Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  This was less than half true. Warwick didn’t much care where they were married, while Bunny was only mildly interested in a Catholic wedding. However, both had been soundly warned and carefully coached in order to present a united front of people who desperately desired and richly deserved a Catholic wedding.

  “That isn’t always possible.” Shanley shifted nervously in his chair. “Father Koesler mentioned a Tribunal case in this matter. It broke down?”

  “Matter of time, nothing but a matter of time. But that is what we ran out of.”

  “I see. But what exactly do you want of me?” Shanley was quite sure what it was. He hated even to ask.

  “We want …we’d be most grateful if you would be the missing priest. I’m sure I could fix things up with the pastor of Our Lady of Refuge and—”

  “Oh, no. That’s absolutely out of the question. I do my work in the core city and only there.”

  “Because, Father,” Brand completed the thought, “you do occasionally witness marriages that can’t be or haven’t been squared with Church law. And you feel as long as you’re in the inner city no one will care.”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “That’s reverse discrimination,” said Brand decisively.

  “Oh, no. If suburban priests do not include this sort of service in their ministries, that is their decision, not mine. I am assigned to the city.”

  “Then suppose we come to you.”

  “What?”

  The thought of the Lee Brand family coming to Rosary had not entered Shanley’s mind. He had been somewhat prepared for Brand’s initial invitation to the Green Lake parish. He had been totally unprepared for the reverse suggestion.

  “That, too, is out of the question,” said Shanley, attempting to recover.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re too well known. It—what I’ve been doing—would get out.”

  “Now that, Father, is reverse discrimination.”

  “What?”

  “I can understand why you would refuse to take your specialized ministry out to the suburbs, but not your refusal to let us come to you. If I and my daughter lived in your parish and if you were convinced we desperately wanted her marriage in the Church, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably,” he hesitantly agreed.

  “So the only reason you’re refusing our request is because we are not poor. That, Father, is my idea of reverse discrimination!”

  Shanley sat silently thinking it over. Brand quietly congratulated himself on his game plan. So far, everything had gone precisely as anticipated. He had been certain Shanley would reject the idea of coming out to Green Lake. After this setup, he was equally certain Shanley could not oppose the Brands’ coming to him.

  “But there would be all that publicity.” Shanley sensed trouble ahead, but he was now clutching at straws. Brand’s ultimate argument, he knew, was beyond his power to refute.

  “We can soft-pedal that, Father. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Well, that’s one thing I’d have to insist on. Publicity in this situation would be the death knell to my entire approach to dispensing the sacraments. You’ve got to promise me: no publicity.”

  “Father, what could I do even if I wanted to? The wedding is only two days away.”

  “I’ve got to interview the couple. I’ve got to make certain they want this as badly as you say they do. This is crucial.”

  “Of course, Father. I have them waiting for my call. They will come to see you at your convenience.”

  “This afternoon, then. About two.”

  “Of course. They’ll be there. And if all goes well, the wedding will be this Saturday, July 28. What time would be best for you?”

  Briefly, 7 A.M. flashed through Shanley’s mind. There was precedent, he thought: old Father Kirkland out in Marine City scheduled all summer funerals for 7 A.M. So they wouldn’t interfere with his golf game.

  “I guess six in the evening,” Shanley relented. “Our regularly scheduled Saturday evening Mass is at five, so this might fit in right after that. But, remember, Mr. Brand, this all depends on my interview with the couple.”

  “Of course, Father; I understand completely.”

  Brand ushered the priest out of his office, told Cindy to take care of Shanley’s parking, and to get his daughter on the phone. There would be no problem with the kids. They had been carefully coached. He felt exuberant. He was going to beat Thompson at Thompson’s own game.

  Brand rubbed his hands together vigorously. He had lots to do.

  Koesler had offered Mass and brought communion to five shut-ins in the parish, as he ordinarily did on Fridays. He had then returned to the rectory for some coffee and an opportunity to catch up with this day.

  Now, cup of coffee in hand, he sat at his office desk, considering the mail. As usual, an enormous proportion was junk. Once in a while there would be a personal letter from a friend—Koesler was a faithful correspondent. But almost always there were the irritants: bills, notifications from the various ecclesial bureaucracies, and invitations to countless meetings.

  He fingered through the first-class mail and paused at one envelope. At the upper left corner were the words, “The Tribunal,” and its Washington Boulevard address.

  Pulling the envelope from the pile, he slit it open. He glanced first at the letter’s signature. Monsignor Thomas Thompson. Koesler heard in imagination the three “Scarpia” chords.

  Dear Father Koesler, were the last friendly words on the page until the closing salutation.

  Pursuant to the petition for marital separation, protocol number 715/79, notification of which inception you forwarded to this office several months ago:

  This interminable delay cannot continue. Please forward forthwith to this office and to my attention, all documentation you have gathered and assembled. Make certain that each page of the documentation is headed with the proper protocol number.

  In Christ,

  Msgr. Thomas Thompson

  MONSIGNOR THOMAS THOMPSON

  Damn! He wondered if “Monsignor Thomas Thompson” was a Tribunal pseudonym for a computer. One which, incidentally, had been badly programmed.

  Three times had Koesler patiently explained this case was in a state of suspended animation since the husband, essential ingredient that he was, could not be found. To top it all, Koesler was bone tired.

  Well, if Caesar wanted the documents, Caesar would get them!

  Slamming the file drawer with unnecessary vigor, Koesler produced the required documents, made certain each page bore the protocol number and stuffed the incomplete documentation in a manila envelope.

  He placed the bulging mess on Mary O’Connor’s desk.

  “Mary, would you make sure this has sufficient postage and send it off to Monsignor Thompson at the Tribunal?”

  She hefted it with one hand. “Do you want me to enclose a note telling Monsignor what to do with it?”

  “Yeah. Tell him he can—never mind. Just send it, please.”

  Between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, Father David Neiss held a penny wrapper. As Hamlet contemplating the skull, so Neiss meditated over the penny wrapper, philosophical concepts ranging through his mind.

  Had he spent twelve long years preparing for the priesthood for this? Four years of high school, four of college, and four of theological training in order to wrap money?

  Yet, this was the order of the day. Before leaving for a vicariate meeting at Sacred Heart in Dearborn, his pastor, Father Leon Cavanaugh, had left his unrelentingly explicit instructions. Father Cavanaugh had determined that since this was the end of the final week of July, all loose currency and change in the safe should be counted and packaged. It reminded Neiss of the decree once issued by Caesar Augustus. All monies shall be returned to their proper denomination, there to be assembled and accounted for.

  Neiss glanced again at the note Cavanaugh had left:

  Father Neiss:

&nb
sp; Empty the safe of all loose currency and coins. Divide the currency into packages of $100 each, maintaining the difference in denominations. Wrap the coins in their proper containers. Forty quarters and nickels to a package, fifty dimes and pennies. Note the total amount, place in leather bag, and leave all in the safe so I may check it.

  Fr. L. Cavanaugh

  So that was it. A kind of minimal requirement for ordination. The ability to make George Washington face in the same direction and the competence to count to ten, forty, and fifty. This task would take the better part of a Saturday that had begun overcast and steamy but was developing into a dandy day weatherwise.

  Since the day seemed to offer him nothing but bleak prospects, Neiss decided to call Harry Kirwan and inform him of Monsignor Thompson’s bottom line.

  No answer.

  He dialed Mary Ann McCauley’s number.

  “Yes?” Her voice sounded strange, as if she’d caught a cold or, perhaps, had been crying.

  “Mary Ann? I tried to call Harry, but there was no answer.”

  “He’s here with me, Father.”

  “Oh. I wanted to tell him about the Tribunal’s final decision, but I can just as well tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well,” Neiss fumbled with the penny wrapper for a few moments before continuing, “I’m afraid the final decision is that the Tribunal demands that Harry’s former wife be interviewed.”

  There was a brief silence. Neiss sensed she was dabbing at her eyes.

  “Father,” she said, “shortly after we saw you, we reached the same conclusion. We knew that was going to be the final decision.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. We’ve been talking it over ever since. Well, arguing about it. And we’ve come to our own decision.” She hesitated. “Father, we’re going to be married in Harry’s church in two weeks.”

  “Mary Ann, wait! “ Neiss had riot expected this turn of events. “Do you know what you’re getting into? You’re leaving your Church. You’re leaving the heritage you grew up with. Isn’t there some way we can talk this out?”

  “No, there isn’t, Father. Reaching this decision has been the most agonizing effort of my life. I love my Church, but I love Harry, and I’m not going to lose him over some silly rule.”

  “Mary Ann, a marriage should be a time of joy, a time of great happiness. Listen to yourself: does yours sound like a happy voice, full of joy? Isn’t there something I can say?”

  “There’s nothing you can say, Father. It’s our decision, and we’ve made it.” She broke into uncontrolled sobbing and hung up.

  Damn! Damn! Damn! Neiss thought. All over some goddamn rule Thompson dreamed up and then made ironclad. All this suffering and sorrow due to Thompson’s goddamn rule. All this suffering and sorrow. God! There must be some way of making him pay for it this side of the grave.

  In impotent anger, Neiss hurled a roll of coins at the wall. The wrapper broke, spewing pennies in all directions. Swell! Now he could play fifty-pickup and further stew in his growing anger for a man who was further screwing up an already screwed-up system.

  It was some sixth sense. Ordinarily, Father Norm Shanley discounted intuition as a vehicle leading to reality, truth, or the knowledge of future events. But there was no doubt he was experiencing forebodings about the Warwick-Brand wedding scheduled to take place in about twenty-five minutes.

  Shanley paused on his way to the church at the doorway of the rectory living room. Father James Porter had just returned from offering the 5 P.M. Saturday Mass and was seated in the living room. Shanley would not casually pass by without greeting him.

  “So, how was the five o’clock Mass, Father?”

  Porter expertly spun his wheelchair around to face the doorway and Shanley.

  “The usual. But, say, Father,” Porter’s expression was a mixture of interest and curiosity, “that looks to be some wedding party that’s getting ready for six.”

  “Oh, were they there before you left the church?” A vague sense of panic set Shanley’s adrenalin flowing.

  “Yes. Parishioners?” Porter was skeptical. No Rosary parishioners he knew of could afford the sort of preparation he had observed.

  “No. Not a parishioner. Somebody who needed some help. Don’t worry about it.”

  Shanley left to hurry to the church. Porter puzzled over what kind of help would be needed by anyone able to afford that show of wealth.

  Shanley entered the church. It was worse than his worst fears. The church was filling with people in formal attire. He thought that even in Rosary’s heyday, it had never housed hoi aristoi comparable to this. Auxiliary air conditioners were being assembled against the walls. He was certain the church’s antiquated electrical system could never sustain such a drain. He did not know auxiliary generators had been set up outside.

  Strobe lights bounced off an unending series of aristocratic profiles. Huge baskets full of fresh-cut flowers created a funereal fragrance.

  And the news media! There they were. He wondered how he could have missed them earlier. They had been outside the church recording the entrance of the elite as well as the presence and open-mouthed amazement of the neighbors, some of whom were sober. Now the TV cameras and their crews entered the church, which was flooded by the bright lights. He counted. Channels 2, 4, and 7. That pretty well covered Detroit and environs.

  Near the door were Bunny and Sunny. The former in flowing white, the latter in off-pink. In tux and tails was Lee Brand, greeting guests and appearing to own the church, which, Shanley surmised, he pretty nearly did.

  Shanley was struck by one overwhelming presentiment. My ecclesiastical ass, he thought, is in a sling.

  “Deal!” His fist hit the table, thumb snapped against middle finger, and index finger pointed directly at Bob Koesler. Father Darin O ‘Day was tolerant of delay to a point, but not when it came to poker. For him, in fact, “deal” was an unexpected utterance. Usually, it was just the thudding fist, the snapped thumb, and an accusatory index finger pointed at the offender, who was left to guess what it was in the game he should be doing that he was not.

  Koesler brought his shuffle to an end and began to deal. “Five-card draw, jacks or better to open.”

  “Anything wild? Anything wild?” asked Father Felix Lasko.

  “There’d better not be,” warned Father Patrick McNiff.

  “No, nothing wild,” Koesler reassured.

  It was a casual gathering of classmates or at least contemporaries of Koesler. Saturday evenings, each took turns hosting an informal poker party. This evening was Koesler’s turn, so the party was located in St. Anselm’s rectory basement.

  “I can open,” announced Monsignor Tommy Thompson. He threw a white chip in the center of the table. “It’ll cost you a buck to stay.”

  There was a clink of chips being tossed into the pot as everyone decided to go one more step. Koesler dealt again.

  O’Day’s fist hit the table, there was a snapping noise, and his index finger pointed meaningfully at Thompson.

  “Oh.” Thompson recovered and gave one final quick study to his original two and three freshly dealt cards. “It’ll cost you five.” He added five white chips to the pot.

  Koesler threw in his cards. “Too rich for me. Anyone want a beer?”

  “I’ll take one,” said McNiff.

  Whiskey, scotch, gin, vermouth, and a bucket of ice rested on a nearby cabinet. Drinking was relatively light at these Saturday night sessions. The participants had to work the next day.

  Father Paul Burk delayed a moment, then threw in five white chips.

  Koesler went to the refrigerator and got a Schlitz for McNiff.

  There was the familiar thump and snap. O’Day was pointing at Lasko.

  “Oh, dear,” said Lasko, studying his cards. “Is a full house higher than three of a kind?”

  “Damn!” said O’Day in a rare display of loquacity.

  Throwing in his hand, Koesler announced, “I want to catch the el
even o’clock news.”’ He moved to the ancient color TV set reserved for the basement.

  After the last ad of the preceding program, the familiar face of Bill Bonds, Detroit’s most watched anchorperson, appeared on screen. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Some of the news tonight: a seven-car Amtrak derailment between Detroit and Chicago. The wedding of the year in an inner-city Catholic church. This and much more coming up on Channel 7’s eleven o’clock action news with Diana Lewis, Dave Diles with sports, and Jerry Hodak with the weather.”

  Pause for commercials.

  Wedding of the year in an inner-city Catholic church? What the hell was that all about, Koesler wondered. He paid little attention to the Amtrak derailment. He was waiting for the wedding of the year.

  “Hey, will you turn that thing down,” called McNiff; “we’re trying to play cards.”

  Koesler turned down the volume and sat only inches from the screen.

  Beautiful Diana Lewis had the wedding story.

  “Well, Bill,” she said, “the wedding of the year, maybe the decade, maybe the century,” she shrugged, “took place near downtown Detroit this evening as Richard Warwick wed popular socialite Bunny Brand.”

  Film showed limousines arriving at the church. The camera zoomed in on the arrivals of banking, utilities, and Big Three auto executives and their wives, couples from Detroit’s sports, political, and communications world, as well as such representatives of Detroit’s publicity scene as Ron and Dana Schoonover, heirs to Eisa Maxwell’s party-giver’s mantle. Also spotlighted were Detroit’s hard-nosed but polished assistant police chief and his doll-like but cerebral helpmate. Most of the remainder of Detroit’s fabulously famous rounded out the group entering the now-crowded church.

  Diana identified celebrities as they appeared. “And,” she continued, “they all were there to see this couple exchange their vows in a brief Catholic ceremony.” On the screen were Richard and Bunny. They were perfect; he a tuxedoed Viking, she shyly but elegantly virginal.

  “Our Ven Marshall,” said Diana, “was there to cover the event for Channel 7.”