Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “Yes. I guess so. Under the circumstances, I assumed it would be canceled or at least postponed. But according to Mrs. Galloway yesterday, the meeting is on. And I was really flabbergasted when she said it would be at her house. . I mean, her husband’s house. . I mean their house. I guess I mean her house. I mean,” Koesler floundered, “what with their relationship I didn’t think the meeting could possibly take place there. In any event, I thought it better not to attend.”

  “Oh, no, Father,” Koznicki appeared intent. “It is very important that you attend. Already you have contributed much to this case. Perhaps not in a quantitative sense, but surely in a qualitative degree. One never knows what may be revealed at a gathering such as the one tonight.

  “And it is safe to assume that there will never be an assembly of the God Squad to equal the one to take place tonight. One of your members is dead and, with the exception of yourself and young Murray, all the other members are suspect to one degree or another. There will be a special dynamic tonight that in all probability will never be repeated. We will need eyes and ears to that dynamic and, to paraphrase a popular religious metaphor, we will have no eyes nor ears but yours. We are dependent on you, Father, to glean what could be most important information. No one but yourself can do this for us.”

  “Inspector, I am reminded of an experience some young friends of mine had years ago when they were conducting a prayerful demonstration against the Vietnam War. They were young Jesuit priests who were praying on the steps of the Pentagon. There were only five of them and they didn’t even draw a crowd. People-top brass, other officers, enlisted men, civilians-just kept passing by with no more than furtive glances in their direction.

  “Finally, after a few hours, they decided to call it off and go home. Besides being ineffectual, they were getting cold. Just before they were about to disband, an older Jesuit priest, one of their superiors, came up to them and specifically ordered them, under their vow of obedience, to disband. Their only thought, at that point, was that they had been the victims of administrative overkill.

  “That,” Koesler concluded with affectionate emphasis, “is how I feel. All you really had to say was, ‘I wish you’d go,’ and I would have gone.”

  Koznicki smiled appreciatively. “You know, Father, I knew that before I started. I knew if I asked you to go, you would. But if that were all I had said, you would not have been motivated, really motivated, to observe and listen tonight as carefully and astutely as you will now.”

  “Inspector, you know me too well.”

  The waiter presented the check, which Koznicki quickly grabbed, over Koesler’s protestation. “Inspector! This was my party. I’m the one who invited you to lunch. Please, let me have the check!”

  “Some other time, Father.” Koznicki smiled at his friend, glanced at the check’s total, covered it with a credit card, and handed both to the waiter. “It is my pleasure. Please allow me to take care of it.”

  It was useless to argue. Koesler shrugged resignedly. The waiter retreated happily. He figured he was likely to get a more realistic tip from a layman than from a priest.

  In Koznicki’s case, Koesler knew the inspector was motivated by simple friendship. But the incident caused him to wonder in general. Was it that the laity considered priests to be so poorly paid that they could not afford to pay their own way, let alone someone else’s? Was it that the laity wanted to pay their priest’s freight in return or anticipation of some spiritual favor. . a sort of pious buying of votes?

  It was true that a priest’s salary, with the exception of those diocesan priests who earned a side income, was technically well below a living wage. However, it increased significantly in value when one considered perks and gratuities that scarcely ever quit. Free room and board, free medical and dental expenses, and on and on.

  Almost every time he considered the subject, Koesler would entertain positive thoughts about the aborted worker-priest movement of France. Particularly since he had delegated so many pastoral responsibilities that hitherto had been considered the private preserve of him whose hands had been consecrated, he wondered if he should go out and at least try to get a job.

  He spent very little time on that thought. For what secular work was he qualified? Who would hire a priest? What would be the reaction of his ecclesiastical superiors? His peers? Knowing the answers to those questions, he did not generally waste time on considerations that were doomed to a dead end.

  Although he didn’t much want to attend the God Squad meeting tonight, he would. For one, he would not disappoint his friend, Inspector Koznicki. Additionally, it might be instructive.

  But first, this evening, he would drop in on the wake of Hank (“TheHun”) Hunsinger.

  “Good evening, Father. Who is it you’re here to see?”

  “Mr. Hunsinger.”

  The funeral director looked disappointed. Hackett Funeral Home was not designed to act as the penultimate resting place for the Hun. It was an ancient, boxlike structure that simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate the numbers who had come to mourn or merely view the deceased athlete.

  Hank Hunsinger’s was not the only body presently preserved in Hackett’s. Jose Gonzales’ remains also were on display in a very small slumber room. The funeral director had hoped Koesler had come for the Gonzales group. It was past the appointed time for Jose’s farewell rosary. Once the rosary had been recited, most of the Gonzales people would depart, leaving more room for the ever-fluctuating crowd for Hunsinger.

  So it was with less than his usual peculiar mixture of accommodation, reverence, sympathy, and affability that he escorted Koesler through the crowd and into the parlor containing the Hun’s remains. From that point on, Koesler was on his own. As well he might be; he had gone through similar scenes countless times.

  Standing just inside the door, the priest attentively surveyed the room. Its panels slid aside, the room was several times its original size. Still the hallways were full of people waiting for the opportunity to file past the bier and have a last glimpse of the Hun. The line of people doing just that was moving almost imperceptibly. None of this was of any practical concern to Koesler. Marked by his roman collar, he could squeeze by anyone, go anywhere in the room he wished. People would step aside and even apologize for being in his way.

  As he looked around, he saw few familiar faces. Except for the multitude, it was his standard experience at a funeral home. A few, a very few, spoke to each other in whispered tones. There was the muffled shuffle of feet advancing toward or retreating from the casket. Most of the people sat statuelike on the small folding chairs staring straight ahead as if they too had died.

  Here and there, Koesler recognized isolated members of what was becoming a familiar cast of characters: the God Squad. They were to meet at the Galloway house after these services. Mrs. Galloway was nowhere to be seen. She must, Koesler assumed, be preparing for the arrival of the men. Or maybe she had just decided not to attend the rosary for Hunsinger.

  The scene of relative inactivity had a soporific effect. Koesler’s mind wandered back to a similar scene many years earlier in this very home. His father had died after a long illness and his wake was held here at Hackett’s. Koesler had arrived to find a group of his friends gathered in the hallway. They were taking up a collection among themselves for stipends for Masses for his father. It had taken him several minutes to convince them that they were bringing coals to Newcastle. All of his many priest friends were offering Masses for the happy repose of his father’s soul; one thing no one needed to be concerned with was prayers for any priest’s relative.

  Koesler was also reminded of the eve of his father’s funeral. That night, he and his mother were the last on hand at the funeral home. They stood alone beside the bier. He urged her to leave with him. She spoke, but not to him. To his father. That surprised him; he had never known his parents to be overtly affectionate with each other. “Good night, my darling,” she had said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for t
he last time before we meet in heaven.” He nearly broke down.

  The following year, his mother followed his father.

  “What do you think of the house, Bob? Is this SRO or isn’t it?”

  Koesler’s reverie was shattered. It was Father Peter Forbes, pastor of Holy Redeemer. They knew each other casually but with the familiarity almost completely reserved to priests.

  “Yeah,” Koesler responded, “you’ve got a good crowd tonight. I was just remembering the wakes for my parents. They were held right here and with just about as many people as are here tonight.”

  “But a different crowd, Bob.” Forbes had not been stationed at Redeemer when Koesler’s parents had died, but the Redemptorist spoke from experience. “Most of these folks are here out of curiosity. The death got lots of publicity. And after all, Hank Hunsinger was a celebrity, especially in this town. These folks want to tell their friends they attended the Hun’s funeral. Some of them just want to see a celebrity-even a dead one. Besides, there’s a live one over there.” Forbes nodded in the direction of Bobby Cobb.

  Cobb and his wife were among the very few blacks in the crowd. Besides being a celebrity in his own right, Cobb and his wife were so outrageously attractive that they were the object of many a surreptitious glance.

  “There are some genuine mourners here, of course,” Forbes continued, “but I’m sure most of them are curiosity seekers. Even though I wasn’t here for your parents’ funerals, I’m sure you had a big turnout of people who were genuinely sympathetic and supportive.”

  Koesler nodded affirmation. It was always thus with parents or close relatives of a priest. Besides the relatives and friends of the family, there were many parishioners and former parishioners, as well as priestly classmates and friends, to swell the total. And always they formed a group of sincere and sympathetic mourners.

  “Was there a problem with the funeral?” Koesler inquired.

  “Problem?”

  “I mean with Christian burial. I got to know Hunsinger only over the past couple of months or so. But I got the impression he hadn’t seen the inside of a Catholic church-or any church, for that matter-in a great number of years.”

  “It’s true; that could have been a problem,” Forbes reflected. “There is one overwhelming reason we really went to bat for this one: Mrs. Hunsinger. She has been so faithful and exemplary a Catholic all her life, we just couldn’t let her down. Hell, even the Chancery guys got the point after I explained it to them.”

  “But they did give you a hard time?”

  Forbes gave a low, almost soundless whistle. “Oh, my, yes. They were concerned with scandal. I must say I don’t much blame them. Hunsinger has always gotten a lot of publicity. Just about everybody knew what his private life was like. And it was also common knowledge that he couldn’t have cared less about church. If the guys downtown had known Mrs. Hunsinger, maybe they wouldn’t have been so stubborn.”

  “Maybe. But I doubt it.”

  “Anyway, I must admit a few hot words were exchanged before they finally gave in and let us have the funeral. Mrs. Hunsinger has been so good and faithful for so long, I just couldn’t let her down. I think I might have been tempted to just outright disobey the Chancery if they hadn’t given in. Thank God I wasn’t forced into that position.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  Forbes and Koesler had not yet moved from the doorway. So Koesler had still not met Mrs. Hunsinger.

  “Pretty hard.” Forbes shook his head. “Not unexpected. Parents just don’t envision burying their children. When it happens, especially suddenly and tragically like this, it’s a double shock. But she’s holding up pretty good through it all. I’ve been trying to keep her busy. . as busy as possible, anyway. Earlier today, we went over the Scripture readings for the Mass tomorrow. I don’t know why I should have been surprised at her knowledge of the Bible; she’s been reading it all her life the way other people read novels. After the funeral, I think I’m going to try to get her involved again in the parish. She’s been a kind of recluse over the past several years. Be good for her to get outside herself. Be good for the parish, in fact.”

  “I’ve never met her.”

  “Really! Now that surprises me. . your growing up in the parish and all. Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”

  Koesler, by far the taller of the two priests, took on the blocking role as he led the way toward the casket.

  As soon as he saw her seated in the front row, pencil-thin yet exuding an inner strength, Koesler recognized her. He had never known her name. But he remembered that familiar face from all those years he had served at daily Mass and all those years he’d come from the seminary on vacations. So she was Mrs. Hunsinger. It was the queen of cliches, but it was all that came to mind: small world. He was yet to discover just how small.

  Father Forbes, arriving on the scene in Koesler’s wake, was just about to begin introductions when Koesler abruptly sat down next to her. “You’re Mrs. Hunsinger, aren’t you?”

  She smiled, pleased that he recognized her. These were the first words he’d ever spoken to her. “Yes. And you’re Father Koesler.”

  Introductions being unexpectedly unnecessary, Forbes moved off to greet and console, if consolation were called for, some of the aunts and uncles of the deceased, Mrs. Hunsinger’s sisters and brothers.

  “I used to see you in church all the time,” said Koesler. “You used to sit in the back of the transept on the Epistle side.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, still wearing an attractive if shy smile. “I always knew you would be a good priest. You were a very good altar boy. Always so reverent and attentive. Even through your final years in the seminary.”

  Only now did it occur to Koesler just how long a period they had been wordlessly watching each other. Almost twenty years from the time he first began serving at Mass in the primary grades, through high school, college, and the four years of theology.

  The thought crossed his mind that this would not likely have happened if they had been Protestants. The Separated Brethren, as they were now called, with their custom of congregating, mingling, offering “the hand of fellowship,” never would have let nearly two decades pass without even a greeting. Only in the Catholic Church. .

  But this was not why he had come to the funeral home.

  “I’m so sorry about the death of your son,” said Koesler, coming to the point. “I hadn’t known him very long-”

  “We were at your first Mass.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Henry and I attended your first solemn Mass right here in Holy Redeemer; in June of ’54, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “If only I could have somehow gotten him to follow in your footsteps, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s all my fault, you know.”

  Koesler recalled Inspector Koznicki’s saying that during her interrogation Mrs. Hunsinger had lapsed into the self-blame that so often afflicts parents when a child doesn’t live up to their expectations. Mrs. Hunsinger’s confession of guilt brought to mind a very similar statement made by the father of the young man who had shot President Reagan and three others. At the ensuing trial, the father said, “I am the cause of my son’s tragedy.”

  “You musn’t say that, Mrs. Hunsinger. I’m sure you did all you could.”

  Koesler had no firsthand knowledge that she had done all she could. He simply could not believe that a woman who practically lived in church would not do all she could to make certain her son would grow up well. “Besides,” he said, grasping at straws, “Hank. . er. . Henry was not by any means without some very good qualities. Why, I wouldn’t even have met him if he hadn’t been a member of a Bible discussion group. Anyone who devotes an evening a week to a deeper understanding of the Bible can’t be all bad.”

  “Do you think so?” She seemed to be testing the straw he extended, to see if it were strong enough to hold to.

  “Yes, of course. And we have no idea what his private prayer life might
have been. But, once again, that Bible study very probably had a very positive effect on his prayer life.” It was pure speculation on Koesler’s part, but it was by no means the first time he’d indulged in such conjecture. Mortal life was ended for Hunsinger. If the priest’s faith were valid, Hunsinger had lately appeared before God in judgment and was now living in eternity. It remained for the living to find some means, any means, to console the living.

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Hunsinger mused, “if his father had lived. . you know, he died just a few months after your first Mass. And Henry was so young, so impressionable at the time.”

  “Absolutely.” Koesler plucked at the straw Mrs. Hunsinger, grateful to find another excuse for her son’s flagrantly dissolute life, was extending to him. “It’s very difficult for one parent to fulfill a child’s need for both parents. Sometimes, impossible. No matter how hard the single parent tries.

  “But in the final analysis, Mrs. Hunsinger, at some point in life a young person grows up. And, short of the most gross mistreatment throughout youth and adolescence, as an adult he must take full responsibility for his actions, for his life. And he also must take full responsibility for the consequences of those actions. At that point it’s needless, pointless, and maybe even self-destructive for parents to continue to absorb the blame for their children’s actions. You do understand that, don’t you, Mrs. Hunsinger?”

  She nodded, but she was gazing straight ahead at the open coffin. Koesler could not determine whether she was weighing or discarding his words. At any rate, he was worried about her obviously distressed state and concerned that he apparently had been unable to ease her out of it. He wondered if it were possible that she might harbor thoughts of suicide. With her strong adherence to Catholicism, it was unlikely that she might attempt that; on the other hand, in her depressed state she might not be entirely in her right mind. In which case, no one could foretell what might happen.