“Is that where my brother came in?”
“No. We didn’t meet until much later. See, my contact with the police sort of grew gradually over the years. After that original investigation of the serial murders, I’ve been involved, to varying degrees, in a few other homicide cases. Sometimes because I happened to be around … or because the case involved a parishioner or two. Or just because the case hinged on a knowledge of things Catholic.
“I know,” Koesler continued, “that this must sound surreal, but with one thing or another, I’ve been involved in a homicide investigation just about every year since then.”
“You weren’t Father Brown in a previous life?” Tully joked, referring to G. K. Chesterton’s fictional priest-sleuth.
“Nothing of the kind. It just happened. What can I say?”
Tully glanced at the stove. “The water’s boiling.”
“So it is.” Koesler measured instant coffee into two mugs and added the hot water. He placed the mugs on the table. “Anyway, that’s how I met your brother. But it was maybe four or five years ago. And it was just such a case as I was describing: murder with a Catholic twist.”
Tully blew across the surface of the coffee and took a sip. He almost shuddered. It must, he thought, be the high degree of heat.
“I think,” Koesler said, sipping the coffee with no apparent ill effect, “your brother was the most skeptical of all the officers I’ve met in the department.”
“Skeptical? How so?”
“Skeptical of me,” Koesler clarified. “I can understand that any police officer might react negatively when some outsider steps in and tries to out-professional the professionals. I mean, the police are a highly skilled group. I know I’m even less than an amateur when it comes to police procedure. And I never for a moment thought I could do their work. I tried to make it clear that I was at best a resource person. But some of the officers, at least at first, objected to my presence—none more forcefully or wholeheartedly than your brother.
“But, over the years, we’ve come to a better understanding. I think, by now, your brother even likes to have me around when things Catholic are mucking up an investigation.”
Once more Tully tried to cool the coffee with his breath. He sipped, then suppressed a grimace. He focused on the instant coffee container. It was a brand-name product—indeed, a brand he had enjoyed from time to time. Could it be the water? The kettle? The cup?
Whatever, this was the worst coffee he could remember. He would have to go easy on the food and drink here until he sampled each serving. “I can understand my brother’s reluctance to let you in on a criminal investigation. But I’m still not clear where you fit in. What could be ‘Catholic’ about a murder case?”
“Hard to say,” Koesler admitted. “But maybe I can give you a couple of typical cases.
“Our first go-round is as good an example as any. You mentioned that the media called it ‘The Rosary Murders’—”
“And the rosary is almost exclusively a Catholic devotion,” Tully interjected.
“Right. But on top of that, maybe only a priest would recognize that particular prayer as part of the penance he might give a penitent to say after confession. And indeed, that was at least part of the clue to solving those murders.
“Then there was another serial murder case where the motto on a papal coat of arms was the clue. And another when the solution depended on knowing the kind of perks a priest might enjoy on vacation. And another when a murderer equated the cards in a poker hand to various officers in the diocese. That sort of thing.
“Any clearer?”
“A little.”
Koesler looked at his watch, something he was apt to do many times during the day and perhaps a couple of times through the night. “It’s getting close to seven.”
“So it is,” Tully said as he checked his watch. “Guess I’d better get going.”
“Do you have a car? You can borrow mine for the evening. I’ll be busy packing.”
“Thanks, but I’m renting one. It’s on the order.” He grinned. “The vow of poverty comes in handy every once in a while.
“Besides,” he added, “Mr. Adams said he’d send a car to pick me up tonight.” Tully stood and peered through the window overlooking the parking lot. “And here it is now. That is, unless you’re driving a Lincoln.”
Koesler chuckled. “Not a chance. I’m surprised he didn’t send a stretch limo. There’s a lot of that going on around here.”
“Probably in deference to that vow of poverty,” Tully joked.
“I won’t be leaving too early tomorrow,” Koesler said. “If you have any questions, we can talk about them in the morning. And of course I’ll leave you my number at Georgian Bay.”
Tully, on his way down the steps, looked back and smiled. “Don’t worry, Father, I’ll take good care of your baby. And I’ll return her to you safe and sound with no heresies flourishing on your return. Trust me. After all, I’m not fresh out of the seminary. Just relax and have a good rest.”
Koesler watched Tully’s departure until the Town Car turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Even though the car and Tully were gone, Koesler continued to gaze out the window. He wasn’t seeing what he was looking at. His mind was miles away.
He was beginning to be … what?… homesick. And he hadn’t even left home yet.
What had he to be concerned about? St. Joseph’s parish had existed long before he came into being. It had survived many pastors. It would survive him.
He should be confident in entrusting the parish to Father Tully. For one, Koesler long had had friends among the Josephites. He admired the order.
But Father Tully had asked too few questions when the two had toured the buildings. Then again, as Tully himself had stated, he was not a newly ordained priest, the oil of ordination still moist on his hands. He was a seasoned veteran. Surely he could administer old St. Joe’s.
Besides, his brother was Alonzo Tully, a proven professional. Trustworthy and competent.
On the other hand, though the two had a common father, they had different mothers. Raised entirely differently. The priestly Tully could not be measured by his policeman brother. And if he could not be measured by what Koesler knew of his brother, what, indeed, did Koesler know about this visiting priest?
Not much.
Before the phone call, neither Koesler nor the lieutenant had been aware of Father Tully’s existence. His call had taken Koesler completely by surprise—a voice volunteering to step in and make it possible for the pastor to enjoy a most rare vacation.
In the final analysis, Father Zachary Tully was a complete stranger. And in the present setup, the visitor would be completely unsupervised.
What if there were some sort of emergency? Could Tully be trusted to call Koesler if he were needed?
But most of all—and this was important—there was this pressing premonition: something was going to happen that would demand the presence of Father Koesler. He knew it.
Maybe he could shorten his vacation. One week would give him as much rest as two. In fact, it probably was statistically proven that after such a long hiatus in vacations, brevity in leisure was advisable. Better to get into something like that slowly, gradually.
Doing things cold turkey was not Koesler’s style.
But then he laughed at himself. All this rationalization was ridiculous.
In the little time he’d had to get organized, Koesler had prepared pretty thoroughly for Father Tully’s short stay at St. Joe’s. The most important element of that planning had been to brief Mary O’Connor on the newcomer. Mary, longtime secretary to Father Koesler, could and would see to it that the parish functioned on all cylinders in his absence.
No matter what else happened, Mary would hold the fort.
With a lighter heart, Father Koesler began to pack.
Five
At the outset, Father Tully attempted small talk with his driver. The response was monosyllabic.
&nbs
p; The driver’s only bow toward a uniform was a pair of leather gloves. Why the hand covering? Father Tully hadn’t a clue, but judging from the driver’s reaction to other questions, the priest decided not to pursue it.
Riding along Jefferson at this early evening hour, Father Tully was most impressed by the emptiness of the streets.
Downtown Detroit’s gigantic buildings—the Renaissance Center, the Millender Center, Cobo Hall, the Pontchartrain Hotel—all of them attested to a vibrant city. But where was everybody?
As it happened, they had a very short ride.
Just past Cobo Hall and beyond the Joe Louis Arena stood the Riverfront Apartments, the home of Thomas A. Adams, Father Tully’s host for this evening and soon-to-be recipient of the St. Peter Claver Award.
They had to pass through two checkpoints, one to enter the garage and another for the building itself. The security system seemed quite formidable to Father Tully. He had no idea how it would have been viewed by a professional burglar.
They left the elevator at the fourteenth floor and walked a short distance down the hall. The decor, though obviously expensive, was depressing; it seemed dark and confining.
The door to the Adams apartment was opened promptly after the driver rang the doorbell. Father Tully’s chauffeur preceded him, peeled off to the right, and disappeared through another doorway. The priest assumed they would not meet again until it was time to return to the rectory.
Father Tully was ushered into an expansive living room. Off-white walls and ceiling, comfortable leather furniture, here and there a small table, art work tastefully exhibited, and a delightful vista through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The apartment complex was located at the edge of downtown Detroit. At one time, the heart of downtown had been several blocks to the north. But with the Ren Cen, Hart Plaza, and the City-County Building established close to the Detroit River, the city’s heart had shifted.
He had no reason to reflect on it, but Father Tully was now at the very place where, in 1701, Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac and companions got out of their canoes and set up camp at the “straits,” or in French, détroit.
The view from this apartment showcased Windsor, Canada—much industry, some housing, Assumption University, and the University of Windsor—Detroit’s Ste. Anne’s, the second-oldest parish church in the United States; and of course the dynamic river that connected—via Lake St. Clair and the St. Clair River—two of the Great Lakes: Huron and Erie.
In any case, Father Tully had little time to reflect on the topography. His host had just entered the room. Thomas A. Adams crossed directly to the priest.
Adams’s open-arms carriage was amplified by his welcoming smile. Abundant snow-white hair was styled to touch his ears and collar, then graded upward. His handsome face was, suntanned and heavily creased, giving it a leathery texture, highlighted by crinkly laugh lines. At several inches under six feet tall, he was about Father Tully’s height, though heavier. Noting Adams’s dinner jacket, the priest was again reminded that his own clerical clothing fit in anywhere, from a formal affair such as this, to the streets of the barrio.
Evidently, Adams had caught his guest’s fascination with the view. “Really something, isn’t it?” he said as he took the priest’s out-stretched hand.
“Beats anything I’ve seen in Dallas.”
Adams laughed heartily and patted the priest’s shoulder.
Several servants bustled about, setting out hors d’oeuvre trays, decanting wine, and performing last-minute cleaning chores on already spotless surfaces. All were liveried, as was the butler who had admitted Tully and his driver to the apartment.
“What would you like to drink, Father?” Adams’s gesture encompassed the array of wines as well as the credenza bearing a variety of spirits. “We’ve got just about everything.”
Tully gazed at the display. “Yes, you surely have. Maybe a little white wine.”
“Excellent.” Adams turned to a waiter who materialized at his elbow, bearing a small tray of filled wineglasses. Father Tully had been unaware of any servants bending an ear in their direction. One must have been assigned to anticipate their desires.
“Would you care to sit down?”
“Mind if we stand by the window? I can’t get enough of this view.”
“Of course. Good idea.” Adams led the way to a jutting corner that accentuated the vista. The rays of the sunset not only made the sky seem incandescent, but lent a magical mystique to the river.
The priest shifted and looked around the room.
“Is there something you want, Father?”
“Uh, not exactly; I was wondering about Mrs. Adams ….”
The lines on his host’s face sharpened. “There is no Mrs. Adams … at least not for about a year now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“A divorce. I got an annulment.”
Tully considered the statement. It wasn’t “She got an annulment,” or “We got an annulment.” Could Tom Adams secure an annulment all on his own? Wouldn’t his wife have to at least cooperate in the process? Wouldn’t some priest—priests—need to do all the considerable paperwork? What might the stated cause be for the div—uh, annulment? Was this part of a key to Adams’s character? He seemed so warm, so open, so congenial. Yet this was a happy occasion: what would the man be like if crossed?
Both men silently gazed out the window. At length, Tully placed his nearly empty glass on a nearby tray.
“Another one, Father?”
“No. Thank you. No more. I’d better stay alert. I’m going to make a presentation, remember: your award.” Tully indicated the slender carefully wrapped package in his left hand.
“Oh yes, of course. Harry …” Again a servant materialized at Adams’s elbow. “Take this package for Father Tully and bring it back just after all the guests arrive … at eight o’clock.” He turned to Tully. “I think it would be good to have the presentation before dinner and before the liquor has had its, effect.”
Tully handed the packet over.
Adams smiled wryly. “Mickey would not enjoy seeing me get this award.” Noting the priest’s puzzled expression, he added, “Mickey’s the ex. My works of charity were one of our principal bones of contention. Well,” he said with finality, “she made fun of them one too many times.
“But”—he broke into a genuine smile—“she’s not here. She’ll never again be a part of my life in any way whatever.
“Now, enough of that.”
Father Tully was impressed. When this guy cuts you, you’re dead.
They were silent again. The sunset was highlighting the city’s architecture.
“I was wondering,” the priest said finally, “it must be some kind of thrill to have a bank named after you.”
“That’s up for grabs,” Adams said. “Sort of, which came first, the chicken or the egg? In this case, which came first, the family name or a street sign?”
“Please?”
A waiter offered wine from a tray. Adams exchanged his empty glass for a filled one. Father Tully declined the offer.
Adams sipped. “You see, my father started this bank. Its first headquarters had an address on Adams Street in downtown Detroit. Dad probably would have named the bank after himself anyway. Adams Street was the clincher.” He shook his head. “Dad’s been gone these many years now.” Abruptly, he shrugged and lightened. “I’ve never seen any reason to change the name. Besides, having the bank ostensibly named after my family sort of defines my job—what I do.”
Lights were going on in businesses, apartments, and homes as the city prepared for nightfall. Father Tully turned from the window. “You know, I’ve never actually met a bank president. Would you be insulted if I ask what it is you do? I mean, the question that is guaranteed to drive most priests up the wall is, ‘What do you do all day, Father? I mean, after you say Mass?’ It shows that the questioner cannot imagine what could possibly occupy a priest after he slips from view at Mass. So, I don’t suppose you hit
the links every day before or after making an appearance at your office.”
Adams chuckled. “Actually that’s not far from wrong.”
“It isn’t?”
“Instead of saying Mass, which I’m sorry I will never be able to do, I review loans. I have to approve a loan if it’s in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars and up for a business or one hundred thousand for a mortgage.”
“Wow!”
“No ‘wow’ necessary.” Adams emptied his wineglass. The ubiquitous waiter collected it immediately. Adams indicated he wanted no more.
“What you must remember, Father, is that we’re a small bank. Compared with say, Comerica, very small indeed. While I’m checking on a hundred thousand, the big guys are looking at about five million.
“But that’s not my main concern. My job, ‘after Mass,’ if you will, is to be visible.
“I knock on doors. Call on the local Firestone dealer. I’m looking for a moderate investment in my bank. I call on as many of the merchants in town as possible. I join the Chamber of Commerce. Lots of civic stuff. I manage to get in the Bloomfield Hills Country Club so I can meet the movers and shakers of our town—to get relatively small accounts.
“I am visible, friendly. I speak before the League of Women Voters. I’m a member of the Lions Club. I do lots of business on the golf course—”
“Excuse me,” Tully interrupted, “but isn’t the game of tennis where all the movers and shakers move and shake and close deals? Isn’t golf too slow and time-consuming?”
“No, tennis has some action, as you suggest. But golf is still supreme.
“But I don’t want to give the impression that business is confined to a few specific locations or opportunities. Lots of business is done at breakfast or lunch … seldom dinner.
“Why, in the morning at Kingsley Inn or even the Denny’s on Telegraph Road there can be half a dozen millionaires discussing investments, loans, mortgages … business.
“And my job boils down to a single word: visibility.”
“Wow!” Tully breathed, with genuine awe. “I can tell you, that’s a busier job description than I could ever come up with. ‘After Mass’ you’re going at warp speed.”
Man Who Loved God Page 3