Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  “No, no; of course not,” said Neiss. “Come on in, Mary Ann. I haven’t seen you since Sunday.”

  Neiss wasn’t sure how he felt about Mary Ann’s presence. He didn’t know whether she would be helpful or an exacerbation when Kirwan was given the news. In any case, there was nothing he could do about it now, so he showed the couple into his office.

  Kirwan and Mary Ann looked at him expectantly. Neiss felt like opening with the hackneyed I-suppose-you’re-wondering-why-I’ve-called-you-here. But though he knew they had a marvelous sense of humor, the matter tonight could become tragic, and he knew it.

  “Harry,” Neiss opened, “there’s been a complication in the process of getting that declaration of nullity.”

  “What’s that, Father?” The specter of having to contact his former wife did not even occur to Kirwan, so confident was he in Neiss’s assurances.

  The priest cleared his throat. “Well, I got a call the other day from a priest in the Tribunal. They have a new policy. I don’t know where it came from. It’s never happened to any of my cases before, and I’ve had many similar to yours. Nor do I agree with the policy. But I’ve been assured that it is a firm and unequivocal policy.”

  He himself grew disgusted with his beating around the bush. He took a deep breath and plunged. “They insist that your former wife be interviewed.”

  He paused. Both he and Mary Ann stared at Kirwan, who said nothing. Kirwan’s jaw was clenched, and the color seemed to drain from his face.

  “The way they explained it to me,” the priest continued, “it’s because your first wife is Polish.”

  An uncomprehending look crossed Kirwan’s face.

  “And the Polish, according to the Tribunal,” Neiss said, “have a practice, more than other ethnic groups, of having invalid marriages fixed up. On that point, I have to agree with the Tribunal.”

  Neiss paused again. Still nothing from Kirwan.

  “I brought up the fact that you had submitted a very recent copy of her baptismal record and that there was no notification of marriage on it. But they said there have been instances when priests have forgotten to send notification, or, on the other hand, have neglected to record it. I can believe that too.”

  “Did you tell them what would happen if Ruth is contacted?” Kirwan asked through clenched teeth.

  Neiss, deeply embarrassed, could not look at him. “Yes, I did. They simply stated it was a firm policy and must be followed.”

  There was another protracted pause.

  “I won’t have it,” said Kirwan, barely audibly. “I won’t have it,” he repeated somewhat more loudly and firmly.

  “Harry!” Mary Ann sounded shocked.

  “I’ve gone through this entire ridiculous procedure without protest,” said Kirwan. “You explained all the rules before we began, Father. And I have abided by every one of them. Now that the game should be over, your team is making up new rules. You have no idea, Father, how miserable Ruth can make life when she gets upset. And I can guarantee you this would upset her. And I won’t have it!” He was almost shouting.

  “Harry,” said Mary Ann, close to tears, “can’t you agree to just this one last demand?”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking!”

  “I’m asking you to do just this one last thing so we can be married in the Catholic Church.”

  “And I’m asking you to come with me and find a judge and get married. We’ve got all the papers we need.”

  “Harry! Harry! I can’t do that! I just can’t do that!”

  She began to sob. Kirwan lapsed into a furious silence. Neiss shifted nervously in his chair.

  Finally, the priest said, “Wait. I didn’t know it would end like this. There is one more thing I can try. I haven’t yet talked to the head of the Tribunal. He is the one who instituted this policy. Let me talk to him. Maybe I can get him to suspend this regulation just once.”

  Mary Ann dried her tears. Neiss accompanied the couple to the door. “If I were you,” he said, “I wouldn’t count on my having much success. But it’s certainly worth the try.”

  The couple left in silence. There would be no movie tonight.

  Remembering what Irene Casey had mentioned, Father Koesler tried to get a surreptitious glimpse of Lee Brand’s chair to see if any pillows had been piled on the seat. Standing, Koesler was several inches taller than Brand, even with the latter’s lifts. So the priest suspected there might be pillows. However, Brand’s executive desk was so mammoth there was no way, short of circling the desk, that Koesler could check. He concluded that sort of maneuver would be socially awkward.

  Brand’s office was all Koesler had expected and more. Paneled in what appeared to be authentic oak, one wall was completely inlaid with bookshelves; another seemed to be a self-contained sound system with radio, tape deck, stereo, and television, all connected, undoubtedly, to the four gigantic speakers in the wall; a third wall appeared plain with overstuffed couches and chairs in front of it; the fourth, a window wall, offered a magnificent view of downtown Detroit.

  “Very, very nice of you to stop by on such short notice, Father,” said Brand. “I’m really strapped for time in four different directions, so I really appreciate your courtesy.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Brand…”

  “Lee.”

  “…Lee. I can guess how busy you are. I’ll be glad if I can be of help.”

  “I think you can, Father.” Brand crossed to the plain wall, stepped between the chairs, and pressed a button. A large panel slid back, revealing a larger-than-life wet bar. “Something to drink, Father?”

  “Thanks just the same, Mr.—er, Lee. A little early for me.”

  Brand dropped several ice cubes in a large glass, splashed a significant amount of vodka over the cubes and filled the glass with tomato juice.

  Evidently, Koesler concluded, meticulous attention is reserved solely for the Brand martini.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Father. It’s about my daughter’s wedding.”

  “Yes, your wife explained that earlier this morning when she called and set up this appointment.”

  A buzzer sounded in the telephone console.

  “I’d better apologize right now, Father, for what probably will become a series of interruptions. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve got to keep taking calls and messages, or I’ll never dig my way out of this day.”

  Koesler nodded understanding.

  Brand pushed a button. “What is it, Cindy?”

  “A Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Brand. He’s taking out a loan and objected to our prime rate. He says he talked to you about it at the DAC last week. He says he’s a member of the Beaver Club.”

  “O’Brien …O’Brien …ah, yes, the chalet just outside Zurich…” Brand spoke so softly Koesler could barely hear him. Ordinarily, Koesler would make an effort not to overhear another’s conversation, but, in this instance, he was completely fascinated by this utterly foreign world of high finance. “Cindy,” Brand returned to an unreserved volume, “quote Mr. O’Brien at 8½ percent.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which Koesler thought he detected a sense of disbelief on the part of the unseen secretary.

  “Yes, Mr. Brand,” she said finally, professionally dispassionate.

  Brand sipped his Bloody Mary. “Father, we’ve run into a rather bad snag in our plans for Bunny’s wedding. It seems we can’t clear things through the proper channels—problems with time and testimony and the like.”

  Koesler suffered a major distraction. He allowed it to simmer on a back burner of his mind. He wondered about the chemistry that must have gone on between Brand and Thompson. Whatever had happened, Brand had evidently failed to get his future son-in-law’s case through the Tribunal. My, how the fur must have flown! Koesler surmised that the events that transpired between Brand and Thompson might very well have made grist for a best-seller.

  “In any case,” Brand went on, “we now find ourselves between a rock and a hard pl
ace. But then, Sunny and I recalled that night on the Fourth of July, you mentioned something about a priest who occasionally circumvents more traditional avenues of Church discipline.”

  Nicely put, thought Koesler. A more euphemistic way to describe breaking Church law did not occur to him.

  At that point, the buzzer again sounded.

  “Mr. Brand,” Cindy announced coolly, “we have a request for a letter of credit from a Mr. James Wilson.”

  “Why are you calling me about it?” Brand was clearly annoyed.

  “It was at Mr. Wilson’s request.”

  “How much and why?”

  “It is a $100,000 letter of credit in order for Mr. Wilson to secure an account he’s been attempting to acquire for the past seven years. He states he must act immediately, or he will lose the account.”

  “What’s his rating with us?”

  “$400,000.”

  Brand seemed to hesitate. “Wait a minute, Cindy. Call Mrs. Brand and find out if it wasn’t Wilson’s wife who got drunk at our party this past weekend. I think we had to ask him to take her home.”

  Brand turned back to Koesler. “So, anyway, Father, do you know such a priest?”

  “Well, this is a very delicate matter. I know of a priest who—how shall I put this?—uses his own conscience as well as the stated consciences of those he deals with, rather than canon law, in dealing with sacramental matters.”

  “Do you think he would consider performing the wedding ceremony for my daughter so she can be married in the Catholic Church?”

  “I don’t know. He confines his ministry to the core city. That way he operates without any publicity or spotlight. It is absolutely the only way he could continue with his peculiar kind of ministry. However, I did call him before coming here. He said he would be willing to talk to you about it. But I must tell you, he sounded most reluctant.”

  “But he did say he’d be willing to talk about it?”

  “Yes. But reluctantly.”

  Brand appeared somewhat relieved. “That’s very good, Father. I am in your debt.”

  Koesler hesitated. “Would you like to know his name and where to contact him?”

  “His name is Shanley,” said Brand with no particular emphasis, “Father Norman Shanley, and he resides at Rosary parish on Woodward at the Ford Expressway.”

  “But how …?”

  Brand smiled broadly. “Father Koesler,” his tone was that of a teacher explaining something the pupil should have known, “private investigation agencies are not all the shoot-em-up, cops-and-robbers people you see on TV. Some of them are quite good at quietly gathering information and arranging things that need to be arranged.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I did need you to make the initial contact with Father Shanley—break the ice, so to speak. And you’ve done it, and I’m grateful.”

  Koesler shrugged away the compliment for a favor he would have performed for anyone.

  “One final question, Father. I’d like your opinion as to what might—uh—impress Father Shanley. Perhaps a substantial donation to Rosary?”

  Koesler smiled. “No. No, Father Shanley will not be impressed by money no matter to which cause it may be donated.”

  Brand mulled alternative approaches. The buzzer sounded.

  “Mrs. Brand says that Mrs. Wilson is indeed the woman you described,” said Cindy’s crisp voice.

  “Deny that letter of credit.”

  Koesler, a self-proclaimed foreigner in the field of finance, nonetheless thought this an odd way to do business. Brand, without reference to the denied transaction, returned full attention to the project at hand. “Well, O.K., Father. You really have been a terrific help. The ball is in my court now. I’ll take care of things. But thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

  “No, I really ought to be getting back to the parish.”

  “Cindy, take care of Father’s parking stub, will you?” said Brand as he saw Koesler out of the office.

  In the elevator, Koesler again thought of the monumental confrontation that must have taken place between Brand and Thompson.

  Well, he thought, Brand is still standing; I wonder about Tommy.

  Mary Alberts told him she would put him on hold. It was more like “forget.” Actually, Father David Neiss was surprised that Monsignor Thompson could be found in the Tribunal on this fine summer afternoon. Neiss had anticipated that Thompson, as well as most area doctors and dentists, would be out on the links or courts. Wednesdays were like that.

  However, Miss Alberts had informed Neiss that Thompson was both in and available. That had been five minutes ago. After two minutes on seemingly interminable “hold,” Neiss picked up a half-completed crossword puzzle and began to work it. Let me think, he thought, a seven-letter word for genus of stoneworts …”

  “Yes!”

  It was the unmistakable voice of Monsignor Thompson. Except that Neiss hardly ever spoke with Thompson, so he did not recognize the Monsignor’s voice. Worse, he had forgotten whom he had phoned.

  “Yes?” Neiss ventured.

  “Yes!” Thompson was quickly losing what little veneer of patience he had. It was bad enough being boxed in his office on a fine Wednesday afternoon, ordinarily his day off, without being bothered by nincompoops.

  “What is it you want?” Only a minuscule portion of patience remained.

  “Monsignor?”

  “Yes!” Thompson fairly shouted.

  Neiss silently cursed himself and the crossword puzzle. This conversation was getting off to a very nasty start.

  “This is Father Neiss.”

  “Yes.” Thompson leaned over his desk, fingered through a stack of papers, found the Detroit Catholic Directory, and located Neiss in the alphabetical index. Divine Child parish. With old Cavanaugh.

  “I’m calling about a Defect of Form case, Monsignor.”

  “Yes?”

  Thompson was not making this easy.

  “Specifically, Monsignor, it’s about your new policy requiring interrogation concerning convalidation if one of the spouses is Polish.” Neiss had written that sentence before placing the call. He had been afraid his nervousness would cause a major blunder in technical language.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Monsignor, I’ve got a case now where such an interrogation would cause a serious problem for a very fine man and for his children. All the other requirements are fulfilled. He says that if his former wife is contacted, she will cause all sorts of trouble. She has in the past.”

  “Well, then, I guess it can’t be helped, can it.” Thompson was fast losing what little interest he had in this conversation.

  “But I thought …wouldn’t it be possible for you to make an exception? I mean, this is a very fine man, and we would be making a lot of trouble for him.”

  “We’re not making the trouble, Father. We’re doing our job making sure we’re dealing with an invalid marriage before we officially witness another marriage.”

  “Monsignor, it’s not as if I am unwilling to cooperate with your new policy. As a matter of fact, I assure you I’ll never ask for this favor again. But couldn’t you make an exception in just this one case? After all, before I knew about this policy, I promised the man his former wife would not be contacted.”

  “You shouldn’t make promises.” Thompson was eager to terminate this useless conversation. “And, while we’re at it, Father, I’ll give you one bit of advice they should have given you in the seminary: don’t get involved with these people. You must be coldly objective. Getting emotionally involved, as you obviously have, is just an impediment to sound judgment.”

  “Monsignor, I’m only asking for one exception.”

  “Father Neiss,” Thompson’s voice cut through the receiver like a knife, “if you persist with this nonsense, I will be forced to contact Father Cavanaugh and advise him to remove his delegation from you. Then you won’t have this problem
again, because you won’t be able to witness any marriages in Divine Child parish. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Monsignor.”

  “Very well. Good day.”

  Damn, thought Neiss; guys like Thompson could take all the joy out of being a priest.

  This looks more like a penthouse suite than an office, thought Father Norman Shanley. He had never seen any working space as extravagantly outfitted. He was frankly awed.

  Lee Brand had decided it would be more effective to see Father Shanley in the office. It would be too easy for Shanley to refuse Brand’s request if the meeting were to take place in Shanley’s home court.

  Brand opened the panel exposing the bar. Shanley thought he had stumbled upon Shangri-La.

  “Drink, Father?”

  “Oh, no, thanks.”

  “Never too early for a Bloody Mary,” said Brand, as he followed his own prescription.

  “No, no, thanks,” Shanley maintained.

  Brand led Shanley to a comfortable if spare black chair at the opposite end of the room from the desk. Brand seated himself in an identical chair near Shanley’s. This was not to look as if it were a business meeting.

  “I understand, Father,” Brand swirled his drink in its glass, “that you occasionally conduct ‘interesting’ wedding ceremonies.” His emphasis gave a completely ambiguous meaning to the word “interesting.”

  Shanley cleared his throat. Somehow, in this spacious office, he was beginning to feel claustrophobic. “That depends on what you mean by ‘interesting,’ Mr. Brand. What I do, in my little corner of the world …well, I try not to let anybody else in on it. It was only reluctantly that I let Father Koesler give you my name.”

  “I understand, Father. And I’m aware it was only with great reluctance that you agreed to meet with me.”

  Shanley nodded.

  “I appreciate that,” Brand continued. “I appreciate that more than I can tell you. But our backs are up against a wall. We’ve got a wedding scheduled at Our Lady of Refuge in two days, but we can’t find a priest to perform the ceremony. And the kids do want so much to be married in the Church.”