Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  “You’re welcome, Angela.” Koesler sensed there was something troubling her. “Is there something I can do?”

  “Well, yes, Father, if it isn’t too much trouble. I’d like to go to confession.”

  “Of course.” Koesler led her to one of the confessionals in the rear of the church.

  He settled in the metal folding chair, slipped the slender violet stole around his neck, opened the sliding door on Angela’s side, and closed the opposite door. Strange how in the darkness and silence of the confessional sounds were amplified. He could hear the rustle of her dress as she knelt, her elbows hitting the resting board, even the brushing sound made when she flicked a hair back into place. Her Bal à Versailles wafted through the grill. No doubt about it, Koesler concluded, women smelled better than men.

  “Yes?” Koesler began. It was always a mistake to assume the penitent knew the priest was ready.

  “Oh. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been …oh …several months—I don’t know exactly—since my last confession. I was angry with my husband and children several times. I missed Mass once, but I was very ill. We’re remodeling our basement, and it’s hard work, and I lose my patience a lot. And…”

  “Is there something more?” They always save the biggies for last.

  “Yes. I’m ashamed of it, but I’m angry at a priest. Monsignor Thompson. He almost ruined Anna Maria’s wedding, and he was very rude and unkind to me…”

  They also usually have excuses and extenuating circumstances for the biggies.

  “…and, I’m sorry, Father, but I hate him. I hate him so much I think I could kill him.”

  And they usually exaggerated the biggies, making sure they don’t cop a plea with God.

  “Well, killing is a little extreme, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. But I am damn mad!”

  Profanity used in the confessional usually connoted maximum emphasis.

  “Well, are you sorry for your anger at Monsignor Thompson?”

  A substantial pause. Koesler was aware that the time for Mrs. Cicero’s procession down the middle aisle was impending.

  “No, I can’t say I am.”

  Another pause as Koesler tried to find an immediate solution to this dilemma.

  “Well, are you sorry you are not sorry for your anger at Monsignor Thompson?”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “I guess that’s enough. For your penance, say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys.”

  Angela began mumbling a prayer of contrition while Koesler mumbled absolution.

  She emerged from the confessional as the soprano was beginning the second verse of “We’ve Only Just Begun,” just in time for her escorted trek down the middle aisle.

  Koesler stayed in a rear pew through a reading from Kahlil Gibran and one from the Gospel according to John. One verse of John was worth three pages of Gibran, thought Koesler. He then suffered through a flat rendition of “A Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Then it was time for Deacon Schroeder’s homily.

  “It is a distinct pleasure,” Schroeder began, “for me to address the faith community today.”

  Koesler moaned inaudibly.

  “It was the late, great Pope John,” Schroeder continued, “who called us all to the spirit of aggiornamento. And, if we really hear what he was saying, then we must look upon marriage as the occasion for the ultimate metanoia.”

  Koesler moaned audibly. He rose and headed back to the rectory. Oh, Les, he thought, somehow I’ve got to convince you that the vernacular of this country is not Greek.

  NEWLYWEDS

  HUDSON/VAN PATTEN

  Dawn Hudson, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Hudson, will become the bride of Doug Van Patten of Philadelphia at a candlelight nuptial Mass at St. David’s parish, Saturday, August 11, at 8 P.M.

  Msgr. Thomas Thompson, head of the Archdiocesan matrimonial court, will preside at the wedding and be the principal speaker at the banquet to follow at Roma Hall in East Detroit.

  The couple will honeymoon in Hawaii.

  The announcement was there in the Detroit News’s August 5 issue. It was there for everyone to see.

  3

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a little golf.” Joe Cox leaned against the bedroom doorjamb.

  “Are you kidding?” Pat Lennon sneezed and blew her nose resoundingly, murmuring imprecations.

  “Gesundheit!” Cox was unsure of what, if anything, to do for her.

  “Where did the idea for golf come from?” With extreme effort, Lennon was able to open her eyelids to approximately half-mast.

  “That was Freddie Collins from the composing room on the phone just now. You remember Freddie, don’t you?”

  Lennon nodded.

  “Well, Freddie invited us to join him and maybe Nelson Kane for nine or eighteen, whatever the traffic allows, at Chandler Park.” Cox sat on the bed after rearranging huge Sunday editions of the News, Free Press, and New York Times.

  “Careful,” Lennon warned, “don’t knock any of those off the bed. I intend to go through everything today. This is one Sunday I’m going to read all the papers.

  “Chandler Park!” she reacted tardily. “Whoever thought of Chandler Park on the second Sunday of August? That place will be more a shooting gallery than a golf course!”

  Cox chuckled. “That’s part of the attraction. I’m looking forward to watching Nellie hit the ball, then duck. I can’t wait to see the storied Kane temper build to an eight on the Richter Scale.”

  “Well, you run on without me, lover. If I can just stay in bed all day, I should be up and at ’em tomorrow.” She paged through the Times magazine to the crossword puzzle.

  Cox shook his head. He never ceased to be amazed at Lennon’s ability to not only complete each week’s difficult Times puzzle successfully, but to do it in ink.

  “A summer cold!” he said. “How could you ever have let yourself in for a summer cold? Where did you go last night, anyway?”

  “Out!” Lennon responded firmly. “And what did I do? Nothing!”

  “Aha!” he intoned dramatically, “playing the femme fatale, eh? You’re sexy when you become a mystery woman.”

  “Don’t get any ideas today, my gold-plated stud. Either you’ll get my cold, or I’ll break and disintegrate, or both.”

  Cox smiled and patted her knee. He sensed she had been developing a story last night when she caught cold. She had been somewhat secretive for the past several days. Usually a manifestation of working on a story. He retreated from further prying. The two had mutual respect for each other’s exclusives.

  Cox began assembling his golfing togs.

  “By the way,” he said, “Freddie mentioned that your friend didn’t show up for church today.”

  “My friend?” Lennon didn’t look up from the puzzle.

  “Monsignor Thompson. Freddie goes to Shrine parish. He said Thompson didn’t show up for noon Mass.”

  “Maybe he’s on vacation.”

  “No.” Cox searched through a bureau drawer for a sportshirt. “Freddie said that Mass started late, about a quarter after twelve. But today the pastor did it—started late and skipped the sermon.”

  Cox did not continue, nor did Lennon comment for several seconds.

  “Maybe he was sick,” she finally offered, still without digressing from her puzzle.

  “If he is, he’s very sick. Freddie, good newspaperman that he is, asked the pastor after Mass. He said Thompson’s absence was unexpected. And that he’d gotten no answer when he phoned Thompson’s residence.”

  There was another extended period of silence.

  “Maybe he was just suddenly called away.”

  “Freddie doesn’t think so. He says the pastor said that Thompson is very careful about his assignments and wouldn’t miss a Sunday Mass without telling someone beforehand.”

  After another pregnant pause, Lennon said, “Hell, maybe he died! Who cares?”

  Co
x chuckled.

  However, he thought, there is something here. His investigative instincts were tingling. If anything, he was surprised that Lennon had dismissed so out-of-handedly the prospect that there might be a story here. He could only attribute it to her illness.

  Almost on a whim, Cox decided to wear his dress slacks and blazer and pack his golf clothing. A plan was forming in the devious portion of his mind, and he wanted to be prepared to carry it off if the opportunity arose.

  He zipped his duffel bag.

  “Hit some line drives for me,” Lennon called out weakly.

  “Darling,” said Cox as he departed, “I dedicate the entire match—including the nineteenth hole—together with the ears and tail of Nelson Kane, in your honor.”

  “Of course you’ll stay for dinner. Won’t you, Father?” Wanda Koznicki asked the question as she admitted Father Koesler.

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” demurred the priest. “That would be an imposition. Please, no. But thank you.”

  “Nonsense, Father,” said Wanda. “We usually eat about four on Sundays. That’s just about half an hour from now. And at the rate my brood eats, one more mouth to feed will make no great difference. Let me just get you with Walt.”

  “You’re sure it’s no imposition? I don’t want to disrupt your Sunday.”

  “Oh, no, Father. Walt’s been expecting you ever since you phoned.”

  Wanda and Koesler entered the study. Replete with overstuffed furniture, it had a lived-in look. The walls were covered with citations, certificates, and awards. Recorded music was playing softly. Koesler recognized a Brahms symphony. The Fourth. Nice.

  As they entered the study, Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of the Detroit Police Department’s Homicide Division, stood to greet the priest.

  “How good it is to see you again, Father. You’ll stay for dinner, of course.” Koznicki exchanged a knowing glance with his wife.

  “Good to see you again, Inspector. Yes, Wanda has been kind enough to extend the invitation.”

  Though they had become fast friends over the years, Koesler and Koznicki scarcely ever used each other’s first name. Theirs was a mutual if unexpressed intent to maintain a respect for each other’s profession.

  Well over six feet tall and big-boned, Koznicki generally dwarfed everything and everybody around him. It was not merely his considerable physical size; he seemed to exude largeness. He was one of those people usually described as being larger than life.

  The priest and the police officer had been thrown together quite accidentally some five years before in a homicide case known popularly as The Rosary Murders. In the meantime, they had become friends, and at least every few months became each other’s guest at either Koesler’s rectory or Koznicki’s home.

  “It is always good to see you, Father,” said Koznicki. He turned down the music’s volume, and the two men sat down. “But what brings you here now? Trouble with your deacon?”

  Koesler smiled. Once previously he had unburdened himself to Koznicki about Deacon Lester Schroeder. Koznicki had been nicely professional. He had simply sat with widened eyes as Koesler ranted and raved and became slightly profane as he loudly complained about Schroeder in particular and the current crop of seminarians in general. Koesler had felt much relieved after that unburdening.

  “No, not Deacon Les this time. Though there are times when I’d like to wring his neck.”

  “Don’t do that, Father. Detroit’s homicide detectives are too good.”

  “Don’t I know that! No,” Koesler grew serious, “what I wanted to talk to you about is Monsignor Tommy Thompson.”

  “He is the archdiocesan chancellor?” Koznicki stabbed, trying to remember.

  “Head of the Tribunal,” Koesler clarified.

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Well, he was missing today from his assignment for noon Mass at Shrine of the Little Flower.”

  “That is significant enough to bring to the attention of the police?”

  “I think so, Inspector. Monsignor gave no notice that he would not be at the parish for his assigned Mass this afternoon. And that is utterly out of character for Tommy Thompson.”

  “What alternatives have we?”

  “Not many, Inspector. Monsignor has not been away on vacation. He was in perfect health. But he apparently did not spend last night at his residence. I phoned the pastor of St. David’s. He checked, and Monsignor’s bed had not been slept in.

  “It seems the last anyone saw of him was at a wedding reception last night. He got a phone call and left immediately after that.”

  A look of amusement crossed Koznicki’s face. “Well, Father, you’ve done some excellent investigating. But tell me, why were you specifically informed of his absence from noon Mass?”

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  “Monsignor Thompson and I are classmates,” Koesler said at length. “The Shrine pastor, Father Ed Rausch, knows this. He also knows I’m one of the few people who would care enough about Tommy Thompson to look into the matter.”

  Koznicki leaned forward, for the first time specifically interested. “He is that disliked?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Why would so many hate a monsignor?”

  “Well, it isn’t totally Tommy’s fault,” Koesler shifted in his chair. “He is, after all, administering some pretty bad and antiquated Church law. But then, on top of that, he sort of has a habit of running roughshod over people. I think, in all objectivity, Tommy has left a record number of unsatisfied customers in his wake.”

  Koesler paused a moment. “I would not have mentioned this to anyone, but I am genuinely worried about him.”

  “You say he was last seen at a wedding reception last night?”

  Koesler nodded.

  “It’s a little early to make a report, but under the circumstances, I think a report is warranted.”

  A feeling of gratitude swept over Koesler.

  Koznicki phoned Missing Persons and authorized the report. Then he handed the phone to Koesler for a description.

  “Monsignor Thomas Thompson. St. David’s rectory, 8141 East Outer Drive.” Koesler answered successive questions. “Male, white, age—uh, 52; I don’t know the exact date of birth; light complexion, blue eyes, dark hair, a touch of gray, a little jowly. Last seen wearing a lightweight black silk suit, roman collar—like priests wear—black shoes, black socks. Last seen at Roma Hall in East Detroit about 10 or 10:30 last night. He received a phone call and left the hall immediately.

  “As far as I know, he is in good health, and there is no good reason for his disappearance. Yes, as far as I know, this is the first time he’s ever been reported missing. Yes, thank you, sergeant.”

  As the priest hung up and turned from the phone, Koznicki handed him a glass of port.

  “That missing person report will be on the teletype of every precinct by tomorrow morning,” said Koznicki. “And you can be sure, since it’s a monsignor, every officer will be alerted. We don’t lose that many monsignors.”

  “And you’re sure we’re not being premature?”

  “Not at all. It never hurts to be cautious, especially in a case like this.”

  They heard Wanda call.

  “Come along, Father.” Koznicki motioned the priest toward the dining area. “Come eat with us and our kids. But don’t be bashful, or you’ll find this experience a spectator sport.”

  He was afraid it would be dinnertime. But a call from a public phone in Chandler Park to St. David’s rectory revealed that there were no priests present—not peculiar for a sunny early Sunday summer evening.

  Monsignor Thompson was still unaccounted for—very peculiar—and Mrs. Bovey, the housekeeper, was too upset to prepare a meal for herself—very understandable.

  Joe Cox considered Mrs. Bovey to be overly communicative. He certainly did not object. Reporters regularly encountered people who would not talk, or if they would, would not do so for the record. Mrs. Bovey, however, seem
ed the type who would tell anyone anything. Even an anonymous caller who was prying into the absence of priests at the dinner hour, a missing monsignor, and her immediate plans.

  Well, good for her. Her nicely cooperative attitude might just make the next ploy work. Sometimes it worked; sometimes not. But it always worked better with someone who, like Mrs. Bovey, was a dedicated communicator.

  With these thoughts in mind, Cox parked on East Outer Drive, directly in front of St. David’s rectory. For the first time that day, he was grateful the nine holes of golf had been so backed-up and slow. He had not perspired greatly, so he was fairly comfortable wearing a jacket. Only Nelson Kane’s fury—at his own game, at everyone else’s game, at the tee-to-greens crowds—had saved the day. Kane’s anger was instantaneous, monumental, and fun to behold as long as it wasn’t directed at you.

  Cox pushed the doorbell but heard no chime or ring. After some moments, he knocked. Seconds later, a yapping dog hit the door. Cox heard some commotion, and the yapping grew faint.

  The door opened. A small, rather attractive gray-haired woman stared at Cox with wide inquiring eyes.

  “The doorbell’s broken,” she explained.

  Mrs. Bovey, he presumed. She had put the dog in an office adjacent to the front door whence the animal continued yapping.

  Cox opened his wallet and exhibited his police and fire department press card. It was an impressive green; his picture adorned one corner, and the word “police” was fairly prominent. Mrs. Bovey looked at the card only briefly, then nodded.

  “The other officers were here earlier. Didn’t they get everything they wanted?”

  Surprise! Cox had been unaware the matter was under formal investigation. He was growing more and more sure there was a story here.

  He flipped shut his wallet and pocketed it. “I’m from a special detail, ma’am. The other detail, they searched…” Cox let his voice trail off as he looked expectantly at Mrs. Bovey.

  “Oh,” she said, after a brief pause, “Monsignor’s suite upstairs and his office just down the hall here.”