“She won’t be here,” Mary said. “She called just a few minutes ago and canceled her appointment. ‘An emergency,’ she said. ‘A family emergency’ She didn’t go into details, so neither did I.”
So like Mary not to intrude into another’s privacy. It was also true, thought Koesler, that in the near future, she would know what Mrs. Rozicki’s problem was. That’s the way this parish functioned. There were few absolute secrets. And those that were shared with two or three “close” friends eventually reached Mary O’Connor’s ears.
Koesler was not sure why events seemed always to follow this course. Maybe it was a combination of Mary’s genuine care and concern, along with her ability to really keep a secret.
“Then,” Koesler said, clearing a small space on his cluttered desk, “bring on the iced tea. And thanks again.”
The glass was placed on his desk. He selected another envelope and began to slit it open when something out of the ordinary happened. Mary sat down opposite him. She smiled mischievously, rare for her.
The priest was puzzled and his expression said so. “Mary . . . ?”
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
“About what?” He knew what.
“The Congregation of St. Stephen.”
He shook his head. “You’ve read all about it in the papers.”
She shook her head. “I want to get it from the horse’s mouth.” Then, feeling as if she had been indeliberately irreverent, she added, “. . . as it were.”
Koesler shrugged. “The papers pretty well told the story, especially the News.” Briefly he reflected on how totally Pat Lennon had dominated this news event.
“But not your part in it,” Mary protested. Typically, he had downplayed his role to the inquiring media. Reading between the lines, however, she knew he had contributed much more than had been reported.
“What can I tell you?”
As it turned out, Mary had a suggestion. “It said in the paper that you were the one who first doubted that ‘Father’ Robert was a real priest. And that was what got the police started on the murder investigation.”
“I guess that’s so. But it wasn’t such an unusual conclusion for any priest to reach.”
“How did you do it?”
“Well, it wasn’t any one thing, Mary; it was a series of peculiar, questionable things the so-called priest did that made me wonder, then doubt, then be pretty sure that no genuine priest—particularly the specific sort of priest Father Robert was supposed to be—well, a real priest just wouldn’t do those things.
“For instance, right off the bat, there was the corporal—the linen cloth on which the priest puts the chalice and the host—”
Mary nodded.
“That’s right,” Koesler acknowledged, “you’ve washed and ironed enough of them to be as familiar with them as I am. Remember how they’re folded?”
Her hands and arms moved in an ironing and folding pattern. “Four times,” she said. “Up, down, then left, then right. You fold the corporal in on itself.”
“Exactly. The idea is, if there’s a particle of the host on the cloth it’ll stay in the cloth and not be spilled on the altar or the floor. Did you ever see a priest open a corporal like he was shaking out a dish towel?”
“No!” Shocked: “Did he do that?”
He nodded.
“A momentary weakness, a distraction . . . ?”
“I tried to make allowances for him, but it wasn’t easy. I’ve never seen any priest—young or old—do that. But, as I said, it wasn’t just a solitary incident. After that, he read the opening prayers from a card.”
Her brow furrowed. “Is that so odd?”
“How many times have you seen me or any other priest read the opening prayers?”
“But . . . wasn’t he saying the Mass in Latin?”
“Just like he has been, in the new form, for the past twenty years. The identical prayers day after day. And Latin should be practically the mother tongue for an extremely conservative priest.
“And that brings up the next unusual occurrence that made me wonder if he were a priest at all.
“After they took me back into the monastery, we got into a discussion about miracles. Which was to be expected, I suppose, since the occurrence of the alleged miracles there was the reason for the Church’s investigation.
“Anyway, the discussion turned out to be sort of academic. If you can believe it, we were arguing about whether a miracle more nearly resembled a sacrament or a sacramental. You remember: the old distinction between ex opere operato and ex opere operantis?
“Vaguely.” As was the case with Catholics exposed to an enormous amount of parochial and graduate religious education, Mary had been sufficiently touched by scholasticism to be familiar with a significant number of Latin phrases.
“The odd thing about our ‘discussion,’“ Koesler continued, “was that ‘Father’ Robert took no part in it. It was entirely between me and a couple of the brothers who had had some seminary training. When pressed, Robert simply cited some Scripture passages. A device that might be described uncharitably as ‘Protestant,’ or, more correctly, as postconciliar. Surely not preconciliar, or typical of a conservative spokesman.
“Besides,” Koesler was working up to what, for him, passed for animation, “there was something going on between ‘Father’ Robert and ‘Brother’ Paul. It didn’t seem that Robert was coming up with those texts spontaneously. Paul was sending him signals. Almost like in baseball when a catcher signals to a pitcher. And Paul was doing much the same when Robert was blessing people.
“It made me wonder who was running this show—Robert, the ostensible leader, or Paul, maybe the actual leader. Paul impressed me as sort of a . . . well . . . gray eminence. The power behind the throne. The power behind Robert.
“Then, the final straw was Canon law.”
“Canon law?” Mary gave Koesler an opportunity to sip his tea. He took it.
“Just before I left the monks, things were getting a bit dicey, even hostile. I mentioned that if the controversy about a claim to miraculous powers were not settled and if push came to shove, the Cardinal might order their congregation to leave Detroit.
“At which point, Father Robert got a bit angry and claimed that the only order they need obey would be one from Bishop Di Giulio, their Italian benefactor.”
“And . . . ?”
“And that’s not true. When I was talking to Cardinal Boyle, I wondered why, with all this controversy and trouble, why he didn’t just tell them to leave. The Cardinal replied that it would be poor form and bad public relations. He didn’t say he couldn’t do it, for the simple reason that he can do it. When a congregation such as this takes up residence in a diocese, it’s under the direct jurisdiction of the local bishop.”
“Maybe,” Mary said, “Father Robert didn’t know that?”
“That’s the very point! The genuine Father Robert was a genius when it came to Canon law. He manipulated it masterfully to get his little Congregation officially recognized by the Church and then got it cut loose so he could establish it anywhere in the world he wanted to locate it.
“The real Father Robert made no mistakes when it came to law. The real Father Robert would have known very well that the local bishop had every canonical right to demand that he and his Congregation had to leave.”
“That was rather clever of you to bring up the idea that the Cardinal could tell them to leave.”
“Not really, Mary. Before I went to see them, I not only had a talk with the Cardinal, but I also phoned Inspector Koznicki. And both of them suggested I pay attention to the law involved . . . although I don’t think either one could have foreseen how their suggestions would work out.”
“So,” Mary said, “that’s how you knew that the man posing as Father Robert was an impostor.”
“Maybe, ‘know’ is a little strong for the way I felt when I was interviewing the monks. I’m a slow learner, as you know, Mary. Let’s just sa
y the seed was sown then and in the space of a day it grew enough for me to suspect the truth.”
“Is it true, then,” Mary asked, “that the one who posed as Father Robert was really one of the original Brothers, as it said in the papers?”
Koesler nodded. “Uh-huh. Brother Alphonsus. He and the real Father Robert were about the same age. In the chapel’s dim light—which was contrived by John Reid—it was nearly impossible to tell them apart.”
“But what made the Brothers go along with the plan? They are good, religious men, aren’t they?”
“Sure. But because they’re monks doesn’t mean they can’t be scared to death. Literally scared of death—death and torture. Reid tormented and abused the real Father Robert—as he did in effect later to Father Robert’s stand-in. He forced the Brothers to witness Robert’s death and made it explicit that this—and worse—would be their fate if they ever said a word to anyone.”
“Okay, one more question and then I’ll let you get back to your work.” She said it facetiously, knowing that she could never have kept him from his work if he hadn’t wanted to tell her all about his adventure. “How did they know where to find Father Robert’s body?”
“They didn’t. Not at first. Lieutenant Tully accepted my hypothesis right from the start . . . maybe because he wanted so badly to get Reid on a murder charge . . . anyway, before he talked to me, the Lieutenant first thought it might be possible that Reid had somehow hidden the body someplace in the building. If they’d had good refrigeration, say a large freezer . . .”
Mary shuddered. “What a horrible thought!”
Koesler smiled. “You’ve got to have a strong stomach”—knowing his was among the queasiest in captivity—“for this sort of thing, Mary.”
“Anyway,” Koesler continued, “at that point, Lieutenant Tully asked me to describe everything I saw when I was taken on a tour of the place. So I told him the monks’ accommodations were very . . . uh . . . spartan, as you’d expect—as I expected from my memory of the Trappist monastery in Kentucky.
“Each of them had a cell, a small cubicle to live in, enclosed by plasterboard partitions. And in each cell there was just a lumpy bed, a chair, and a small table—and on the wall of the cell, hooks holding nightclothes, an extra habit, and a discipline.”
“A what?”
“That is exactly what Lieutenant Tully asked. It’s very monastic, very ancient, and mostly symbolic. A discipline is a sort of ritual whip one is supposed to use on himself as a reminder of the necessity to do penance.”
Mary wrinkled her nose. “People actually used them?”
“Uh-huh. You weren’t supposed to draw blood.”
“Even so, it sounds disgusting.”
Koesler shrugged. “That’s the way it was. And, to a much lesser degree, that’s the way it still is.
“Anyway, it was at this point that Lieutenant Tully began putting it all together. Or so he told us later. The combination of the cut that John Reid inflicted on Sergeant Moore’s neck, and the damage that a whip could cause—even one that was meant to be used only in a ritualistic way—got him thinking about the body of the presumed bum he had viewed in the morgue. Even to the knees.”
“The knees?”
“The knees,” Koesler repeated. “The Lieutenant remembered that the vagrant had peculiar marks or scars on his knees. At first, he thought it was because the man had been crawling around in alleys and the like. Or . . . or the marks could be the impression of the terrazzo floor on his knees.
“Tully knew there was no carpeting in the public part of the monastery. And when I told him there was none anywhere else in the building, he saw the possible relationship between the man’s knees and the floor he must have knelt on so often and so long. And, as it turned out, the marks matched. As did the notch in the knife wound in the neck of both the vagrant and Sergeant Moore. The ‘vagrant’ was the real Father Robert.
“Later—when they were finally convinced that John Reid would never be able to threaten or harm them again—the real monks were more than willing to testify against him.”
Mary became aware her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. “Amazing. Amazing.
“But . . . but how does the monastery stay open? The paper said that Church authorities determined there was nothing truly miraculous going on. And you said the Cardinal could tell them to leave. And by now everyone knows there is no real priest there.” She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Koesler finished the tea and gave every indication he’d enjoyed it. “Yes, the Cardinal told them to leave. And, canonically, they have to go. But my understanding is that they are no longer terribly concerned with Church law. On the one hand, they are still being financially supported handsomely. And, on the other, they are convinced that they are doing God’s Will no matter what the Church does. So the Cardinal can tell them to leave all he wants; it doesn’t have any effect in civil law. The police aren’t going to throw them out. The only effect is in Church law. Which should be enough—except that they no longer give a damn about Church law.”
“Amazing,” Mary repeated.
“Yes, it is.
“And now, if you don’t mind, Mary, I’m going to get back to work or my chances of getting through this pile will also be amazing.”
Mary retrieved the now empty glass and started to leave. She turned back, and said, “Anyway, nothing should get in the way of your work now.” She meant it in the sense that there were no further appointments this day.
Evidently, he took her statement in a larger sense, for he replied, “You’re absolutely right. I have the distinct feeling that I will never ever again be roped into any sort of police investigation.”
Mary smiled as she left the priest’s office. From time to time she would gamble a bit—a lottery ticket, a Bingo game. But under no circumstances would she lay money on this one.
Acknowledgments
Gratitude for technical advice to:
Mary Alfano, Archdiocesan secretary
Roy Awe, Sergeant, Retired, Homicide Section, Detroit Police Department
Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University
Detroit Free Press
Patricia Chargot, Staff Writer
Neal Shine, Senior Managing Editor
Detroit News
Robert Ankeny, Staff Writer
Judy Diebolt, Staff Writer
Detroit Police Department
James Bannon, Executive Deputy Chief
Sergeant Mary Marcantonio, Office of Executive Deputy Chief
Barbara Weide, Lieutenant, Homicide Section
Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department
Sister Bernadelle Grimm, r.s.m., Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit
Philip D. Head, Vice President, Manufacturers National Bank of Detroit Margaret Hershey, r.n., Pulmonary Care Unit, Detroit Receiving Hospital
Timothy Kenny, attorney-at-law, Larson, Harms & Wright, p.c.
James Mclntyre, Manager, The Clamdiggers Restaurant
Thomas J. Petinga, Jr., D.O., facep, Chairman, Department of Emergency Medicine, Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital, Detroit
Walter D. Pool, m.d., Medical Consultant Rudy Reinhard, World Wide Travel Bureau, Inc.
Werner U. Spitz, m.d., Professor of Forensic Pathology, Wayne State University Robbie Timmons, Anchorperson, WXYZ-TV, Detroit
With special gratitude to Dr. Liam Bannan, Durrow, Laois, Ireland; The Most Reverend Thomas J. Gumbleton, Auxiliary Bishop of Detroit; Lynn Lloyd; Rosemarie Lubienski.
Paraphrased excerpts from Medicolegal Investigation of Death (Second Edition; Charles C. Thomas), by Werner U. Spitz, m.d., and Russell S. Fisher, m.d., used by permission of Werner U. Spitz, m.d.
Any technical error is the author’s.
Eminence copyright © 1989, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andre
ws McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
ISBN 978-1-4494-2368-1
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.
The Father Koesler Mysteries
1. The Rosary Murders
2. Death Wears a Red Hat
3. Mind Over Murder
4. Assault with Intent
5. Shadow of Death
6. Kill and Tell
7. Sudden Death
8. Deathbed
9. Deadline for a Critic
10. Marked for Murder
11. Eminence
12. Masquerade
13. Chameleon
14. Body Count
15. Dead Wrong
16. Bishop as Pawn
17. Call No Man Father
18. Requiem for Moses
19. The Man Who Loved God
20. The Greatest Evil
21. No Greater Love
22. Till Death
23. The Sacrifice
24. The Gathering
Here is a special preview of
Masquerade
The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 12
Autumn Writers Workshop
Marygrove College Detroit, Michigan
The Subject Is Murder
“Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do It from religious conviction.”—Pascal
Eminence Page 33