Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  He had no idea where Brand’s daughter would be married July 28, but he was quite sure—barring several miracles that might precipitate the case—that the marriage would not be in a Catholic church. Thompson truly didn’t care. He was determined only that he would not play lackey to Brand.

  His final thought on the matter was that it might work out to be a blessing in disguise. If it was not a Catholic ceremony and the marriage did not work out, it would be simple to get a nullity decree. In which case, Brand would be grateful. There would be no gratitude on the twenty-eighth. Brand would be denied his showcase Catholic ceremony. His anger would be monumental. But Thompson knew from experience he could easily tolerate that.

  Something must have clicked in Brand’s mind, because his attitude seemed to change sharply. He resumed eating.

  “Well, Monsignor,” he said, “I’m sure you’re doing all you can. The only thing I regret is that you were too considerate to involve me. For instance, I will immediately see about Laura. There must be some way to convince her that it would be best for everyone if she were to testify.”

  Thompson choked on the Chianti.

  “You all right?” Brand seemed concerned.

  Thompson nodded as the coughing subsided. So Brand was soon to learn that Laura Warwick probably could be moved by money. Well so be it. Thompson was not accustomed to needlessly postponing confrontations.

  “I don’t think,” continued Brand, “that in a case like this it is possible to have too many cooks. It won’t be disadvantageous if I jump into the middle of this, will it? I don’t want to do anything to compromise your position.”

  “No, no.” Thompson finished the veal. “Do what you think is best. Don’t worry about me. Nothing ever happens to me.”

  A tall, distinguished man approached the table.

  “Fred!” Brand stood to greet the newcomer.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Lee. I saw you just now as I was leaving, and I wanted to remind you that the codicil to your will is ready. You and Joan should come in and sign it.”

  “Listen, we’ll do it. I’ll have my secretary call for an appointment.” Brand turned to Thompson. “Fred Janson, I’d like you to meet Monsignor Thompson. Monsignor is head of the Archdiocesan Tribunal.”

  A look of recognition flashed in Janson’s eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Monsignor. It’s odd we should meet now. I recently had occasion to read something of your operation. You run an interesting court.”

  Thompson, who had risen to shake Janson’s proffered hand, now resumed his chair.

  “And Fred should know,” said Brand. “He is one of Detroit’s top corporation lawyers…”

  Thompson began to wonder if, as one of Detroit’s top corporation lawyers, Janson might be a likely candidate for his Very Important Friends club.

  “…and a very good friend of mine,” concluded Brand.

  Thompson scratched the VIF concept. Very soon not only the Brands, but their very good friends, would be very angry.

  “How did you happen to be reading about our Tribunal?” Thompson asked.

  “Oh, it was on a professional basis. We’ll have to get together and talk about it sometime.” Janson had no intention of exposing to public chatter a situation he considered personally demeaning. Only his abiding love for his wife motivated him to endure a legal process he considered inherently unjust. Otherwise, he wished neither to think of nor talk about it.

  “Yes, we’ll have to do that.”

  Neither Janson nor Thompson intended to meet socially. Janson instinctively disliked Thompson, a rare occurrence for a man who did not make snap judgments. Thompson dismissed Janson, as, unfortunately, useless.

  So that’s the bastard, thought Janson as he left the dining area; he just doesn’t look as if he should have all that power at his disposal.

  “Bob, I have something I’d like to share with you,” said Les Schroeder.

  “Les, please don’t ‘share’ anything with me. Tell me. Just come right out and tell me,” said Father Koesler.

  For some reason, Schroeder’s jargon jarred Koesler more than if it had come from almost anyone else.

  The two were seated in the living room of St. Anselm’s rectory. It was mid-morning, Friday, July 20. A pleasant breeze drifted through the building, obviating any need to activate the air conditioner.

  “It’s this Sunday’s homily. I can’t seem to be able to work through the kerygmatic catechesis to be able to inspire true metanoia, you know?”

  “Please, Les, not when we’re alone.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, Les, the Gospel tells the story of the selection of the apostles and Christ’s sending them on their first mission. The Old Testament reading is about the Midrash Jonah and the fish. Why not just develop the theme of our being sent into our world to bring Christ’s message of love?

  “Just as Jonah went only reluctantly to Nineveh to deliver God’s message—so reluctantly that he had to be delivered by a metaphorical fish—so we honestly feel reluctant to deliver the authentic Christian message that has never received a popular welcome. Indeed, we can at least partially measure the message’s authenticity by the reluctance of others to hear and follow it.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You will. Give yourself time to gain a little experience. But, Les: eschew obfuscation.”

  “What?”

  “Try to avoid being unclear. In other words, try very hard to knock off the jargon.”

  The doorbell rang. They could hear Mary O’Connor’s footsteps against the tile as she went to the door. Schroeder rose painfully from the couch and limped to the window.

  “Oh my God!” he said, “it’s that Mrs. Cicero. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Why don’t you go out on the porch and work on your homily? She probably wants to see me, anyway,” said Koesler. “What’s with the limp?” he added.

  “Oh,” Schroeder hobbled toward the porch, “it’s that skiing accident I had last winter. Every once in a while it just acts up. Doctor says I’ve got a fifty-year-old knee.”

  Koesler sighed. He had a fifty-plus-year-old body. Yet he did not feel it had to be placed in a cast. He snapped a roman collar around his neck, slipped on his lightweight cassock, and went to meet Mrs. Cicero in his office.

  “Now then, Mrs. Cicero, what can I do for you?”

  “Have you ever been to Rome?” she asked without preamble.

  “Why yes—quite a few years ago. Why do you ask?”

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  Koesler thought a moment. “It’s about a nine-hour plane ride, as I recall. But why …you’re not thinking of—”

  “I’ve got to get that silly permission. And I’ll get it if I have to go right to the Pope and ask him for it.”

  “Now, wait a minute. Don’t you think that is just a bit extreme?”

  “The wedding is only fifteen days away. I’m afraid I’m beginning to panic. What I’m really afraid of…” she hesitated, close to tears, “is that I’m becoming afraid.”

  For the first time in the brief span he had known her, Angela Cicero appeared to Koesler as a vulnerable person. Until now, she had come on as Superwoman.

  “There may be more time than you suppose,” he explained gently. “You have put all your eggs in one basket. In one way, that’s admirable. In another, it’s dangerous. On August 4, one of two things will probably happen: we will have the wedding here and, because your daughter and her fiancé like him, Deacon Les will preside.”

  Koesler thought he heard Angela’s teeth grind.

  “Or,” he continued, “you’ll have to explain to the guests that the wedding must be postponed indefinitely.

  “Between now and then, it is possible the Vatican will have given permission. If not, and if you expect anyone over there to respond to an emergency, it has to be a certified emergency. And fifteen days does not qualify. Not with today’s standard of communication.

  “Now, I’ll g
ive you the phone number of a friend of mine, Father Pat Cammarata. He lives at the Villa Stritch in Rome and works at the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith—that’s the outfit we’re dealing with in this case.”

  Angela nodded eagerly.

  “The phone number,” he continued, “once you reach Rome, is 537-8734. But don’t call now. Wait. Wait for at least another week. Wait until you simply cannot wait another moment. Then phone him—remember, Rome is six hours ahead of our time—and explain the problem. Pat is not only sympathetic, he is about the most efficient operator in the Vatican. And, believe me, Angela, there is an abundance of efficient operators in that cloak-and-dagger operation. If anyone can help, he can.

  “But the secret is in the timing. We can’t wait so long that we’ve gone beyond a fail-safe moment. But we’ve got to wait until, even in Rome’s view, we’ve got a genuine emergency.”

  Angela was conscious of an evolution. As Koesler had been speaking to her, it became no longer “her” problem but “our” problem. By the time he had finished his monologue, she had the comforting feeling she was no longer in this fight alone. And she felt enormously buoyed by that. She felt, in fact, like leaning across his desk and planting a big wet kiss on the priest. His reserve, more than hers, discouraged that.

  “So, remember, Angela, at least a week. It’s all a matter of timing,” Koesler said as he led her to the front door.

  “I’ll remember, Father. You know, you’re the only one who’s been a help to me. I wish you were in charge of the Tribunal.”

  “Don’t wish that on me, Angela.”

  Mary Alberts looked up from her Monday afternoon typing to find a well-groomed, impeccably dressed man pacing before her desk. She thought she recognized him. She had the feeling she had seen his photo in the papers or on TV. She could not quite make an identification.

  “Please tell Monsignor Thompson Lee Brand would like to see him.” Brand did not return her smile.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I think he’ll see me.” If Thompson dared refuse to see him, Brand gave momentary thought to buying the Chancery Building and evicting Thompson along with the whole damn Tribunal.

  She announced Brand to Thompson.

  “Yes, I’ll see Mr. Brand. Send him right in.”

  Others in Thompson’s position might have been frightened or at least intimidated. It had been three days since their previous meeting. In that time, and with Brand’s resources, he had undoubtedly had sufficient, time to solve the puzzle. He would now know that, far from having received expeditious treatment, his case had been languishing from inattention.

  Thompson found this moment exhilarating. It was the culmination of the little scenario he had been concocting. He had utterly no fear that Brand might cause him any harm. Thompson had far too many Very Important Friends, some of whom were at least of Brand’s eminence or loftier. Far from feeling trepidation, Thompson anticipated a certain measure of satisfaction from this confrontation.

  To augment the satisfaction, Thompson had merely to recall their luncheon at the Renaissance Club when Brand had overwhelmed him with a figurative full court press. Vengeance is mine, saith Thompson, leaving the Lord out.

  Brand entered the office. He did not sit. He remained standing just inside the door. He seemed extraordinarily calm, as if he knew the game was over and he had lost but was unwilling to cry about it.

  “It is,” said Brand, “as I mentioned at the DAC. You have been too considerate in not including me in the game earlier. For instance, I would have learned that it would not have cost much at all to induce Laura Warwick to testify in this case. If I had bailed her out of debt—and I could and would have—she’d have testified. The only thing I can’t quite understand is why you did this.”

  Thompson neither smiled nor gestured. “Welcome to the world of reality, Mr. Brand,” he said sepulchrally. “You have not been mistreated. You have merely been treated the way everyone else is.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you did it.”

  “Why I didn’t do it,” Thompson corrected. “What I did do was accept Dick Warwick’s case and have it processed in the normal way. What I didn’t do was give the case any preferential treatment.

  “Ask yourself, Mr. Brand, why, in human affairs, anything or anyone is given preferential treatment. It is because someone in a position to accord this preferential treatment finds some reason to do so. In Mr. Warwick’s case, I found no such reason.”

  “But that’s just it. You led me to expect that the case would be expedited. That’s why I didn’t take any active part in it.”

  “If you thought the case would be expedited, that is your concern, Mr. Brand. Did I ever say it would be expedited?”

  Brand didn’t answer. Before coming to Thompson’s office today he had been quite certain of the direction of their conversation. He had not been mistaken.

  “I suppose,” said Brand finally, “that it is too late to process the case in the remaining four days.”

  “Nothing is impossible with God, Mr. Brand. I suggest we all continue to pray. Meanwhile, I assume you have rendered Laura Warwick cooperative by assisting her financially. However, as I explained earlier, there are all those witnesses to be interviewed …

  “But,” Thompson raised a hand and stood, “I assure you, Mr. Brand, we will continue to work on this case in the very same manner as we would any similar case. Though, bluntly, if I had a last dollar, I would not put it on a July 28 wedding.”

  “That’s something you’re not likely to have, Monsignor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A last dollar.”

  A hint of a smile crinkled the corners of Thompson’s mouth. “That’s very likely true.”

  “Our paths may cross again, Monsignor. Only next time, I’ll be better on my guard. And,” Brand winked significantly, “I’d advise you to be on yours.”

  “Always. But you shouldn’t be concerned. Nothing ever happens to me.”

  Neither offered a hand as they parted.

  Neiss contemplated his day, now nearly over. It had not been aided by Father Cavanaugh’s tirade during dinner. Pressed by Coach Blaszczyk, Neiss had continued to suggest to Sister Mary Patrick that one more desk in the high school would not create the havoc she apprehended. She, in turn, regularly reported him to Cavanaugh, who just as regularly delivered tirades.

  This evening’s tirade had extended sufficiently to prevent him from totaling the petitions, thanksgivings, and special favors placed in the petition box this week. Thus, he would refer to them only vaguely during the upcoming Perpetual Help services. It did not occur to him to fabricate the totals. And thus, he would hear again from Cavanaugh about this abominable lack of preparation.

  The organ was playing the intro to “Oh, Mother of Perpetual Help” as he entered the church. He was late. He vested hurriedly.

  Perspiring freely during the Perpetual Help services, Neiss reflected that he would have to postpone his ritual appearance at the parish Bingo game to attend to the nadir of this day. It had been hovering over him like a black cloud that this evening he was to meet with Harry Kirwan to inform him that his first wife would have to be interrogated. This despite all the promises and assurances Neiss had given. With this black thought in mind, he hurried toward the back door of the rectory.

  “Harry!” She pushed against him rather ineffectually. “Not in front of the church!”

  “We’re not in front of the church; we’re in front of the rectory. See how well I’m doing with my Catholic lessons?”

  Harry Kirwan was seated in his car with his fiancée, Mary Ann McCauley. They were necking. It was fun. The only fly in this ointment belonged to Mary Ann and her reluctance to link anything physically sexual with anything spiritually religious. She simply could not reconcile the fact that they were fondling while parking on property belonging to Divine Child parish.

  “Church, rectory, what difference does it make?” she
remonstrated.

  “I know, teacher: A church is where God lives; a rectory is a home for unwed fathers.”

  “Harry, stop! What if one of the priests or nuns sees us?”

  “It might be an education.”

  “Harry!”

  “O.K. All right.” Kirwan good-naturedly slid back behind the wheel. “If it makes you feel better, we’ll just talk. What do you think of the Tigers’ chances?”

  “You’re not angry, are you?”

  “No. What do you think of the Tigers’ chances?”

  “Their problem,” she said in studied fashion, “is in the left side of the infield. Good glove; no stick.”

  “I tend to agree. Do you think Ty Cobb will be any help to them this year?”

  “You can’t kid me. I know Cobb plays for Cleveland.”

  They broke up. They not only loved each other, they liked each other. They agreed their meeting had been providential. They belonged together, and soon they would be together.

  The two had experienced a period of panic when first confronted with the issue of Harry’s prior marriage as a possible impediment to their own. That had been followed by an inexpressible relief when they discovered that a declaration of nullity could be rather easily granted in a case like this.

  Kirwan had no idea why he had been summoned by Father Neiss. He assumed the declaration of nullity for his first marriage had been granted and that the priest was going to give him an official-looking paper that would so state. He already had papers from Wayne County showing that he had county consent to marry, and a paper from the state certifying his blood was pure enough to marry; now he could collect another paper from the Church clearing the way for a religious ceremony.

  “Harry, look.” Mary Ann pointed toward the rectory. “The light just went on in Father Neiss’s office.”

  “Lucky thing we quit foolin’ around when we did. We might have given him ideas. And I understand there’s already a crisis in priestly callings.”

  Neiss greeted them at the front door.

  “I hope you don’t mind my bringing Mary Ann, Father,” Kirwan explained. “ She and I had a date before you and I had a date. In fact, we’re squeezing you in between dinner and a movie.”