Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  Thompson smiled pardon.

  “Speaking of the party,” said Brand, “what did you think of the kids, Dick and Bunny?”

  “Splendid couple.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk with Dick?” Brand knew very well of their conversation.

  “Yes, we talked a little business earlier in the evening.” Thompson knew Brand knew. Joining in the game, the Monsignor decided to fudge a trifle.

  “Well, what do you think, Monsignor; will it take long to clear this matter?”

  Thompson admired Brand’s approach. Not, is there any hope? Is it possible? Can you possibly? Just, how long?

  “I can’t predict that.” Thompson refilled his glass, took a breadstick, and wondered when menus would be presented. “I hate to sound like the quintessential doctor, but it is impossible to give any kind of positive prognosis at this time and in a case like this. It’s something like asking how long it takes to get to Chicago. It depends. Are you going to walk, drive, fly? And, at any moment, the trip may be canceled.”

  Two angry vertical lines formed on Brand’s forehead. People did not give him ambiguous answers. When he wanted something, people performed.

  “What seems to be the problem, Monsignor?” His voice was cold. He pushed the martini to one side.

  Thompson caught the symbolism. A friendly luncheon had been tabled until this business matter was resolved. And resolved in Brand’s favor. Under the frigid gaze of Brand’s blue eyes, Thompson subconsciously wilted.

  “Well, now, Mr. Brand,” Thompson shifted his wine glass back and forth. “I didn’t mean to imply that the boy’s case is impossible. Only that the time element is directly related to the cooperation—or lack of cooperation—of the witnesses who will have to be interviewed.”

  “There are ways of assuring cooperation, don’t you think, Monsignor?”

  “Well, I’m sure there are in some cases. But sometimes, if a witness wants to be stubborn, there’s little we can do about it. We haven’t even the authority of civil law.”

  “When money is no object,” Brand was speaking menacingly, so softly Thompson could barely hear him, “there are ways of assuring cooperation. Don’t you think, Monsignor?”

  Thompson took counsel with himself. He had never considered pouring an unlimited amount of money into a marriage case. But in the final analysis, he had to agree with Brand: he could think of little that money couldn’t buy.

  “Now that you mention it in that context, Mr. Brand, I’d have to say the prospect of success is considerably enhanced. We’ll go back to the drawing board with a lot more enthusiasm.”

  Brand retrieved his martini. Though not smiling, at least the furrows in his brow had smoothed.

  “That’s more encouraging, Monsignor. And when this is all over, there will be something for your favorite charity.” Brand winked.

  Thompson raised his glass in salute. Brand matched the salute and finished martini number three.

  The waiter arrived instantly with a fresh martini—Thompson noted it was the fourth—and menus.

  Thompson perused the menu. Everything looked good. No prices were listed. A nice touch. Thompson would continue to count. It would be a bottle of Monte de Milieu 77 and a six-martini lunch.

  Angela Cicero needed assertiveness training almost as badly as had Genghis Khan, Koesler concluded.

  The conversation had begun well enough, especially for a rainy, sultry Monday afternoon. Mrs. Cicero had been calm, almost passive. But as Koesler continued to explain the treacherous ground over which a privilege of the faith case must pass, she grew visibly apprehensive.

  He had shown her the Epistle passage on which this case was founded. He explained that canon law considered Dale Worthington’s first marriage to be valid but not sacramental, because Dale had not been baptized in order to receive any other sacrament. Thus, Dale, since he had not been baptized, could enter a valid marriage but not a sacramental marriage. Once the case had been prepared and Rome had approved it, Dale could be baptized and enter a sacramental marriage with Anna Maria. At the moment the sacramental marriage was witnessed, Dale’s previous nonsacramental marriage would be automatically dissolved in favor of the sacramental marriage. Thus, a privilege of the faith.

  That was the part during which Mrs. Cicero was calm.

  Koesler then proceeded to recount horror stories of cases hopelessly buried in Rome. Of cases that, due to Church policy or some hierarchical whim, were refused. There simply was no known way of confidently predicting when or even if a marriage case sent to Rome would be approved and returned. And that, undoubtedly, was the reason Father Cavanaugh at Divine Child refused to give Dale and Anna Maria a firm wedding date.

  That was the part during which Mrs. Cicero hit the floor and the ceiling simultaneously.

  “What do you mean, no firm date?” Mrs. Cicero leaned forward in her chair in Koesler’s small office. “Deacon Les gave them a firm date. They are supposed to be married August 4 at 3 P.M. right here in this church!”

  “Deacon Les was trying to be kind. But he’s young, and he has very little experience, especially in a case like this. Privilege of the faith cases do not come along very often.”

  “But …but we’ve got the hall rented!”

  “The hall?”

  “For the reception!”

  Strange, thought Koesler, how many weddings were scheduled around the rental of a hall. So much for sentiment.

  “I’m sure, in a pinch,” he said, “that they would return your deposit.”

  “That’s not the point. That’s not the point at all! The hall is rented, the invitations are ready to go out, there have been showers and parties, and we have a firm date here for August 4 at 3 P.M.!”

  Mrs. Cicero was an attractive, if momentarily angry, woman in her late forties. Koesler had dealt with mothers who display a special defensive anger when one of their children is threatened or in trouble. This lady was a stereotype.

  “Mrs. Cicero, all I can tell you are the facts. This is reality. My advice is that you forget about August 4 and have Dale and Anna Maria wait till they receive the decree from Rome and then set their wedding date.”

  The set of her jaw clearly showed that she was not about to follow this advice.

  “Or,” he continued, “you can count on Rome to act before August 4 and bank on the wedding’s coming off as scheduled. And that is only twenty-six days from now. But I hasten to assure, if Rome has not acted, we cannot have the wedding. I ask you to consider the grief on everybody’s part if the wedding would have to be postponed at the last minute.”

  He had dismissed the possibility the young couple might turn to a civil ceremony if the Church did not come through. He did not believe this Italian mother would permit such a thing. And his money was on this Italian mother’s running this show.

  Mrs. Cicero fumbled with the snap of her purse as she agonized over a decision that should not be hers, but was.

  “In fairness,” Koesler continued after a few moments’ silence, “I should tell you I called Monsignor Thompson earlier today. He’s the head of the matrimonial court for the archdiocese. I told him about our special problem. He remembers the case. Says it was very well prepared. He promised he would check with Rome on its progress. He also insisted he could guarantee nothing.”

  Koesler did not think it necessary to mention that Thompson had been initially furious and that only Koesler’s good offices had saved Deacon Schroeder from being hung by his testicles until dead, a form of punishment suggested by Thompson.

  “We will have that wedding on August 4 if I have to go to Rome and get that permission from the Pope personally!” She said it in somewhat the same manner that MacArthur mentioned returning to the Philippines.

  “If that is your decision, Mrs. Cicero,” said Koesler. “But let’s understand each other: no permission, no wedding.”

  Actually, normally he would have been willing to bend a few rules, but not after Rome had entered the picture. Rome was prone
to take a proprietary interest in cases that made their way to the Vatican.

  As Mrs. Cicero was about to leave, she turned back in the doorway. “This monsignor,” she asked, “the head of the matrimonial court; what did you say his name is?”

  “Thompson. Monsignor Thompson.”

  Poor Tommy, thought Koesler; he’ll never know what hit him.

  “Come on, Father, burn it in there!”

  Father David Neiss knew he was scarcely burning it in anywhere. It was just a pickup game of baseball in Divine Child’s playground. On his way from the church to the rectory, he had been passing the baseball diamond when a group of eighth- and ninth-graders had invited him to play. For the past hour, during a break in the intermittent showers, he’d been working up considerable sweat as pitcher for the No-Name All-Stars. His velocity was not even of minor league character, but it was Sufficient to impress the youth of Divine Child.

  “Come on, Father, burn it in there! Hey, batter, batter!” the small catcher chanted.

  Father burned it in there. The batter hit a lazy grounder to the shortstop, who shoveled the ball to the second baseman. Attempting to complete a double play, he rifled the ball several feet over the first baseman’s outstretched glove.

  Tinker to Evers to Chance, thought Neiss. Schwager to Dacey to hell-and-gone.

  The priest checked his watch—11:45. Hell! He’d be late for lunch. Failure in promptitude, as far as Father Cavanaugh was concerned, ranked with murder and forgetting grace before or after meals as sins that cried to heaven for vengeance.

  “Sorry, gang, I’ve got to leave now.” Neiss dropped his borrowed glove on the mound.

  Donny Schwager trotted in and walked the priest to the foul line.

  “I’ve been wondering, Father,” said Donny, intently, “how come you priests are so good at sports?”

  More often than not, priests are at least moderately acquainted with sports, Neiss reflected. Though that would be more true of the older, macho priests than of the laid-back modern variety.

  Arriving at no scientific response, Neiss said the first thing that came to mind. “Donny, we do that instead of girls.”

  “Oh.”

  He shouldn’t have participated in the game, Neiss told himself as he hurried to the rectory. It was as hot and sticky as a July 16 should be in southeast Michigan. Common courtesy demanded that he shower before lunch. And that would make him even more late.

  For a moment, he pondered the fact that, now in his late twenties, he should be so concerned over the wrath of his pastor, who was acting out a bad case of arrested adolescence. But then, he figured, other men and women who worked in large bureaucracies probably had to put up with the same. And he was doing it for God.

  “Lunch, Father, is at noon.” Cavanaugh did not look up from spooning his soup. “Promptly,” he added.

  “Sorry.” Neiss glanced at his watch. It was only ten after twelve. But, he had to admit, it was not noon. He was washed but still perspiring from the heat of the shower.

  Cavanaugh glanced at him sharply. “I do not think it seemly, Father, for a priest to be playing ball all day.”

  “It was only an hour, Father.” The soup, which had been deposited on the table promptly at noon, as was the case with all food whether his chair was occupied or not, was still warm. There were cold cuts and bread on the table. And that was lunch.

  “Parishioners who might pass by would think that’s all you have to do.”

  Outside of “busy work” and fairly uselessly ringing doorbells, playing ball this morning was as apostolic a mission as he could imagine. However, he wisely decided to say nothing.

  “Did you get my note this morning?”

  “Yes, Father.” Neiss wished Cavanaugh had not mentioned the note. It had gotten this Monday off to a very bad beginning. That note and its childish detail!

  “Did you put the hosts in the ciborium?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Did you put the ciborium on the altar?”

  “Yes, Father.” God, he was repeating the instructions on the note line for line.

  “And did you consecrate them during Mass?”

  “Yes.” He said it more loudly than necessary.

  A few moments of blessed silence.

  “Another thing, Father.” Cavanaugh had finished his soup and was making the single open-faced sandwich that would conclude his lunch. “Sister Mary Patrick told me you’ve been bothering her about admitting another high school student.”

  “It’s the football team, Father. Coach Blaszczyk is high on this prospect. It would be to our benefit if we admitted him. It’s just one more student.”

  “When the school is filled, it’s filled.”

  “But Father, the football program supports all the rest of our sports.”

  “When the school is filled, it’s filled.”

  “Father Neiss,” Mrs. Blackford, the housekeeper, interrupted, “there’s someone on the phone for you. He says he’s from the Tribunal. Do you want to take it?”

  “Yes.” That would be the end of the soup. By the time he returned, it would be too cold to be appetizing. He dreaded facing Blaszczyk should he fail to get the coach’s behemothian prospect into school. All over “some goddamn girl.” Neiss smiled at Blaszczyk’s pejorative term.

  “Hi, Dave. This is Ed Oleksiak.”

  Two years older than Neiss, Oleksiak was a notary at the Tribunal. Some months before, Neiss had been sent a routine notary commission by Oleksiak who, oddly, had misspelled his own name at the bottom of the letter. Neiss had circled the misspelling in red ink, marked the letter “98%” and returned it. Shortly after, there came a phone call pleading that the story not be spread. Oleksiak was informed it was too late for that, that Neiss had already told everyone he could think of. Despite which, the two were fairly fast friends.

  “Yeah, Ed; hot enough for you?”

  “Plenty. Listen, what I’m calling about is that dispensation case you sent us.”

  “Which one?” Neiss had sent many.

  There was a pause while Oleksiak consulted documents on his desk. “Kirwan vs. Kukulski.”

  “What about it?”

  “The Monsignor wants you to get a B Form on the former wife, Ruth Kukulski.”

  “A B Form? No, no, Ed; you must be mistaken. That’s a defect of form case. You’ve got all the necessary documents; proof of her Catholic baptism with no notation of Catholic marriage, their record of civil marriage and divorce. You don’t need testimony from the wife.” While he knew he was correct, he began to feel a nameless anxiety as he recalled the assurances he’d given Harry Kirwan that his former wife would not be questioned.

  “New rule, Dave. In cases like this, we need a B Form.”

  “Why?”

  “Polish.”

  “Polish?”

  “That’s right. The Monsignor claims that nine times out of ten when a Polish person gets involved in a civil marriage, he or she will have it convalidated. And that’s especially true if it’s a woman who’s in the invalid marriage.”

  “That’s insane, Ed. If she had had the marriage convalidated, there would be a notation of it in her baptismal record and on her baptismal certificate. Look at the date on that baptismal certificate. It was issued just a few weeks ago!”

  “Sometimes there are slipups. What’s the big to-do about this? All we want is a B Form with her sworn statement that the marriage was never convalidated.”

  “You don’t understand, Ed.” Neiss was perspiring freely. It was no longer due to the day’s heat. “I promised Mr. Kirwan there would be no contacting his former wife. When anything like that happens, she always manages to make life miserable for him—and their kids.”

  There was a pause. “I’m really sorry, Dave. But you’ve got to do it. Monsignor Thompson has made it Tribunal policy, and I know from experience there are no exceptions. You’re going to have to get that B Form.”

  The usually mild-mannered David Neiss exploded. “Like
hell I’ve got to get it. I’ve had enough of this bullshit! It’s a goddamn asinine policy, and I’m not about to do it. Let me talk to Thompson. I want to tell that son-of-a-bitch personally!”

  “Now Dave, calm down. I’m going to do you a really big favor and not let you talk to Thompson. Thus, I will avert two cases of apoplexy. Dave, I know how distasteful this is going to be, but it’s got to be done. Do it. Get it out of the way, and your ecclesial career will progress unchecked. Believe me, Dave, there’s nothing you can do about this.”

  There was no reply.

  “Dave, I’m sorry.”

  The phone was dead. Neiss stood motionless, receiver in hand. He would not have a sandwich. He had lost his appetite.

  “I think all priests should wear T-shirts,” said Father Joe Shanahan, “with some sort of identification stenciled on them. Like ‘Thirteenth Century’ or ‘Sixth Century’ ...”

  “... or ‘Twenty-Fifth Century,’” Father Robert Stirling contributed.

  Shanahan and Stirling, priests in their early-to-mid-thirties, were lunching in the large ornate dining room on the eighth floor of St. Aloysius’ rectory.

  Downtown St. Al’s, as it was popularly known, was unique in the archdiocese. Located just off the heart of one of the busiest sections of downtown, the out-of-place building housed, besides the triple-decked church, the archbishop’s office, the Chancery, the Tribunal, and other administrative offices. It also held many residence rooms, most of which were unoccupied.

  Shanahan was director of the Catholic Youth Organization. Stirling was a notary assigned to the Tribunal.

  One could never be sure who would be at table at St. Al’s. There were so many downtown restaurants that the priests assigned to the parish or who worked in the building lunched there irregularly. Then there were usually visitors.

  Today’s diners, thus far, in addition to Shanahan and Stirling, were Archbishop Mark Boyle, Monsignor Thompson, and Father William Cunneen.

  Thompson’s was a most rare appearance in this dining room. He had nothing against the food, which fell somewhere between gourmet and so-so. At least there was an attractive variety. One of Thompson’s two objections to meals at St. Al’s was the absence of any alcoholic beverage, at least at lunch. Lunch or dinner without wine was, to Thompson, barbaric. He could not understand why Boyle, who enjoyed a Rob Roy before and wine during dinner, and who was reputed to have an enormous tolerance for alcohol, did not break this abstemious tradition.