Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  Father Thompson’s first assignment was as assistant at St. Veronica’s in East Detroit. In 1959, he was given the special appointment as notary in the Tribunal. The following year he was sent to Rome, where, in 1962, he was awarded a licentiate in canon law. That same year Father Koesler became editor of the Detroit Catholic.

  Thompson continued at the Tribunal, and in 1965 was named vice officialis, second in command. From then on, it was only a matter of time before he would become head of the marriage court. In 1966, he was named monsignor, a title that carried no additional responsibilities but was very impressive, especially to most lay people. Finally, in 1970 he became officialis.

  Almost no one does anything for one reason alone. One of the reasons—although almost a subconscious one—that Monsignor Thompson had become a priest was that the vocation to the priesthood, more than any other, effectively broke down every social barrier. A priest, of whatever color or variety, was at least initially welcome anywhere. He was greeted with missionary openness by the few black Catholics of the inner city. Or he could be treated with respect by the Fishers, the DuPonts, the Rockefellers, or the Fords. It was with these latter groups that Thompson frequently could be found.

  He enjoyed the power inherent in the position of officialis. Almost at whim he could make people deliriously happy and grateful or crush their hopes and spirits. Ordinarily, he did not intervene to exercise this authority. He had four priests assigned full-time to his office, and he could call on the services of twenty other priests as judges or prosecutor-advocates. However, from time to time, he would flex his judicial muscles.

  The problem with power, in addition to its tendency to corrupt, is its precariousness. No one remains powerful forever. And Thompson knew that just as he had climbed the Tribunal ladder to its peak, so one day would someone else. The prospect of losing his position disquieted Thompson. So he seldom thought about it.

  Thompson, like most priests, did not earn much money. A base salary plus fifty dollars per year increment and allowances put his annual income at approximately $7,400.00. By contemporary standards not much. But ordinarily priests do not need much. Room and board are provided. Most priests are not charged for medical or dental services. And the perquisites can go on endlessly. Some priests live with and as the poorest of the poor. And some live as the richest of the rich. The priesthood, more than almost any other calling, is what one makes of it. And there is a rainbow of possibilities.

  By almost anyone’s standard, Monsignor Thompson lived well. His vehicle was always a late-model Cadillac. He was faithful to clerical black but in the $300-per-suit style. Principally, he had become close friends with several of the movers and shakers of the Detroit scene. Thus, he lived at their level. A ride in a private jet with a GM or Ford executive for golf at Pebble Beach with a tournament professional—all gratis—was not uncommon.

  What young Tommy Thompson could only dream—that after the football game he could accompany the tycoon’s grandchildren into the mansion—Monsignor Thomas Thompson had accomplished.

  The good news was that Deacon Les Schroeder had told Mary O’Connor that he was going to take several days off. The bad news was that neither of them had told anyone else. Thus, the absence was both a surprise and a source of frustration to Father Koesler. He had intended to get to the bottom of this Worthington-Cicero wedding planned for August 4 immediately. Koesler was certain Schroeder had this delicate situation decidedly out of control.

  But instead of settling the issue or, at least learning how bad it was, he’d had to cool his heels while awaiting the deacon’s return.

  Evidently, Schroeder had returned late the previous night.

  Between the eight and ten A.M. ’Masses, Koesler ascertained that Schroeder was in his bed on the screened side porch. Between the ten A.M. and noon Masses, Koesler made arrangements to speak with Schroeder immediately following the baptisms that followed noon Mass.

  It was early afternoon. And such a temperate day, rare for a July 8 in Michigan, that Koesler decided to take his deacon for a walk. They began strolling past the church toward the large playground.

  “Les, what I really want to talk to you about is this Worthington-Cicero marriage you’ve got scheduled here.”

  Schroeder thought a few moments. “Oh, yes,” he recalled, “Dale and Anna Maria. Fine young couple.”

  “Impeded young couple.”

  “What?”

  “Young Dale, Les. He has an impediment to marriage. He’s been married before.”

  “That may be,” said Schroeder triumphantly, “but he’s never been baptized.”

  They had reached the playground. A group of eighth-graders was playing a pickup game of hardball. Koesler made a mental note to beware errant line drives.

  “Les, that is a major canonical case with major problems. What someone is trying to prove here is that something—namely, baptism—didn’t happen. Do you realize how difficult it is to prove that something didn’t happen?”

  Schroeder pondered the matter in silence. Which was rare.

  “Did you prepare this case, Les?”

  “No. Somebody—I think it was the pastor—over at Divine Child.”

  “You don’t even know how the case has been presented. You don’t know how strong or weak it is. And, worst of all, you don’t know its present disposition. Is it on the bottom or top of whose pile in Rome? Does it have the remotest chance of being granted? Finally, might it be refused? Supposing August 4 arrives, and there is no dispensation. Then what?”

  Schroeder paused. “I suppose …some paraliturgical rite…”

  “Paraliturgical…paraliturgical …bullshit!” Koesler exploded. “You may not realize this, but by accepting this wedding and giving it a firm date when Leon Cavanaugh refused them, you have attracted Father Cavanaugh’s undivided attention. If that couple gets any kind of Catholic ceremony without a dispensation from Rome, you are going to be part of the ecclesial diaspora!”

  “Hey, Father! Hey, Father!” called the young pitcher from the mound. “Wanna take a cut?”

  “Yeah, c’mon, Father,” chorused the others, “let’s see ya tag one!”

  Koesler couldn’t resist. He was so put out with Schroeder he wanted to tag something.

  “Well, just one.” He removed his watch, sampled several bats, selected the heaviest, and stepped to the plate. “Now, no fooling around,” he admonished the tow-headed pitcher. “I’m not standing here to study any curves, sliders, spitters, or screwballs. Just lay one over the middle with nothing on it.”

  The youngster did just that.

  Muscles remembering more than he had any right to hope for, Koesler met the ball solidly. It shot like a bullet over the shortstop’s outstretched glove, heading toward the left field foul line. As it neared the left fielder, it took on new life and rose again. It touched ground for the first time just in fair territory near the rear corner of the church and went skipping merrily toward Outer Drive.

  The players looked at Koesler with awe. None said a word.

  Koesler casually flung the bat onto the pile of baseball paraphernalia, rejoined Schroeder, and departed as if this stroke of luck were routine.

  “Remarkable hit,” Schroeder observed.

  “Nothing to it.” The hit had exhilarated Koesler.

  “But getting back to old Dale and Anna Maria; they’ve got to be warned. It may come to a point when there is nothing we can do.”

  Silence. More walking.

  “Les, I’ll take care of this under one condition: that you never, ever do a damn-fool thing like this again. Any marriage you handle, as long as you’re at St. Anselm’s, if it has the slightest hint of a problem, you consult me. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” breathed a grateful deacon.

  They walked on again in silence.

  “Oh,” said Schroeder, “I meant to tell you, it turned out like I expected.”

  “What did?”

  “My youth ministry in the parish.”

 
“Oh?”

  “Yes. As soon as word got around that we could serve no more booze, I got overwhelming feedback that the gang is not going to show up anymore.”

  Koesler fought to suppress a grin. “So, now that your booze has run dry, your companions have abandoned you. Does that remind you of anything, Les?”

  “What should it remind me of?”

  “Les, I welcome you home with the same open-hearted spirit with which the father in the Gospel welcomed home his prodigal son. With one exception.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re not going to kill the fatted calf to celebrate this occasion.”

  “Ahm fear he gonna die, Fatha. And if he do, we gonna have all kinda trouble bury him in de church.”

  Leroy Sanders, the object of his wife Elvira’s concern, sat impassively alongside her in the office of Father Norman Shanley in Our Lady of the Rosary rectory. Leroy was, as he had been throughout his life, at the mercy of a white man. Short, bald, very black, his noncommittal eyes clouded by cataracts, Leroy was content to wait and see what this white priest would do to him. Experience had taught him to expect nothing but, perhaps, evil.

  Elvira, in her sixties, was in a constant state of concern for Leroy, in his eighties. She had been raised a Catholic in New Orleans. Leroy had never even been baptized. They had been married thirty-five years before by a Baptist minister in that birthplace of jazz.

  “Now, Mrs. Sanders,” Shanley drummed the eraser of his pencil against the desk top, “you say your husband went through a complete set of instructions in the Catholic faith?”

  “Oh, yessuh, Fatha. We done dat in New Orleans. But den, when we got done, the Fatha dere he ask Leroy if he ever bin marry before.” She chuckled. “Why, he bin marry three time when he young buck. He one time one young strong buck, though he don’t seem so now.” She gave her husband a playful shove. He looked at her, the shadow of a smile playing briefly at his lips.

  “O.K., Mrs. Sanders. Then what did the priest in New Orleans do after he found out that Mr. Sanders had been married three times?” Shanley glanced out the window. It was a gloomy Monday morning. A hard summer rain beat down. Pools of water had been gathering around the feet of Mr. and Mrs. Sanders. Evidently, they had no umbrella.

  “Nuthin’, not nuthin’.” She spread her hands in a gesture of emptiness. “Dat priest, he say Leroy can’t git baptized ‘cause Leroy livin’ with me. Actual’, we git marry before dat by dat Baptist minister I tole you ‘bout. But dat priest, he say we livin’ in sin.” She paused and gazed at her hands, now resting in her lap. “He say,” she continued, “dat priest, he say he can’t baptize Leroy ‘cause baptism take all sin away, but Leroy livin’ in sin wid me.”

  Shanley was familiar with the reasoning. As far as Church law was concerned, the New Orleans priest had been on sound ground. He might have looked more carefully at Mr. Sanders’s previous marriages to check their validity. Then there was the fact that Sanders had never been baptized. The priest might have instituted a “privilege of the faith” case. But that would have meant considerable trouble and quite possibly might have been fruitless.

  Shanley had before him a couple whose union had endured thirty-five years, no small commitment. They were in love. That tested and true love that lasts long past mere physical attraction. They had been true to each other in good times and in bad, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. And now they were worried about being parted by death. What was it St. John had written? “God is love. And he who abides in love, abides in God and God in him.” These two must be one with God. All they lacked was peace of soul.

  “Well now, Mrs. Sanders. Things have changed.”

  “They has?” Elvira was apprehensive. She had no idea in which direction the priest was going.

  “Yes, they have. I’m sure you have heard of the Second Vatican Council.”

  “What dat?”

  “You haven’t. Well, some years ago, the bishops from all around the world got together in Rome for a meeting.” He observed she was following him closely, nodding as she understood. He spoke very slowly, trying to select simple words.

  “And,” Shanley continued, “they changed a lot of rules and regulations so that good people like you and Mr. Sanders could have an easier time of it.” Again, agape, she nodded. Actually, thought Shanley, the bishops had not come nearly as far as he had. But they should have.

  “So, Mrs. Sanders, to make a long story short, what we can do is we can go over to the church and we can baptize Leroy and that will take care of everything. Leroy will be baptized, and your marriage will be blessed, and everything will be grand. The two of you can go to communion every time you come to church for the rest of your lives.”

  Tears trickled down Elvira’s cheeks. “You means you can do all dat for Leroy and me?”

  “That’s right!” He had never tried this tack before. But it seemed to be working like magic.

  The three made their way through the rectory and the passage to the church. All the while, Elvira was excitedly and repeatedly explaining this wonder to Leroy.

  Once in the church, Shanley pulled a surplice and stole over his black cassock, opened the baptistery, took out the holy oil, salt, and cloths, and lit the paschal candle.

  Slowly, he went through the ritual of baptism for an adult, pausing to explain each step so Leroy could acknowledge his understanding of what was taking place.

  Baptism accomplished, the couple knelt for Shanley’s blessing.

  “That’s it,” said Shanley. “All done.”

  “We is O.K.?” Elvira asked shyly.

  “You are perfect,” said Shanley.

  Tears now streaming down his craggy cheeks, Leroy grasped with surprising strength Shanley’s reluctant right hand, and kissed it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Leroy Sanders slowly walked out of Rosary church arm in arm into the rain.

  All Shanley could think of was the classic scene of Gene Kelly splashing through a cloudburst. Leroy and Elvira were too old and tired for that now. But Shanley was sure their hearts were singing and dancing in the rain.

  Monsignor Thompson reclined in the overstuffed low-slung red chair, nursing a chilled vintage Chablis and his feelings.

  He had been a few minutes early for his noon luncheon date with Lee Brand at the superposh Renaissance Club. Now, at a quarter past twelve, Brand still had not arrived.

  To Thompson—and, probably to Brand—jockeying for position at a luncheon was not unlike that ritual conducted by prizefighters before a match. The champion should be the last to enter the ring. But an intimidating challenger will try to outjuke the champ and arrive in the ring last but by no means least.

  Thompson contemplated his surroundings. He had not been here before. He was tempted to paraphrase the motto of the State of Michigan: If you seek a pleasant restaurant, look around you. Located on the Renaissance Center’s twenty-sixth floor, the club offered cheery decor, comfortable elegance, and a vista that included much of downtown Detroit and a healthy chunk of southwest Ontario. The waiters and waitresses were mostly young and seemed bright, courteous, and efficient.

  It was a private club, and Brand belonged to it. Until now, Thompson had read nothing between the lines of Brand’s invitation. But as the minutes passed and Brand became more than stylishly late, Thompson began to wonder if this was an exercise in one-upmanship.

  Actually, he heard Brand coming before he saw him. The greetings of “Good afternoon, Mr. Brand,” and “How are you, Mr. Brand?” grew louder as the subject swept nearer. Finally, he appeared, followed closely by an attentive maitre d’.

  “Monsignor,” Brand spread his arms expansively, “so sorry to keep you waiting, but I had a live one in the office. Not megabucks, maybe, but definitely a satisfier. Henry,” he turned to the maitre d’, “our table is ready?” It was more statement than question.

  “Of course, Mr. Brand. This way.”

  Thompson gathered his Chablis and followed to what had to be the best table
in the house. It was at a window whose view created the illusion of being over the center of the Detroit River. On the table was a welcoming martini. Thompson noted the single large ice cube and the twist of lemon. Precisely Brand’s formula. The other evening at the party, he’d watched Brand build countless martinis of the same mode.

  “I trust I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Monsignor. Another—what is that—Chablis?”

  Thompson nodded, noting Brand’s ebullience.

  “Henry, bring a bottle for the Monsignor. Monte de Milieu, 77.” He turned to Thompson. “Decent but not outstanding.” He glanced back at the poised Henry. “And, while we’re waiting, another of these.” He pointed at the martini.

  “Of course, Mr. Brand.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind meeting here, Monsignor. I thought since we both work downtown, and this is a pleasant place…” Brand’s index finger slowly revolved the ice cube.

  “Of course. So, you had a live one.” Thompson got Brand’s meaning, even though some of his jargon remained in its natural obfuscated state.

  Brand swallowed gin with appreciative satisfaction. “Yes, a gentleman I met, for the first time, as a matter of fact, at the party the other night. Talked him into transferring to SB&T on the spot. We were able to candle his assets last Friday. Fellow named Wilson— Jim Wilson. Know him?”

  Thompson, in mid-sip, shook his head.

  Simultaneously, a waiter arrived with Brand’s second martini —Thompson would keep accurate count—and Thompson’s Monte de Milieu 77. The sommelier opened the bottle, presented the cork successfully, and poured a sample. Definitely an improvement, Thompson concluded.

  “In any case,” Brand continued, “Wilson just deposited $400,000 savings, $150,000 checking, and,” Brand smiled as a matador delivering the estocada, “his wife’s account.”

  Thompson raised his glass. “Then, congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Brand concluded his second martini. The empty glass was immediately replaced by a fresh successor. “Not megabucks, as I said, but a helluva kick up from psychic compensation. If you’ll pardon my French.”