Each was operating on the premise that Dr. Green was dead. What they said while operating under that premise surely is different from what they would say now that we know he is alive.
“Indeed, they may just have been getting some deep-seated feelings off their chests.”
There was an awkward silence. It was unique that Father Koesler would publicly back away from a police request.
“We aren’t working on a criminal investigation,” Tully said finally. “We’re trying to find out whether a crime has been committed. If you don’t want to tell us what these people talked about, we’ll pass for the moment. Would you feel okay about writing down their names?” Tully pushed a pad and pencil in front of Koesler.
Wordlessly, the priest began to write.
“This is just a shortcut, Father,” Moore said. “Like you said, we could get the names from any number of people who were at that wake.” She seemed a touch embarrassed at having asked the question that led to this uncomfortable moment.
At that point, a detective from another squad stepped into the room. He was carrying a small portable TV. “Oh, here you are, Zoo. You got the father with—oh, yeah.” He hadn’t at first noticed the seated priest, who was busy writing. “I think you might be interested in this.” He plugged in the set.
>
Koesler, the antithesis of a dedicated fan of daytime TV, glanced over at the forming picture. As the image on the screen cleared, Koesler recognized the voice: Dan Mountney, reporter and weekend anchor for Channel 4, the local NBC affiliate.
Koesler tried to make out what was on the screen. It looked familiar, but …?
From Mountney’s tone, this was live coverage of some sort of breaking news. It was late afternoon; Koesler could only guess at what scheduled programming was being preempted. Probably a talk show or one of the soaps. In any case, regular viewers were certain to be upset enough to flood the offending station’s switchboard with complaining calls.
“To recap,” Mountney said, signifying that this was at least the second time around, “we are here at St. Joseph’s Church in downtown Detroit.…
St. Joseph’s! He hadn’t recognized it immediately because he’d never seen the church in black and white on a small screen—and also because the camera, rather than focusing on the edifice, was panning around the crowd—a crowd that seemed to have at least doubled since he had last seen it in real life.
“As we know,” Mountney continued, “this church was the scene last night of what some say was a miracle.”
“… some say”—a careful disclaimer, thought Koesler. Probably at next mention the reporter would refer to it as “the alleged miracle.”
“For those of you who have not been following this story, a wake service for prominent physician Dr. Moses Green was being held in this church last night when, at about 7:30 P.M., the corpse awakened—returned from the dead ….” Mountney shrugged. “So far, it’s up in the air. Some say he was mistakenly declared dead. Others claim that the doctor actually returned from the dead. Or, maybe it was the longest near-death experience anyone can remember.
“In any case, crowds of people have been coming and going all through this day. About half an hour ago, this church was the setting for yet another alleged miracle.”
Koesler’s eyes widened. Tully, Moore, and Mangiapane shifted their gaze momentarily from the TV screen to Koesler.
Requiem for Moses Page 14