Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries: fk-10

by William Kienzle

  Among the four priests presently in residence was Monsignor Lawrence Meehan.

  Freshly embarked on his eightieth year, Meehan had been retired, having received “senior priest status,” for the past ten years. Though he was arthritic, stooped and shriveled, still his mind remained mercifully alert and his memory sharp, if selective.

  Koesler visited the monsignor at least once a month, more often if the occasion presented itself. Almost thirty years before, Koesler had served as an assistant to Meehan in a suburban parish. The two had hit it off then and continued their congenial relationship over the years.

  Occasionally now, Koesler might submit a problem for the monsignor’s consideration and advice. But not often, since Meehan no longer cared to pontificate or even adjudicate. He had pretty well left behind him with the active ministry most of the decision-making that had been his ordinary role for forty-five years as a functioning priest.

  Mostly the two just visited and told each other the same stories over and over. Koesler did not mind; they were good tales, tried and true. Meehan didn’t mind; his memory of recent events, such as when and with whom he had lately shared these stories, was fuzzy.

  Koesler entered the monsignor’s room and the two greeted each other. Koesler breathed a sigh of relief. He feared the day when the accumulation of years would roll over Meehan and he would not recognize his former assistant.

  “So, how’s it going, Monsignor?” Koesler placed his coat and hat on the bed and sat near the elderly priest.

  “Oh, pretty good, Bobby, pretty good.” Meehan, seated near the window, listed slightly to the right, the result of his arthritis.

  “You’re lookin’ fine.”

  “Maybe so . . . but I think I’m in trouble again.”

  “Oh?”

  “See, there’s this nurse—physical therapist. She takes me through my paces twice a week. Well, yesterday she said, ‘Monsignor, have you been turning your neck to the right and left like I told you to?’”

  “And you said . . .”

  “‘Only when you walk by, Honey.’”

  That was a new story.

  “Did you follow that up by asking her for a date?”

  Meehan’s eyes twinkled. “What’s a date?”

  “If you don’t even remember, I can’t see that the Pope’s going to get sore about this.” Koesler had not intended bringing up the topic weighing on his mind, since he tried to keep heavy matters out of their conversations. However, the segue from what Meehan had recounted was irresistible. “But I may be in trouble.”

  “Oh?” There was hesitancy in Meehan’s demeanor; he hoped this would not be a problem in which he was expected to get involved. As always, he would do his best to keep it light.

  “I had a rather controversial funeral this morning,” Koesler proceeded.

  “Controversial?”

  “We buried a prostitute.”

  “Somebody had to.”

  “She wasn’t even from my parish.” Somehow, as Koesler started to explain, the whole matter began to seem silly.

  “Now, why would you do that?”

  “Somebody asked me to.”

  “Remember that funeral we had back at St. Norbert’s?” Meehan, as he frequently did, sought shelter in history. “That Italian family who owned the bar . . . what was their name? . . . Ventimiglia, wasn’t it?”

  Smiling, Koesler nodded.

  “Yes,” Meehan continued, “but it wasn’t one of them. It was somebody—Uncle Angelo—who died. Hadn’t darkened a church door since his confirmation. But the Ventimiglias wanted him buried from the church.”

  “Uh-huh. And they were the only ones. If Uncle Angelo had been able to express his opinion, he probably wouldn’t have given a damn.”

  “Remember,” Meehan said, “you and I spent almost an entire day trying to find somebody who had seen Angelo do anything, absolutely anything, religious.”

  “Yes, even tip his hat when he passed a front of a church. Notwithstanding that it had been the wind that had blown it off”

  “Could have been an act of God,” Meehan commented.

  “Finally, as I recall, you found someone who claimed that Angelo had attended a relative’s First Communion.”

  “Might have been a lie, but that was on his conscience. In any case, it was enough to satisfy the chancery that we could bury him from church. And then, when I told the Ventimiglias the good news, they asked if they could have a solemn high Mass. Imagine: three priests for Uncle Angelo!”

  “Yeah, I remember. You almost hit the ceiling and floor simultaneously.” Koesler paused. “Church law isn’t quite so demanding anymore. It’s really quite open about burying somebody who maybe was Catholic in name only.”

  Meehan reflected. “I’m not so sure whether that’s good or bad.”

  “Right at this minute, neither am I. With the old law, I think maybe I would not have been able to have this woman’s funeral this morning—which might have saved me lots of grief.”

  “What are the requirements now?” Meehan obviously was somewhat tentative. Having retired before the new version of Church law was promulgated, he had not read a single canon of it. There was little or no chance that he would have read it even if he had not retired.

  “It mostly has to do with scandal now. Angelo could have sailed right through today’s law. It merely mentions notorious sinners. And then only when burying them would cause scandal. It gets down to the priest’s judgment ... or, he can consult with the Ordinary.”

  “Which you wouldn’t do.”

  “Which I wouldn’t do.”

  “So you buried the prostitute.”

  “This morning.”

  “Are you worried about the scandal?”

  Koesler shook his head. “Not the scandal—although somebody might call me on that. No, I think I’m on pretty firm ground there. But, in a little while, a goodly bit of this morning’s funeral is going to hit the fan.”

  “Oh?”

  “One thing even I didn’t figure on was that the deceased’s colleagues would attend the funeral.”

  “Colleagues?”

  “Other prostitutes.”

  “They were there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How did you know?”

  “The way they were dressed, the makeup, the whole thing.”

  “You could tell?”

  “They weren’t members of the Rosary Altar Society.” He shook his head again. “Do you get the daily papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll probably be on the front page tomorrow. And on TV and radio tonight, for that matter. Didn’t you see the news earlier this week about the prostitute who was murdered and mutilated?”

  “I don’t pay much attention to that sort of stuff. Not anymore.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. The news media will have a fresh angle on the story now. They were all there this morning. I’d bet my last buck that they won’t bother with any of the circumstances that got her a Christian burial. They’ll just do the ‘prostitute and the Church’ deal. The ‘sacred and the profane.’”

  Meehan thought for a moment. “That shouldn’t be too bad for you, Bobby. You should come off as the good guy in the whole thing. You know, ‘Hate the sin; love the sinner.’”

  “I don’t know about that. But it was a judgment call. And long ago I learned that if you spend your life second-guessing yourself, you’ll go nuts.’”

  “I’d have to agree. Just pray that your judgment is sane. Not like the guy . . . do you remember the story, Bobby, about the guy who was about to be ordained a priest, and he was going through his final oral exams?”

  Koesler not only knew the story, he had recounted it many times. But he knew there was no way to head the monsignor off . . . nor did he want to; it was a good story and Meehan would get pleasure from telling it. So Koesler remained noncommittal as Meehan proceeded.

  “Well, the test was part of the Moral Theology exam,” Meehan began. “The question
was put to the student by the Moral Theology prof as a hypothetical problem . . . by the way, Bobby, do you happen to know what a sacrarium is?”

  Koesler smiled in spite of himself. Odd that Meehan would ask such a question. In his earlier life as a priest, when Koesler had been a lowly assistant, he’d had many an occasion to use a sacrarium.

  Back then, when it came time to wash sacred linens, principally the cloths used at Mass—such as the purificator—none but the consecrated hands of a priest were supposed to handle the initial washing. So priests—all over the world, as far as Koesler knew—rinsed out the cloths in some small container, the water from which was to be poured, not into an ordinary sink, but rather into the sacrarium that resembled a sink. Except that it was usually covered with a metal lid and, most importantly, the drain led not into the sewer, but directly into the ground. Thus, even the water that was used to wash blessed linens would be treated in a special manner.

  Yes, Father Koesler well knew what a sacrarium was. All older churches had such utensils in the sacristy. Even many modern churches had them, though now they were used most infrequently. Koesler thought it passing strange that Meehan would ask this question. Perhaps the elderly just assumed that lots of things in their lives would pass into desuetude along with themselves.

  Assured by Koesler’s smile that he was, indeed, familiar with the sacrarium, Meehan continued, “Well, then, the professor proposes this hypothesis: ‘Suppose,’ he says, ‘that you’re saying Mass and you get past the consecration. You’ve already consecrated the host and the wine. Then, while you’re continuing the prayers of the Mass—you have both hands raised in prayer—suppose a mouse runs across the altar table, grabs the consecrated host in its mouth, and runs off. Now, what would you do?’

  “Well, sir, the student thinks about this for quite a while. Finally he says, ‘I’d burn down the church and throw the ashes in the sacrarium.’”

  Koesler chuckled appreciatively.

  “Ya know,” Meehan continued, “that’s a true story.”

  Koesler doubted that; Meehan had told it so often it had undoubtedly transformed itself for him from fiction into fact.

  “And ya know,” Meehan concluded, “they ordained that man!”

  “Maybe,” Koesler said, “the poor fellow had some redeeming qualities. Maybe turned out to be a hard worker.”

  Meehan thought that over. “I don’t believe I’ve ever considered it from that angle. You may just have something there. Maybe he did have some redeeming features. I wonder what ever became of him.”

  Koesler wondered how one would trace the lifespan of a fictional character. “Let’s just hope he didn’t have a series of mice snatching his hosts. Otherwise, this archdiocese would become churchless.”

  Koesler’s comment fell on deaf ears; Meehan seemed lost in some reverie. “Hard worker,” Meehan said. “Hard worker. That reminds me: How is Dick Kramer getting along? I wonder about him from time to time.”

  The association was natural, Koesler admitted. Of all the priests in the Detroit archdiocese, Dick Kramer easily was the hardest working—a distinction on which almost everyone would agree. And such unanimity was rare enough to possibly qualify it as unique.

  “I suppose,” Koesler answered, “he’s working as hard as ever. And I suppose that’s why I so seldom hear about him.”

  Meehan shook his head and shifted in his chair. “Works too hard. Always did. I worry about him.”

  “That’s right; he was with you at St. Norbert’s, wasn’t he?”

  “Indeed he was. I shan’t easily forget that.”

  “You don’t easily forget much of anything.”

  “Oh, yes, too much. Too much! But it would be hard to forget Dick Kramer. Why, he almost singlehandedly kept all those church buildings in repair. And when he wasn’t carrying hammers and nails and an acetylene torch, he was taking Communion to the sick, or teaching in school or giving instructions.” Meehan sighed. “He was the closest thing I ever saw to perpetual motion.”

  “Well, I don’t know if he’s still doing all those things, but I can tell you that, by common consensus, he is still hard at work. And he’s got his hands full just keeping Mother of Sorrows parish open . . . word is the school is as good as closed.”

  “Sad. Sad. That could break his heart.”

  Koesler thought it appropriate to change the subject. The conversational theme was becoming depressing and he was sure that, with all his aches and pains, Monsignor Meehan didn’t need to be depressed.

  “It may be academic,” Koesler said. “There’s such an exodus from that part of town that eventually they may not even need a parish there anymore. In which case Kramer can get his carpenter’s license and earn some real money.”

  “Carpenter’s license,” Meehan mused. “Say, Bobby, did I ever tell you . . .” Koesler was certain Meehan had.

  “. . . about St. Mary’s Seminary in Baltimore? Back when I was a student there we had the French Sulpicians—actually from France. Most of them had trouble with English. I remember one of them one day mentioning that Jesus was a carPENter. And when we all laughed at that, the professor said, ‘Oh, yes, zat is true. Not only was Jesus a carPENter, but he was the son of a carPENter.’”

  Now that they were on the French Sulpician stories of the early days at St. Mary’s in Baltimore, Koesler could almost predict the tales to come. But, why not? They were good stories, tried and true.

  8

  There were a few people on the front porch. They were not standing outside in the cold by choice. They were waiting to get inside the crowded house. Inside the house there was considerable commotion that was audible almost half a block away.

  Father Richard Kramer heard it as soon as he stepped out of his car. He shuddered. His task would have been unpleasant under the best of circumstances. This noisy crowd ensured his visit would be attended by the worst of circumstances.

  It took the people on the porch a little while to figure out who he might be. But they solved the puzzle rather quickly. He was white and he was wearing black trousers, a black hat, and a black coat. He was either a mortician or a preacher. If he had been the mortician, he probably would have been black, so odds were he was the alternative. As he climbed the steps, one of the onlookers spotted his roman collar. So she announced his arrival. “Look out here for the Father.”

  The crowd, like the waters of the Red Sea, parted.

  “The Father’s here. Look out. Give him room.”

  Kramer nodded to the people as they made way. Soon he was in the packed parlor. The focus of all attention was a frail, middle-aged woman seated in the largest chair in the room. She had several tissues in her hands. Her head was bowed and her shoulders trembled as she cried quietly. Her grief was all but silent; it was the others who were making the racket . . . although as Kramer neared the grieving room the others reduced their decibels to whispers.

  Someone vacated a chair next to the one occupied by the grieving woman.

  Kramer had been through similar situations countless times. There was little or nothing that could take away the grief. Silently, he put his hand on her shoulder.

  She looked up at him. Tears clouded her eyes. “Oh, Father, why’d it have to happen? Rudy was a good boy. Why him?”

  Most mothers would have said the same thing. In this case, Kramer knew it to be true. “Yes, Sarah, Rudy was a good boy.”

  “Then why’d it have to happen, Father? Why?”

  “No answers, Sarah. Rudy was on the wrong corner at the wrong time.”

  It was one of those tragedies for which Detroit was notorious. Kids marketing, pushing, supplying, selling, using dope. Kids with every kind of gun imaginable. Kids out looking for someone who had double-crossed them. Mistaking young Rudy for the sought-after victim. Several shots fired. Two bystanders wounded. Rudy dead before his body hit the pavement. Rudy, one of Father Kramer’s altar boys. Rudy, his mother’s only son. Kids killing kids.

  “Did they catch the kid, the kid
that did it? Did they catch him yet, Father?”

  “I don’t think so, Sarah. I heard the news on the radio as I came over. But there was no word of it.”

  Someone handed him a cup of hot coffee. He thanked the person and reflected on how badly he wanted a smoke. But this was neither the time nor the place.

  “Sarah, try to forget the kid who shot Rudy. The cops’ll get him. They’ll get him in time. Probably real soon. But it’s not going to do you any good to have vengeance in your heart. Not at a time like this.”

  “What am I gonna do, Father? Somebody took my Rudy. How can I not think about who did it, Father?”

  “It’s not easy, I know, Sarah. But it just doesn’t do any good.”

  “Then what am I gonna think about, Father? I got a hole in my heart.”

  “I know you do, Sarah. And you have all your friends around you to try to heal your heart.

  “What are you going to think about? Think about how fine a boy Rudy was. No, how fine a boy Rudy is. What good is it for us to talk in church about Jesus coming back from the dead if we don’t make that talk live for us?”

  “Doctor Jesus?”

  “Doctor Jesus. That’s right. We believe He came back from the dead. He’s alive. And so are we. We live in Him. So we live in this life and in the next life. That’s where Rudy is now. He’s alive in another life. A better life. A perfect life. Everything we do, even here on earth, is part of our eternal life in Doctor Jesus. Rudy was my altar boy. He is your son. But now he is with God.”

  During Kramer’s exhortation, Sarah kept looking at him intently. The tears ceased to course down her cheeks. She was absorbing his every word as a sponge takes in water. But as he finished speaking, her face clouded once more.

  “I want him back, Father. He didn’t even have a chance to live.” She began sobbing again.

  Kramer could do nothing more than sit next to her and give her his presence.

  Meanwhile, the crowd resumed its expression of grief. It began gradually and crescendoed. After a while, Kramer was hardly conscious of the noise. He was lost in his thoughts. Only when someone turned on the television was he drawn back to the present. Perhaps it was the movement of the crowd, forming a kind of passageway so everyone could see the set, that brought him back to reality.