Requiem for Moses

by William Kienzle

  Koesler guessed that Green was not a sociopath, incapable of telling bad from good. But it was not a major step away from that to measuring actions not by good and evil but solely by personal gain—the What’s-in-it-for-me? philosophy.

  “In any case,” Feldman said, “I think these three things go together in the understanding of Moses Green and his obsession with wealth. Physicians tend to be well off. They are beginning to see the widening cracks in their position of eminence. All that, plus Dr. Green individually has no one to please but himself.

  “And it is only accidental that he happens to be a Jew. Catholics, Protestants, Muslims—even so-called Humanists—all of them have their Dr. Greens.”

  Koesler nodded, as he too turned over his cup.

  “One final item you should understand in your appreciation of Dr. Green,” Feldman said. “And that is how tied into this is Mrs. Green.

  “To illustrate: Have you heard what they worked out in combined Amway sales?”

  Koesler shook his head.

  “Briefly, Green did not lower himself to sell soap and carpet cleaner and the like door to door. What happens is the doctor recruits his patients to become salespeople for Amway. He recommends them to, and passes them on to his wife, who signs them up. That way, Green and his wife are not making their money from selling products; they get a percentage of what their sales force makes.”

  “How much do they earn that way?”

  “It figures to be about half a million dollars annually.”

  “Wow!”

  “And that amount is tacked on to his many investments. And that amount is tacked on to the income from his medical practice.”

  “Wow!” Koesler was truly impressed.

  All vestige of humor had passed from Rabbi Feldman’s face. “My friend,” he said in his most serious tone, “be careful. You are dealing with a man for whom death is a long way down the list of bad things that can come to him. And some of the players in this drama have a similar list of priorities.”

  “Come now,” Koesler demurred. “I’m in no danger.” But even as he spoke, he thought of the confidences that had been imparted to him at the wake. And he wondered.

  As they rose to leave, Feldman said, “Remember: Be careful!”

  Koesler recalled the recently learned acronym CYA. It hadn’t occurred to him CYA might apply to him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In 1920, when Sacred Heart Seminary was built, it stood all by itself on otherwise undeveloped land, on the fringe of the city of Detroit. The seminary was the dream of Bishop Michael Gallagher, who saw the need for a large institutional structure to train future priests for service in the Detroit diocese. The bishop didn’t have the money to finance this, or many other monuments that he was to erect.

  All these buildings, including the seminary, became the headache of Gallagher’s successor, Edward Mooney, who, in 1937, reluctantly became the sixth bishop of Detroit. Since Mooney was an archbishop, the diocese of Detroit was ipso facto raised to the rank of an archdiocese. In 1946, Mooney had the added distinction of being named a Cardinal— Detroit’s first—by Pope Pius XII.

  As a Cardinal, he was popularly perceived as a “Prince of the Church.” Popular perception also noted that he would be in the position of advising the pope on weighty ecclesial matters. Actually, most popes prefer to keep their own counsel. Mooney’s actual importance—and this was no small thing—lay in participating in the election of popes, and, as a Cardinal, automatically being a confidante for whoever occupied the throne of Peter.

  Among the fringe benefits of being a Cardinal was the power to hear confessions and absolve sins anywhere in the world validly and licitly without the need for permission from the local bishop. However, Church wags have it that it is so long since any Cardinal has heard a confession that, more than likely, he has forgotten the words of absolution.

  Another fringe benefit of the Cardinalate is the power to establish the Stations of the Cross with a simple sign of the cross. But there’s not much call for that nowadays.

  Whatever, with this background of one man providing ready-made migraines for another, it is perhaps appropriate that each of the two men had a room named after him at Sacred Heart Seminary.

  Even for those of long acquaintance with the seminary, it was a challenge to know where these rooms were located. Granted, they were huge, and separated by only a few feet from each other. The difficulty lay in knowing which was the front and which the rear of the building.

  In the beginning there was no doubt. The front of the building, defined by its majestic Gothic tower, faced Chicago Boulevard between Lawton and Linwood Avenues. At the peak of the semicircular drive was the front door.

  And then came the riot of 1967.

  During the riot, the white stone statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the seminary grounds was painted black by some of the seminary’s neighbors, almost all of whom were African-Americans. After the riot, some young white men, not neighbors, painted the statue white. Which almost triggered an aftershock riot. After that, the seminary’s rector and some students, all white, repainted the statue black—which it remains to this day.

  Over the years, more and more security measures were introduced to the seminary. Eventually, the traditional front of the building was entirely fenced in. After that, one gained entry to the building through a door in what had been the back of the structure. Now, all the parking spaces, reserved or not, were at the rear of the building, along with the security booth and the guard.

  In this manner, the back of Sacred Heart Seminary became its front, or main entrance.

  And, oddly, those two huge rooms situated in what was now the front of the building were known as the “back parlors.” Undoubtedly because they had been known as the back parlors long before they were renamed the Gallagher and Mooney parlors.

  In the ’60s and earlier, when students crowded the hallways, study halls, private rooms, refectory, dormitories, chapel, and recreation facilities, one of the back parlors was reserved for high school students, the other for collegians. And each looked the part.

  The high school parlor (Gallagher) had a Ping-Pong table and a lot of tacky uncomfortable furniture. The college parlor (Mooney) had ashtrays and tacky upholstered furniture.

  More recently, the Gallagher and Mooney parlors were structured so that they could be converted with ease. Lecture hall, meeting room with something short of infinite space for folding chairs, dining room, luncheon room, hospitality suite—just about anything along these lines was possible.

  This morning, the Mooney room was being set up for a news conference. The subject of the gathering was, essentially, Dr. Moses Green and his “miracle.”

  A number of factions in this matter were not at ease with their positions. There was the Green family, and the family doctor, and the medical examiner’s office, and the mortuary, and the Detroit Police Department.

  As yet, nothing litigious had occurred. Was it that each and all of the parties were being defensive while things straightened themselves out? Was it that no one really wanted to sue? Was it that they all wanted to sue but the time was not propitious? Doubtless everyone would soon know.

  For the moment, there would be a news conference.

  The family would be represented by its attorney, Avery Cone. The family physician did not think the presence of his attorney would be needed—yet. City bureaus had their attorneys at hand.

  A platform was being set up with microphones and chairs. Uncomfortable metal chairs were being unfolded. Newspeople were gathering.

  The Archdiocese of Detroit, in a cooperative gesture, had made its seminary host for this event.

  Early arrivals were Lieutenant Tully and Father Koesler. Actually—totally out of the ordinary—Koesler had invited Tully to the conference. Hitherto, the shoe had almost always been on the other foot. Tully, aware this conference was scheduled, had been undecided about attending. The phone call from Koesler decided the issue.

  Ko
esler was returning to his seat next to Tully with two coffees. “Thanks,” Tully said as he accepted the Styrofoam cup. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate this, but isn’t it a little much for a news conference?”

  Koesler smiled. “The seminary doesn’t host many news conferences—at least not of this size and importance. They’re being hospitable providing coffee and Danish.”

  “Nice.” Tully sipped carefully; the coffee was quite hot. “How’s your crowd holding up?”

  “Very well, I’m sorry to say. Thanks to the newest ‘miracle,’ today’s crowd is even bigger than yesterday’s. And we aren’t taking up a collection!”

  Tully smiled. He was getting to know Koesler; from the priest’s tone of voice Tully knew that he was kidding.

  “Today,” Koesler said hopefully, “should get the ball out of my court.” He used the tennis metaphor, though aware that he himself had never played the game seriously.

  “How’s that?”

  “The Cardinal appointed a committee of priests to examine—well, originally, the Green event. Now I guess they’ll have the second miraculous claim to investigate. Anyway, I am now able to refer all questions and requests for statements to the committee. And that gets me off the hook I’ve been on for the past day or so.”

  Tully nodded. “So why’d you call me? I was thinking of coming, but your call cinched it.”

  “Maybe it was ESP. I know you’re working on the case and I thought you might get something from the conference. But, more than that, I invited the pastor of the parish that Theresa Waleski lives in. He’s a very private person. I think the media are learning that they’re not going to get anything out of him.”

  “Will he talk to us?”

  “He will to me. And he’ll talk to you because you’re with me. We aren’t real tight, but we are friends in a casual way. He should be here soon. Besides,” he added jokingly, “I told him I’d get him in here for the conference.”

  “Get him in here? I flashed a badge. How did you get in?”

  “I flashed a roman collar.”

  “And this other priest won’t have one?”

  “He most certainly will. The guards he has to get past are security people hired by the seminary. They’ll let anyone in priestly garb in. But”—he grinned—” Father Weber doesn’t know that.”

  Tully looked skeptical.

  “For the most part,” Koesler explained, “people, including priests, see a news conference on TV. Most people haven’t been physically present at such a gathering. It’s something they’d like to see firsthand. I guessed that Dave Weber would be one of those. And I was right: He was a little reluctant to come here without the bait of a news conference.

  “Needless to say, he’s in much the same situation as I am—he’s being hounded to answer questions, to make statements. And the demands are coming from parishioners, the curious, and, of course, the news media. So he was eager to get out of his pressure cooker of a parish. And, there was the added boon of attending a real-life news conference.”

  The creases around Tully’s eyes crinkled. “Just what are you going to do when this guy—Father Weber—gets here and finds out that his collar is the ticket and he can walk right in?”

  “I told him to wait for me at the door to the parlor … that I’d escort him in from there. So if I get up in a hurry, it’s because I’ve spotted Dave.”

  Tully nodded and quietly chuckled.

  “Has your investigation turned up anything?” Koesler asked.

  “Moore and Mangiapane have been doing most of the legwork. I’ve been tied up with a couple of other pressing cases. They’ve got some good interviews. Jake Cameron was pretty tight-lipped. Some of his associates weren’t. Seems Cameron’s been screwed by Green lots of times. The latest threat has Cameron losing control of his girlie bars. And that’s the last thing in the world he wants. It could be a solid motive to get Green.”

  “But you don’t know yet that there’s even been any crime committed … do you?”

  “No. But if we could ever establish that there was an attempt on his life, we’ll be well ahead of the game in having some suspects.”

  As Tully spoke, he studied Koesler’s face. Some of the people Mangiapane and Moore had interrogated had spoken freely to the priest. Tully wondered what Koesler’s reaction might be with regard to what the police had learned.

  “The daughter,” Tully said, “was in a tight corner, too. Green was furious that she intended to marry an African-American. That much we got from her. From some friends of Cameron we got the reason why Green could threaten the girl. Something about a film featuring her and Cameron. Apparently, Green was warning her that if she went through with this wedding, he would put the kibosh on the couple’s careers by showing this film to the right people. Another strong motive, if it comes to that.”

  So far Koesler had exhibited no untoward reaction.

  “The son and the wife are caught up in a monkey-in-the-middle game with Green shifting inheritance money from one to the other. That part needs some more work.

  “Then there’s that young couple you spoke with. The young man’s only connection to Green seems to be the young woman. They plan to marry. Seems the woman was once Green’s mistress. He dumped her. She’s still plenty bitter and, like sympathy pains, so’s the young man.”

  So, Koesler thought, Claire and her young man had not revealed the abortion and hysterectomy. Well, undoubtedly, they felt that was a very private matter.

  Tully caught the momentary flicker: Koesler had reacted to something concerning Claire McNern and/or Stan Lacki. Tully said nothing.

  “The people you just mentioned are the five people I spoke with at the wake. Your people didn’t talk to any others?” Koesler asked.

  “Sure we did. But, somehow, all roads led to those five—”

  “Uh-oh: There’s Father Weber—standing in the doorway over there. I’d better go get him.” Koesler rose and hastily made his way toward the door.

  Tully checked out the newcomer.

  Father Weber wore a black topcoat over a black suit and that miraculous admission ticket, the roman collar. Tully estimated him to be in his fifties or sixties. His hair was turning from gray to white. He was in bad, almost desperate, need of aid. A wife might have helped—if she was fastidious.

  Weber’s topcoat was the real-life clerical equivalent to that of Columbo, the fictional TV detective. It was beyond repair. It would have been a mercy to throw it away or burn it; giving it to some charitable organization would be an insult to the needy.

  As Weber shed his coat, Tully could see that the priest’s black suit was hardly in better condition. It was baggy, badly wrinkled, and the nearer Weber came, the more evident its spots became.

  Even his collar … Hitherto Tully would not have thought it possible for a mere collar to be in such sad shape. After all, it was only a small white plastic tab that was inserted in a black clerical shirt. Perhaps in an inadvertent moment, Weber had laid the collar on a chair and someone had sat on it.

  In all, if Koesler had not identified and escorted Father Weber into this parlor, Tully might have suspected some bum was masquerading as a priest.

  Despite Father Weber’s ludicrous appearance, Tully knew that this was an important moment. The fact that the policeman in no way believed in miracles did not mean that miracles couldn’t happen. History provided innumerable instances of this sort of thing.

  People as a whole had not believed the world was round. People as a whole had not believed the sun, rather than the earth, was the center of our galaxy. Surgeons as a whole hadn’t thought it necessary to operate with clean hands.

  The point being that it did not matter that people as a whole believed or disbelieved these things. They were facts. And nothing could change that.

  So, as it happened, Tully did not believe in miracles. That did not mean that miracles couldn’t happen. And Tully knew it.

  It also had been made crystal clear that the Catholic Church w
as only slightly less reluctant than he to accept any phenomenon as a miracle. The bottom line: If the Church were to accept the apparent cure of this crippled woman as a miracle, it would then more likely take the Green event more seriously—maybe even accept as miraculous the doctor’s “resurrection.”

  And there is no crime in a miracle. And Tully knew that, too.

  Then again, like the people who didn’t believe the world was round, who didn’t believe in heliocentricity, who didn’t believe in antisepsis, Tully, in dismissing miracles out of hand, could be wrong.

  Yes, Tully wanted to hear this Father Weber out.

  “It all began in 1989,” Father Weber said …

  THE PAST

  Walter Zabola and Miriam Waleski were married in St. Hedwig’s Church the first Saturday in June, 1989. Unlike times past, the priest who witnessed their wedding was more likely to—and, in fact, did—know both bride and groom quite well. Ecclesial preparation for marriage had become more structured.

  A rule had been made that those engaged to be married must participate in premarriage preparation for six months prior to the ceremony—the object being to forestall divorces among those married in the Catholic Church. Statistics held that divorces among Catholics were in about the same percentage as those in non-Catholic marriages. Thus observance of this preparatory period was fairly rigorously enforced.

  Prior to this requirement, it was by no means unheard-of that the priest, official witness of the Church to this marriage, met bride and groom at the altar for the first time as they exchanged their consent.

  All went well for the new Mr. and Mrs. Zabola on that June Saturday. The weather was perfect. The ceremony flowed flawlessly. The congregation applauded Walter and Miriam at the conclusion of the Mass. Neither the young ring bearer nor the young flower girl balked or cried. Everyone smiled happily for the many photographs. The reception at the Leroy Knights of Columbus hall went without a hitch. Walter and Miriam feared the fly in the ointment would be the open bar. But only a handful of guests were obviously drunk. And none of them was driving.