Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  Nevertheless, Koesler, throughout the day, kept finding excuses to postpone the reading.

  After the excitement attendant to finding Thompson’s car that morning, Koesler had lunched with Koznicki at a small restaurant in Greektown, which bordered police headquarters. During the meal, he was gradually able to forget the missing Monsignor for the moment.

  But as police officer and priest parted, like a persistent intruder, the diary again burned its way into Koesler’s consciousness.

  Monday afternoons were usually filled with cleaning up the nitty-gritty of the just-completed weekend liturgies and the very remote preparation for next weekend’s liturgies. From time to time, it occurred to Koesler that parishes, especially suburban parishes, existed solely for weekend liturgies. During the week, relatively little of importance took place. Of course, there were interminable meetings of councils, commissions, and committees. Occasionally, there was a lonely soul to counsel or console and the slow but steady processions of panhandlers. Clearly, however, the majority of parishioners thought of their parish solely in terms of a once-weekly Mass of obligation.

  Koesler sensed that he would be unable to sustain a Monday afternoon routine. Nor was he yet willing to delve into Thompson’s diary.

  Instead, he decided to visit Betty Hardwick, a parishioner who suffered from cerebral palsy and was presently hospitalized with arthritis.

  It was a long, leisurely drive out Michigan Avenue to Wayne County General Hospital, more popularly known as Eloise, after the village in which it was situated. Once there, Koesler was, as always, overwhelmed by the number, size, and complexity of the institutional buildings. After getting directions at the information desk, he began an extended trek through huge, seemingly identical wards.

  In some of the wards housing the elderly, it was sometimes difficult to discern where a chalky emaciated body stopped and the white sheet began. It was also sometimes difficult to tell whether a patient was alive. At one point, a white-haired woman sitting in a chair, but chained to her bed, reached out and grasped Koesler’s hand, frightening him momentarily. “Pray for me,” she pleaded, “I am insane.” Probably not, thought the priest as he continued his journey. Probably her behavior is merely sufficiently different from the rest of ours that we feel uncomfortable having her around. So we’ve locked her away.

  Finally, he found Betty Hardwick, who seemed overjoyed to see him. She was another whose appearance made others uncomfortable. So she had few visitors whether she was in or out of the hospital.

  It was difficult to understand her until one became used to her speech defect. And occasionally, she drooled. But she rambled on, unself-consciously telling Koesler how she spent her days visiting with other patients, cheering them up, and finding silver linings for some realistically dark clouds.

  As always, Koesler marveled at how beautiful a soul was housed in that broken body. He was forced to remember Tommy Thompson. How many opportunities a man in his position had to lighten the burden of troubled people. Koesler was aware that his classmate was not noted for benevolence; he feared the diary he would soon be forced to read might well expose exactly the opposite.

  Betty, on the other hand, was rare if not unique. Koesler had known a few, a precious few, chronically ill people who were able to sublimate their illness in favor of a genuine concern for others. As always, his visit with Betty cheered him and as he blessed her, he realized that she had bestowed on him a greater blessing.

  There was no time for the diary on his return to the rectory as the day’s mail was yet unopened, and Mary O’Connor handed him an impressive list of phone calls to be returned.

  After picking up the pieces of Monday, Koesler dined alone. Deacon Les Schroeder was out somewhere making sure the world was safe for the Church.

  He was tempted to begin the diary after dinner. But he remembered that two women were scheduled for instructions, at seven and eight, respectively. Requests for instructions to become Catholic were extremely rare. In the case of these women, each was the only member of her family who was not Catholic, and since their high school children were attending catechism instructions on Monday evenings, the ladies had decided to give official Catholicism a whirl.

  As it turned out, neither instruction had been either demanding or controversial. The first woman’s only nagging problem concerned the details surrounding Mary’s visit to her elderly cousin Elizabeth.

  Mary, pregnant with Jesus, came to help Elizabeth, who was carrying the baby who would become John the Baptist. Describing the meeting of these two women, Luke wrote that when Elizabeth heard Mary’s voice, her baby leapt in her womb. And Luke quotes Elizabeth, “The moment your greeting sounded in my ears, the baby leapt in my womb for joy.”

  Mrs. Donahue, who with five kids was no stranger to intrauterine kicks, found it difficult to accept Elizabeth’s interpretation of her baby’s activity. Mrs. Donahue patiently explained to Koesler, who needed all the help in this field he could get, about the prenatal calisthenics of infants. Elizabeth, Mrs. Donahue reasoned, probably was excited when she heard her cousin. When she unconsciously passed that excitement along to her baby, he kicked more as a reflex action than out of joy. Mrs. Donahue concluded she did not think she was going to be able to accept this incident as a miraculous event.

  Father Koesler explained to Mrs. Donahue that acceptance of John the Baptist’s early punt as a religious mystery was not crucial to the deposit of faith and that it was a matter she could pretty well decide for herself.

  The second woman, usually reflective and quiet, had only one question this evening. Who, she asked, buttoned the priest’s shirt up the back? Seeing Koesler’s roman collar and clerical vest with no buttons visible, she had supposed the article of clothing must be buttoned in back. With this premise, the question made some sense. However, Koesler assured her that the answer, as was the case with what if anything was worn beneath the kilt, would have to remain a secret revealed to a precious few.

  It was 9:30. For all religious purposes, St. Anslem’s had settled down for the night.

  He could avoid it no longer. He made a rather firm scotch-and-water and settled into a comfortable black leather chair in the living room, the Xeroxed copy of Monsignor Thompson’s diary on his lap.

  The barely legible scribble brought to mind the notes Thompson had occasionally passed to him in the seminary. At first, he had complained to Thompson that the notes were deliberate obfuscations and that Thompson was preparing for the wrong profession. He should become a doctor and write prescriptions only a pharmacist could decipher. As the years progressed, Koesler had accommodated himself to the inevitability of Thompson’s scribble and learned to live with it. Thus, Koesler would have an easier time reading the diary than had the others who had copies in their possession.

  Koessler shuddered. He was about to enter his classmate’s mind.

  For a first reading and for the sake of dispatch, he decided to scan only those sections that were underlined. The first such passage was under the date, “Wednesday, July 18.”

  Lunch today with Boyle and the Chancery children. Dull to the point of boredom. No one is running this diocese. It is just happening. If Boyle would take a page from the Tribunal, things might shape up. But what the hell difference does it make? The Archdiocese is Boyle’s concern. The Tribunal is mine. But I do think Boyle is beginning to notice how efficiently and well the Tribunal is being run, like a tight ship. If Boyle hasn’t thrown my name in to become a bishop, he certainly soon will.

  Angela Cicero was early for her appointment.

  Koesler was jolted. He was surprised to find someone he knew in Thompson’s diary.

  When will these people learn to come to the Church on their knees rather than thumping a table! Imagine, setting a wedding date for a case that’s in Rome! Foolish people! Angela Cicero will pay the price. She hasn’t a prayer of getting the dispensation. And Koesler will not dare act on his own while Rome has the case.

  So even he himself was
in the diary.

  I wish I could be there August 4 to witness the inevitable conclusion of this case. Fortunately, I will be tanning on the Costa Smeralda. Meanwhile, back here, everyone will be all dressed up, and no one will have anywhere to go. The Church and her sacred law will win again, as, in the end, she always does.

  But I think I was successful in convincing her I could do something to expedite the case if I were willing. She offered me money. Silly woman. Now, had she offered herself… we’ll just never know. As a future bishop, I could not broach the subject. But if she had offered… God, it would have been tempting. Just to see if she’s got the boobs and hips she seems to have. She is what the praise of older women is all about. In middle life, held on to a terrific figure, not a tight-assed kid; voluptuous, and with all her experience probably terrific in bed. It would have been quite a temptation. She just might have gotten her privilege if she had given me the privilege.

  Nothing further in that passage was underlined.

  Koesler shook his head and sipped his scotch. He felt shame for Thompson and mortified that others could read these words.

  And where was Thompson? At this moment he could be in danger, or pain, or even dead, while strangers had access to secret thoughts that were utterly unworthy of anyone who represented Christ’s Church.

  Steeled by another sip of scotch, Koesler read on.

  Thursday, July 19

  The very next day.

  What outrageous good luck to have Al Braemar leaving the DAC just as I was entering. I could tell that Lee Brand overhead us. It had to impress that bastard that I need neither him nor his money nor his influence. It got our luncheon off on just the right note. It was a real challenge to turn around our earlier luncheon at the Renaissance Club.

  Koesler paged back through the diary looking in vain for a mention of the Renaissance Club, much less a luncheon there with Lee Brand. It had to have been entered in a previous volume.

  I think Brand finally got the point—that I am not going to expedite his intended son-in-law’s case. God, it felt great dumping on Brand. With him, it’s just a case of who dumps first. And I’ll bet he hasn’t been beaten that often. When he lost his control and his temper—it felt almost like an orgasm.

  The only problem I can foresee is that I’m sure Brand sensed that we were doing nothing out of the ordinary to get testimony from Laura Warwick. Well, that was unavoidable. We’ll just have to see what comes of it. One thing for sure: there’s no way in hell Brand’s rich-bitch daughter is going to be married in a Catholic church.

  Koesler added some ice and water, diluting the scotch, and read on.

  Monday, July 23

  How sweet it is! I’ll wager not many people have beheld what I saw today. A Lee Brand completely defeated. All his money, all his influence, all his power, and I defeated him. I wonder where his Bunny (what a ridiculous name!) will have her high-society wedding? The Anglican Cathedral, perhaps? Some sleazy justice of the peace?

  The real kick is that at every turn I outsmarted the brilliant Lee Brand. I tricked him into believing I had expedited the case without my ever having said so in so many words. And I kept him hanging until even with all his money, it was too late.

  This is one of those times I wish I had a woman. One would like to follow up a figurative screwing with a physical one.

  It was like reviewing last week’s newspaper. You read all these stories that were developing but because the time for their development had passed, you knew how they all concluded. Thompson’s firm conviction that Brand was defeated was, of course, mistaken. And, oddly, Koesler had played a role in that drama.

  Thomas Thompson, Koesler thought, I wonder if you ever had any misgivings about keeping a diary.

  Wednesday, July 25

  It is, as I have always said, the rabbit punches of life that really take the toll. Today was relatively problem-free. All in all, I would have nothing to complain about if it hadn’t been for that call from Neiss.

  Koesler assumed this was a reference to Father Neiss at neighboring Divine Child parish. He could not anticipate in what way the ordinarily mild-mannered Dave Neiss could have upset the supercilious Tommy Thompson. But for the first time in the underlined sections of Thompson’s diary, at least he, Koesler, did not appear to be involved.

  Neiss’s problem is symptomatic of the shortsightedness of most of the priests in this Archdiocese. He has no overview of the problems of the Tribunal… none of them has. If any of them had to deal with as many possibly consolidated marriages as we do, they would understand the necessity for my Polish policy.

  Whatinhell, Koesler wondered, is a Polish policy? It couldn’t be a rotten ethnic joke; Thompson wasn’t the type, especially when formulating Tribunal policy.

  Besides, Neiss is a fool to get involved with his clients. Some of them are bound to get hurt. It’s in the nature of the enforcement of laws and regulations. Police would be useless if they got involved with the people they deal with. Doctors would be emotional wrecks if they got involved with their patients. Priests are no different.

  Neiss claims my policy is hurting a friend. The truth is, Neiss shouldn’t be handling the case of a friend.

  I have strong suspicions that Neiss is going to continue to prove himself a troublemaker. And if he is, I will carry through my threat to him and see that his faculties to administer the sacraments in this Archdiocese are withdrawn.

  While the diary was not particularly explicit, Koesler got the impression that Neiss was easily as angry with Thompson as vice versa.

  Koesler rose, stretched, and once more diluted his drink with ice and water. Then he returned to the diary.

  Sunday, July 29

  I’ve got the bastard now!

  After getting over the initial shock this afternoon of reading that Brand got his goddamn Catholic wedding after all, the beauty of it hit me. There is no way this bastard Shanley is going to get out of this. I can lay the pictures, the stories, on Boyle’s desk. There is no way the Old Man can avoid this confrontation.

  I will settle for nothing less than suspension for Shanley. And I’ll get it. I’ve got all of canon law behind me. Shanley couldn’t have helped me more. Witnessing a prima facie invalid, illicit union. Giving communion to non-Catholics—even Jews, probably. Giving notorious scandal. All blatantly recorded by the news media! I almost love the bastard.

  Shanley s punishment will be warning to ALL those bastards out there who are playing fast and loose with canon law. I would be very surprised if we don’t have a flood of cases that used to be illegally “solved” in parishes come through our office now. Once again, the Tribunal will enjoy its rightful place in the Archdiocese.

  And last, but by no means least, when I get Shanley, I will also get Lee Brand. He had his day in the sun. I will make certain everyone knows it was an illicit day of glory. The whole Archdiocese, the whole city will know that his precious Bunny is, as far as her Church is concerned, an adulteress and a whore. I want to see Brand’s face as I wipe the smirk off it.

  And all of this I’m going to accomplish over the ecclesiastically dead body of Father Norman Shanley. Father Shanley, all who are about to die salute you!

  Koesler reread this passage. He recalled the Saturday night poker game during which he had seen the TV account of the Brand wedding. He remembered thinking at the time that Shanley was in a lot of trouble. Koesler had had no concept of how much trouble Shanley had courted and how much trouble Shanley had created for others. All through the good offices of Monsignor Tommy Thompson.

  Koesler found himself amazed at the degree of revenge of which Thompson was capable. Evidently, the Monsignor put little stock in the Biblical admonition, “Vengeance is mine. I shall repay, saith the Lord.”

  Koesler returned to the diary.

  Monday, July 30

  No two ways about it, Pat Lennon is a sexy bitch. Today is the second time I’ve seen her. The first time, when she was waiting to see Oleksiak, I couldn’t take my eyes off
her. From the top of her curly hair to her well-turned ankles, she is a series of curves, each in the right place. It didn’t hurt at all that she was wearing a light clinging summer dress.

  But today she was dressed more modestly than the average modern nun. And still the curves were there. All that and a beautiful face to boot. She is almost—not quite, but almost—enough to exchange a bishopric for.

  I think I can keep her coming back. She has a very workable, if not terribly strong, case. People are bound to keep telling her that. So she should keep returning to the Tribunal. Eventually, she will realize that it is I who hold the carrot at the end of the string. And before she gets the carrot, she’ll have to give something first.

  It shouldn’t take her long to realize it’s a quid pro quo situation. Or, in this case, tit for ass. She’s been married once and is living with a man now. She’s probably had any number of sexual partners in between. It would be great to tap all that sexual expertise.

  I think she goes for me, too. There was a lot of hostility there today. But it’s not that difficult to turn anger into another more pleasant form of passion.

  I wouldn’t count on that, thought Koesler, as he recalled the phone conversation he’d had with Pat Lennon immediately after her interview with Thompson. After learning Lennon’s reaction to Thompson, it was odd and a bit creepy reading Thompson’s lascivious reaction to Lennon.

  Koesler paged through the remainder of the Xeroxed sheets. There was only one other underlined passage. He decided to reinforce the scotch into a potent nightcap. He anticipated a difficult drift into sleep after the trauma of rummaging through Monsignor Thompson’s frequently un-Christian thoughts.

  He settled back for the final diary venture of this evening.

  Friday, August 3

  Murphy’s Law was working overtime today. Somehow that crazy bitch Angela Cicero was able to get through to Rome. Her luck is phenomenal. She was able to get through to Pat Cammarata and convince him he should become her guardian angel.