“You had to be furious. You might not have known the full extent of your husband’s relationship with Claire when it was going on. But you had to discover it from the media and when you learned of his payment to GOB Company, an organization that the media has described as ‘the gang that couldn’t shoot straight.’
“One wonders,” he went on,” how a man of your husband’s savvy—a man with his cunning, amoral mind—came up with such an incompetent mob. This part is pure speculation, but this was fresh territory for him: I’ll bet GOB was referred by a colleague Moses thought he could trust, someone who was eager to lead him astray—to settle a score maybe?
“In any case, you now knew that your husband had gone way too far. It was as if my seminary priest’s glasses had spun off the desk and were lying broken on the floor. Moses had gone off the deep edge. He had operated without your control and in a debilitated state. But there was no going back; he had left a trail that could be followed by a Cub Scout. He might have done a much more effective job had he planned it before his induced coma. On the other hand, his mind might have been clouded by pain—or drugs—even then.
“But now your husband was headed for prison. And your life was on the brink of being shattered to smithereens. Much, if not all, the money you could have inherited would be spent on lawyers, trials, and appeals. Everything you controlled would be out of control. Your social standing would be a matter for ridicule. Your plans would have been frustrated.
“There was only one avenue open to you, as far as you could see. You carried through on what had been begun that Monday morning. You gave your husband a massive overdose of morphine. To further confuse the issue, you got your children and Bill Gray over and offered them the empty bottle so their fingerprints would be there along with yours and your husband’s.
“It is ironic to think that the only way you and your husband could have hatched this plan in the beginning was that he was Jewish. That way he would escape embalming. As long as the coma operated as it was programmed, you were home free. So you used your knowledge of the secret in a negative way. Even though you knew he was really Catholic, you let him go through the funeral process as a Jew.”
Koesler waited, but nothing broke the silence.
Finally, he spoke again. “I know your public reaction to this would be that it is all an imaginative fable, and that I have no evidence to support it. As long as your husband had, in effect, that suicide note in his statement to Dr. Fox that he didn’t want to live with such pain, and as long as no one can deny that he was capable of giving himself the overdose, this case will remain closed.
“What he did to Claire McNern cannot be proven by hard evidence. That he destroyed in the hospital. Nothing he did to the others was an actual crime. Cruel and inhuman—along with a number of other moral pejoratives it might be … but technically not a crime.” Koesler didn’t mention Green’s pandering for his underage daughter as well as blackmailing Jake, both definitely crimes, but events which the victims themselves would have preferred not be made public. “The only remaining crime in this whole tragedy—aside of his conspiracy to kill that poor young couple—is his own murder. But the official and final statement on that is that he died of undetermined causes.
“The rest is between you and your conscience.”
Margie smoothed her skirt, inhaled deeply, and sighed. “That’s right. He died of undetermined causes. If he had been killed, his executioner should have been given a medal. He was a homicidal maniac.”
As she spoke, she took from her purse a piece of paper, a pen, and a cigarette lighter. She held the lighter in her left hand as she wrote a few words on the paper, then held it over to him so that he could read it. It read, “Outside of a couple of minor details, you’re absolutely correct.” Before he could comment, she flicked the lighter and set the note on fire, then dropped the burning paper into a wastebasket. As the note became ashes, he stared at her in wonderment.
“Just in case you’re wearing a recording device.” She stood and, her bearing regal, walked out of the room.
Father Koesler remained seated.
After a few moments, a staff member came in to open the panels that separated this viewing room from the next. Apparently they had been waiting for the priest to finish consoling the widow. Now they must ready the parlor to host a larger group of mourners.
Koesler looked into the adjoining room that had been closed off during the Green obsequies. On the wall was a crucifix. There had been no sign of any religious artifact in the Green parlor. If anything, the funeral home would have hung a Star of David … but no one had requested it.
No one seemed about to ask the priest to leave. So Koesler sat and thought and prayed and wondered.
Margie Green. Seldom had Koesler met a person, let alone a woman, so in control of her life. Early on, she’d recognized the ambitions of Jake Cameron. So, she became “his woman.”
However, when Moses Green came along, she saw greater potential. So she married him. But, to set the tone for their life together, she insisted on his going to the considerable trouble of obtaining a nullity decree for his previous marriage, as well as the promise to raise their children Catholic.
Judging by the rest of her life, Margie could not have been terribly concerned about either provision. But it got the marriage off on the right foot, as far as Margie was concerned.
Within the framework of bargaining—which formed the M.O. of the marriage—everything ran as Margie wished. Until, that is, Moses slipped her control and went too far in controlling others’ lives. The final and fatal move was the stupid contract on the lives of Stan and Claire.
Even with her Catholic background, Koesler believed Margie really thought she had done the right thing in killing her husband. To have everything back in her control was worth much more to her than the medal she’d mentioned as an award to whoever killed him—which award was not going to be bestowed in any case.
As for the future, Koesler was sure Margie would get all pertinent affairs back on track. On top of all that, she was now a very wealthy widow.
Then there was Moses Green.
Koesler contemplated the urn containing the ashes of the late doctor. The urn was in the direct line of the crucifix mounted on the wall in the next room.
Jesus the Jew. Jewish to the marrow of His bone. Founder of Christianity.
Moses Green. Gentile son of Gentiles. A Jew to nearly everyone. And now, all those people, many of them Catholic, who blamed Green’s sins on his Jewishness would never know that not only was he not Jewish, but he was one of their very own.
There was a lesson there somewhere. But the media would not be interested. A confusion of races would not appeal. We have given the media its daily miracle. Almost literally.
Koesler held dearly the aphorism, When you die, you will be judged by Love.
Which also might mean that no prosecuting attorney would let God sit on a jury.
Koesler wondered if even God—even Love—could forgive Moses Green all the evil he had done, all the manipulation, the backstabbing, the misuse of medicine, the conspiracy to murder—all of it.
One thing was clear: Moses stood a better chance before God than before anyone else.
Koesler was brought back to the present by the mortician’s discreet clearing of his throat. “Excuse me, Father. The next viewing is about to begin. You’re perfectly free to stay. But I didn’t think you’d want to.”
“You’re right. Thanks for breaking up my reverie.” Koesler rose and stretched; he had been sitting too long. “By the way: What’s going to happen with Dr. Green’s ashes?”
“The cremains will be buried in the family plot.”
“Now?”
“Oh, yes. It was the wish of the widow.”
“Will no one be there for the interment?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
Koesler paused. “Then I think I’ll go.”
“Fine. You can ride with me if you’d like.”
“Thank you. But I’d rather go alone. I’ve got some praying and thinking to do.”
The mortician almost clicked his heels. “It’ll be at Holy Sepulchre.” He left carrying the urn.
Holy Sepulchre. A Catholic cemetery. That sterling Catholic, Margie Green, had arranged this, too.
Well, if things had gone the way they pointed at his birth, Moses Green would undoubtedly have been buried in a Catholic ceremony. A requiem Mass. Requiem for Moses. It even sounded strange.
Requiem … rest. The word may have described just what Moses needed now. Rest. “Requiem aeternam,” Koesler chanted in his mind, “dona ei, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat ei.” Eternal rest give to him, Lord. And may perpetual light shine upon him.
Amen.
Acknowledgments
Gratitude for technical advice to:
Commander Judy Dowling, Detroit Police Department
Inspector James Grace, Director of Professional Standards, Kalamazoo Department of Public Safety
Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., pastoral care (retired) Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit
Cass Hershey, automotive technician
Christine Kaminski-Schmuckal, Detroit Free Press library
George Lubienski, attorney at law
Charles Lucas, M.D., Professor of Surgery, Wayne State University
Thomas J. Petinga Jr., D.O. FACEP, Chief of Emergency Services, St. Joseph Mercy Hospital, Pontiac
Walter D. Pool, M.D., Moross Clinic, Harper Woods
Colleen Allard Sholes, B.S.N., C.C.R.N., University of Michigan Medical Center, Ann Arbor
Werner U. Spitz, M.D., Professor of Forensic Pathology, Wayne State University
David Techner, Ira Kaufman Funeral Chapel, Southfield
Inspector Barbara Weide, Detroit Police Department
Rabbi Richard Weiss and Sue Weiss
Msgr. John Zenz, Moderator of the Curia, Archdiocese of Detroit
Any error is the author’s.
Requiem for Moses copyright © 1996, 2013 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
ISBN: 9781449423759
Cover design by Kevin Williamson.
William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.
The Father Koesler Mysteries
1. The Rosary Murders
2. Death Wears a Red Hat
3. Mind Over Murder
4. Assault with Intent
5. Shadow of Death
6. Kill and Tell
7. Sudden Death
8. Deathbed
9. Deadline for a Critic
10. Marked for Murder
11. Eminence
12. Masquerade
13. Chameleon
14. Body Count
15. Dead Wrong
16. Bishop as Pawn
17. Call No Man Father
18. Requiem for Moses
19. The Man Who Loved God
20. The Greatest Evil
21. No Greater Love
22. Till Death
23. The Sacrifice
24. The Gathering
Here is a special preview of
The Man Who Loved God
The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 19
The Past
“This is just the way you’re built. You’ll have to live with it.”
Babs’s mother was incredulous. In effect, the gynecologist was saying that Barbara was malformed. That couldn’t be. Not Claire Simpson’s daughter.
In every way, Barbara resembled her mother. And Mrs. Simpson was a most attractive woman: she had the spoken and unspoken testimony of her husband and four paramours.
However, Claire Simpson did not need testimonials. She was well aware of and confident in her own striking beauty.
Babs was her daughter. The child’s body could not fail her. Babs was young—only twelve. Technically, she was not exactly a virgin. But that was the result of a biking accident. She had not, she attested, been sexually active.
Barbara insisted on a woman—rather than a male—gynecologist. Assured that the girl had not been sexually active, the doctor gave Barbara a routine pelvic examination, then pronounced, “This is just the way you’re built. You’ll have to live with it.”
Claire greeted this diagnosis with deep doubt. She watched her daughter carefully for the next few months. The condition worsened. Barbara complained of pain and pelvic pressure. And her menstrual periods—which had begun only in the past year—had ceased.
Claire took her daughter to her own gynecologist. Once again, Claire explained that her daughter had not had sex.
The doctor was skeptical. He gave her a pregnancy test. It was positive.
There were options.
They could prepare Barbara for the birth, which, if nature ran its course, would take place in four to five weeks. The delivery on this young a female could be tricky. But far greater risks had been taken successfully. And, as the doctor noted, her pelvic structure was excellent.
If delivery proved successful, and if the baby survived, the next option was to keep the child or to place it for adoption.
Or, there was abortion.
Both delivery and “dilation and extraction” held risks. But Barbara was otherwise healthy and stood an excellent chance of surviving either birth or abortion.
All of which led to another question: to tell Barbara the truth—that she was carrying a baby—or to create a fiction?
The decision, in which the physician concurred, was to tell her there was a tumor—a growth—inside her tummy that needed to come out. The doctor would take it out and then everything would two be fine.
Barbara was happy. Claire was worried. The doctor was confident.
By no means would every gynecologist have agreed to perform an abortion, particularly at this advanced stage of pregnancy. Even though, at this time, the mid-seventies, it was not against Michigan law.
There was no reason to delay and every reason to complete the procedure as soon as possible. So the operation was scheduled two days hence.
After supper and after Babs had been put to bed, Claire related the day’s events to her husband: the doctor’s examination, diagnosis, and recommendation. Claire anticipated no opposition or disagreement. Her husband was an absentee partner in their relationship. His business kept him on the road much of the time. However, he did not lack for sexual consolation. Claire had ample evidence of his womanizing. Though this was, in part, a rationale for her own promiscuity, Claire’s extramarital behavior was disciplined compared with his. She’d had four—and no more—sexual partners. He, apparently, bedded any female who would accommodate him.
In any case, his reaction to the news was a sort of uneasy silence.
The next day, Claire brought Barbara to a teaching hospital in a far northern suburb of Detroit.
Claire stayed with her daughter through the afternoon and evening. She was there for lunch, dinner, and when they prepped Barbara for the operation. Throughout the day, Claire tried to make light of the impending procedure. “They’ll get that tumor out of your tummy and you’ll feel good again. Real good.”
Babs tried to convince her mother that all this reassurance was doing the trick. But she could sense that something more dire was distressing her mother. Babs was good at sensing the unspoken.
But now Clai
re was able to at least establish a deeper bond between the two. This was leading to something. After all, Barbara was pregnant. Somewhere there had to be a father.
Gentle questioning, backing off, returning to the matter eventually drew out the admission that someone had been doing strange things to her.
Daddy had told her it was all right because he was her daddy. But she shouldn’t tell Mommy or anyone else what they did when Mommy wasn’t home. Barbara doubted that. She had a sixth sense. She was good at sensing things.
Claire quieted her daughter and stayed with the girl until she fell asleep.
Then Claire went home and put an end to her husband.
She ordered him from the house. She vowed a divorce. All this would be done with a minimum of scandal and notoriety—as long as he never again darkened their lives with his presence. There was no room for negotiation: this was unconditional.
His defense was no more than token. He knew it was over. He had known from the moment Claire told him about their daughter’s condition.
She didn’t know where he would sleep that night. But never again would it be with her or—save the mark—their daughter.
Next morning she arrived at the hospital early and never let go of Barbara’s hand till they were parted at the door of the operating room.
Barbara was wheeled into a strange environment of intense light, shiny objects, lots of sheets, several people busy with work they seemed quite used to. They all wore masks. Their work seemed to draw them inexorably to her as filings to a magnet.
She thought the doctor was the same one who had examined her a couple of days ago. When he spoke she was sure; she recognized his voice. She relaxed somewhat when he spoke to her encouragingly. “How are you feeling now, Babs?”
“Okay, Doctor,” she murmured. “You aren’t going to put me to sleep, are you?” They had talked about this earlier. Terrified of being put to sleep, she feared that she would never again wake.
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