Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  “Right. But isn’t it nice I know a place to warm it.”

  On the Fourth of July, it would be an excellent idea to go on a picnic, thought Father Robert Koesler. And he would do it, he vowed, if only he could get the hell away from St. Anselm’s.

  At ten that morning, Koesler had conducted a special Independence Day-type liturgy with appropriate prayers, Scripture readings, and homily geared to the theme of responsible freedom.

  And, wonder of wonders, Deacon Lester Schroeder had been present. Deacon Les harbored a strange aversion to daily Mass. He seldom attended. Although there was no ecclesial law demanding daily Mass attendance of any Catholic, even a priest, priests were ordinarily expected to offer Mass daily. Schroeder was less than a year from probable ordination to the priesthood, and Koesler, as the deacon’s reluctant moderator, wondered mightily about his protégé’s attitude.

  By now, near noon, Schroeder was long gone on a holiday celebration of his own, as were the approximately seventy-five parishioners who had attended the holiday ritual without benefit of binding law.

  Koesler also would have been gone, but he was preparing his third response to the Tribunal’s demand for an update on the marital separation case whose status had been quo-ed since Koesler had first alerted the Tommy Thompson gang of the situation.

  Koesler finished typing a response to the Tribunal’s request for information. The response was almost identical to the two previous communications. The woman’s husband had, for all practical purposes, disappeared. Thus, the separation petition was parked solidly in limbo.

  The blond, six-foot-three Koesler, in his mid-fifties, and on the slender side of a middle-aged paunch, was at ease in parochial life. As far back as he could remember, he had wanted nothing but to be a parish priest, which he had been for eight years following his ordination. At that point, however, Detroit’s Archbishop Mark Boyle had appointed Koesler as editor-in-chief of the archdiocesan newspaper, the Detroit Catholic.

  He had been editor for twelve years, while simultaneously performing some parochial duties. Now he was simply pastor of St. Anselm’s in suburban Dearborn Heights. And happy about it.

  As editor, Koesler had been involved with two intensive police investigations of murders that had specifically affected Detroit’s Catholic community.

  In the first of these investigations, popularly known as The Rosary Murders, Koesler had been instrumental in solving the case. The second series of killings, known as The Red Hat Murders, had remained officially in the category of unsolved crimes.

  Irene Casey, formerly woman’s editor, had succeeded Koesler as editor-in-chief of the Detroit Catholic. The two had remained friends over the years, and it was to Irene’s home on the shore of Green Lake that Koesler was headed for his Independence Day picnic. If only he could get this envelope addressed to Monsignor Thompson at the Tribunal. As Koesler rolled the envelope into his typewriter, the doorbell rang. Grumbling mildly under his breath, he rose, smoothed his cassock, and went to answer the door.

  It was a woman perhaps his age, perhaps slightly older. Agitated, anxious, perhaps angry.

  “May I help you?” Koesler offered.

  “Is Deacon Les here?”

  Red warning lights went on all over Koesler’s imagination.

  “No, Deacon Les has gone for the day. I’m Father Koesler. May I help you? I’m pastor here.” Just as the doctor has more status than the nurse, he thought she should understand that the pastor may be considerably more effective than a deacon.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Of course.” Koesler led her down the narrow hallway to his office. He and his visitor settled in chairs on either side of the desk. Koesler waited through a short, awkward silence.

  “I am Mrs. Leo Cicero.” She removed a lace handkerchief from her purse and began nervously running it through her hands. “I’ve come about my daughter’s marriage.”

  “Excuse me, but is there some reason I don’t recognize you?” While Koesler did not claim to know all his parishioners by name, he was familiar enough with them to recognize those who at least attended weekend Mass with some regularity.

  “Oh, we’re not from your parish, Father. We belong to Divine Child. It’s just a few blocks away.”

  Koesler knew well where Divine Child was. “But if you belong to Divine Child, why are you dealing with Deacon Les? He is assigned to this parish,” Koesler added ruefully.

  “Well, you see, Father, there is a problem.”

  “There is a problem. And Deacon Les is fixing it up for you?” The red warning lights entirely lit up Koesler’s imagination. “Might I inquire as to the nature of this problem?”

  “My future son-in-law was married before.”

  “And what makes anyone think he can get married again?”

  “Well, you see, he was never baptized. So we’re seeking a privilege… a privilege…”

  “…of the faith case,” Koesler completed. “You have petitioned the Holy See to dissolve his previous valid-but-not-sacramental marriage in favor of the sacramental marriage to your Catholic daughter.”

  “That’s it!” Mrs. Cicero brightened.

  “Well, that procedure is certainly not unheard-of. But why have you brought this case here? Why isn’t it being handled in your own parish?”

  “Because of the deadline.”

  “Deadline?”

  “Yes, the youngsters are scheduled to be married on the first Saturday of August.”

  “Where?”

  “Here!”

  Koesler excused himself, crossed to Mary O’Connor’s office, and consulted the datebook. There it was. Scheduled for Saturday, August 4, at 3 P.M. Dale Worthington to be wed to Anna Maria Cicero.

  He returned to his office. “Would you mind running that by me again? The part about the deadline?”

  “Well, Father Cavanaugh, our pastor, would not agree to the August 4 date for the wedding. He insisted he would not schedule the wedding until after we got permission from Rome.”

  “This case is still in Rome?”

  “Yes. But Deacon Les—Anna Maria was referred to him by a young man who comes here almost every evening to see him—said that we could set the date and that he would pull special strings to make sure the permission would arrive in time.”

  “But, as far as you know, the permission has not yet arrived?”

  “No. That’s why I dropped in today. To check that out with Deacon Les.”

  The red warning lights had become exploding skyrockets in Koesler’s mind.

  “I see,” he said. “If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll try to check this out with Deacon Les and get back to you.”

  “Well, thank you, Father.”

  Koesler showed Mrs. Cicero out and pondered various torturous deaths he might administer slowly and deliberately to Lester Schroeder, as he finished addressing his envelope to the Tribunal.

  Leaving St. Anselm’s to the care of its answering service, he took his swim trunks as a last-minute decision. He had not planned on swimming in Green Lake. However, these latest events convinced him he needed a cool place to simmer down.

  Father Norm Shanley wondered if the others in his foursome would wait. Nothing separated him from a holiday golf match with three of his priest buddies but a lingering brunch with his pastor, Father James Porter. In any case, if he missed tee time, Shanley knew he would have little trouble finding his friends on the spacious St. John Seminary course.

  “Father,” Porter worked the first bite of his apple pie free, “did I ever tell you what happened after the very first baptism I ever performed?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shanley answered. “Why don’t you tell me about it? I’ll let you know if you’re covering familiar ground.”

  Shanley frankly admired Porter. At 69, he was one year shy of retirement. Only a few years back, his right leg had been amputated above the knee. Poor circulation. Now, confined to a wheelchair and burdened with a dozen or so daily pills, he remained a cheerfu
l and dedicated priest.

  “Well, sir, Father,” Porter chewed his dry, flaky piece of pie, “those were the days when good Catholic women had children—lots of them. Why, even in Imlay City, we could average five to ten babies of a Sunday. Not like today when nobody will listen to the Holy Father.”

  “And,” Shanley was determined to bring Porter back to the point of his story, “what was it occurred on the occasion of your very first baptism, Father?”

  At the beginning of their relationship, Porter had insisted on calling Shanley, young enough to be his grandson, Father. And since Porter seemed more comfortable being addressed by title, the two invariably called each other, Father. A bit old-worldly, but habit-forming.

  “Well, sir, Father,” Porter rubbed his hands together and warmed to his tale, “I had no sooner finished baptizing—must have been eight, ten babies—than one of the godfathers comes back into the baptistery. Very excited he was.

  “He says to me, ‘Father, there’s a woman in church with her dress off.’

  “So,” Porter ingested the last of his stale apple pie, “I quick hurried out of the baptistery and looked around. Sure enough, Father, the church seemed completely empty. But there, about three-quarters up the main aisle; there, draped over one of the pews was this blue dress.”

  “And then what happened?” Shanley was finding this one of Porter’s more captivating stories.

  “Well, sir, Father, I sez to this man, ‘Look, why don’t you go back there and drape the dress on the woman? I’ll just finish putting this away in here and then I’ll be out to see what’s what.’

  “So, I finished in the baptistery and went out into the church. Sure enough, Father, there was that blue dress over the pew again.

  “Now, I didn’t doubt for a minute that the gentleman had put the dress over the woman. She must have draped it over the pew no sooner than he left.

  “Well,” Porter continued. “I went back to the pew with the dress hanging over it. And there was this lady lying on the pew. But she was wearing a slip and shoes… and, I suppose, underthings.” Porter blushed again.

  “Her pocketbook was open near her feet. I looked in. It was filled with prayerbooks and rosaries.

  “For a while, I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I hurried to the rectory and called the police.

  “Well, sir, Father, a crowd the size of a Fourth-of-July picnic gathered in no time. I got back to the church about the same time the police entered. While the chief was getting the story from me, three burly deputies picked up that little woman, stood her on her feet and slapped that dress down over her like she was a mannequin. They slipped her out of there lickety-split. Crowd hung around for a while. But when they saw nothing more was going to happen, they went back to their backyards and lemonade.”

  Porter puffed contentedly on his cigarette. A smile twitched at his lips as he savored the recollection. He could remember the strong young man he once had been and glory in that image. Those were the days when there was no limit to how many souls he could save. No end to the conquests he could make in behalf of the Holy, Roman, Catholic and Apostolic Church.

  Now the limits were painfully clear. One year until the hated retirement. It hadn’t been that way before that blasted Second Vatican Council. In the good old days, a priest was expected to die with his stole on, halfway through an absolution. Nowadays, they put you on a shelf when you ripened. All that experience, all that practical knowledge put out to pasture.

  “So what happened?” Shanley drew Porter from his reverie.

  “What happened?”

  “To the lady.” Shanley perceived he was not getting through. “What happened to the lady in the slip on the pew who was taken away by the police?”

  “Oh… oh!” Porter returned to the present. “Her! Well, sir, Father, I heard not a word from the chief. So about a week later I phoned him. And he told me that their investigation had revealed that she was a native of Detroit. And that she had a habit of roaming from parish to parish, poor woman, doing this sort of thing. She had a confusion in her mind about sex and religion.”

  “Did they hold her? Did you bring charges?”

  “Oh, no, Father. Poor woman. We just let her go. But I’ve prayed for her ever since.”

  Shanley snuffed out his cigarette and contemplated Porter, lost once more in memories.

  Poor guy, Shanley thought; he doesn’t know what he’s accomplished. He probably thinks his life is a waste. He has no idea of the lives he has touched, changed—changed for the better. Mine, for instance. He has no idea how he has influenced me. His patience in the face of prolonged suffering. His unflagging cheerfulness in the face of one medical discouragement after another.

  And the stories Jimmy Porter knew! Stories that could be gathered only after years of experience. But only if one stayed alert and continued to learn from that experience.

  Someday, Shanley thought, I’ll have a fund of stories like that. Someday—if I live long enough and if I don’t fall asleep at the switch.

  But now, he thought, as he excused himself from table, for that inexpensive golf course.

  “Duck!”

  Father Koesler reacted instantly to Joe Casey’s Irish tenor warning. The priest did not hear the baseball whiz over his bowed head, but he did hear it plop resoundingly into a mitt some fifty feet away.

  Tim and Kevin, two of the seven Casey children, had been playing catch when Koesler had unwittingly become monkey-in-the-middle.

  “How’s your health insurance, Father?” Joe Casey hollered.

  “How’s your indemnity?” Koesler shot back. “I think I just suffered whiplash.”

  Walking more alertly than was his custom, Koesler crossed to the Caseys. Joe and Irene were standing side by side. Welcoming smiles creased their faces; each cradled an open can of Stroh’s. All was as it should be. Stroh’s was mother’s milk to Joe and Irene. To the point where once Irene had returned from the grocery and absentmindedly heated a bottle of Stroh’s for the baby.

  The three exchanged greetings, which were quickly followed by the placing of a Stroh’s in Koesler’s hand.

  “Golly!” Koesler glanced about, looking for new developments in the terrain or yard equipment. “It must be a couple of years since—”

  “—you were here,” Irene completed.

  A look of amusement played about Koesler’s face. “Irene,” he said, “you are still completing my—”

  “—sentences.”

  “Yes. Why is that?”

  “I don’t really know. It must be a bad habit I got into.”

  “It’s a habit,” Joe Casey commented, “that predates—”

  “—you.”

  Joe laughed. Joe Casey found humor nearly everywhere. A retired Great Lakes captain and onetime line coach for Notre Dame’s Frank Leahy, Joe had long since declared a truce in his battle against weight. At five-eleven and a comfortable 250 pounds, he wore the map of Ireland on his ruddy face. He supervised the daily needs of the two Casey preschoolers, read everything he could get his hands on, and told stories of the Lakes and of football greats of yesteryear.

  Irene Casey, in her mid-forties, was fifteen years her husband’s junior. Her auburn hair was flecked with gray. Seven children, twenty-three years of marriage, and a successful journalism career had not marred her delicate beauty. She had accepted the position as editor of the Detroit Catholic five years before more out of a sense of commitment and dedication than financial need. Detroit’s Archbishop Mark Boyle continued to consider Irene’s appointment as editor one of his finest moves.

  Between Joe and Irene there were as many differences as there were similarities. They were remarkably alike and complementary in their sense of humor while quite dissimilar in temperament. But few would disagree they had one of the world’s more secure marriages. Nor was there any disagreement that such a relationship was a relative rarity.

  Together, Joe, Irene, and Father Koesler ambled toward the lake and the small rowboat tied to the
Casey dock.

  “Want to go for a ride, Father?” Irene invited.

  “Sure. But I assume you’ll do the riding, and I’ll do the rowing.”

  Koesler assisted Irene into the boat, which he then awkwardly entered, nearly tipping it.

  Joe untied the connecting rope, tossing it into the departing boat. “Have fun while there’s time,” he called after them. “Tommy Thompson will be here later!”

  “We may not be back,” Koesler hollered. “Any advice from Captain Casey, you old salt?”

  “Just the word I used to give my old Navy buddies: stay on top of the waves!”

  Irene shook her head. She’d heard that one too many times.

  Stay on top of the waves, Koesler mused. Then, with the figurative lit bulb over his head, the homograph occurred to him: undulations on the water—or female members of the Navy. Ordinarily, he would not have thought twice about such a remark. But here, in a boat alone with Irene, he blushed. The ancient moralists had stumbled upon something in warning of danger when solus was cum sola. Or, as one of his long-forgotten retreat masters had noted, between every good man and every good woman should be built a solid brick wall.

  After a few self-conscious moments, Irene broke the silence. “I hope you don’t mind Tommy Thompson’s being here later. He’s only going to drop by for a few moments. I used to date his brother and, as a result, I think Tommy considers himself one of the family. It’s not so much that I invite him to parties and functions. It’s that when he hears about a party, he sort of invites himself.”

  “Oh, I have nothing personal against Tom. I just wish at least as long as he’s going to be officialis—uh…” Koesler was not sure if Irene was familiar with the term. “…head of the Tribunal, that he would forget I exist. His insistence on the technical niceties of canon law can get on one’s nerves after a while.”

  Koesler rowed easily toward the turn in the lake to the west of the Casey home. His long arms brought unintended acceleration to their progress. As they approached the corner of the lake, Koesler became aware of the enormousness of the lot that embraced the turn. Evidently pie-shaped, the lake frontage appeared to be at least 200 feet wide.