Chameleon fk-13

by William X. Kienzle

  “Okay. The only other abbreviation besides the Chancery and Gabriel Richard Buildings is SHS, which stands for Sacred Heart Seminary. Know where that is?”

  “Chicago Boulevard?”

  “And Linwood. That’s it.”

  “Good God,” Tully exclaimed as he ran his finger down the columns, “there must be … seventy-three offices!”

  Koesler was smiling. “The bureaus do tend to grow like Topsy. But it’s not as complicated as all that. You’re counting each and every office. There aren’t that many actual departments. Just count the listings that are flush with the left margin.”

  Tully did. “Twenty-two. Not much better.”

  Koesler shrugged. “There’s no helping it. That’s how many there are. And I must confess, I don’t know a great deal about many of these offices.”

  “That’s okay.” Tully studied the listings for several minutes. “I can get my people to call on all the offices listed here and get that straightened out. For now, tell me what you can about the people who head these departments.”

  “A big order.”

  “But you know them.”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Well, take the ones who got us started on this: the nun and Hoffer.”

  “Sister Joan Donovan? Right. She belongs to a religious order, the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary-or IHMs. They’re a teaching order. And that’s what Sister Joan did, for many years: taught. Then things began to change. Because of a Church council called Vatican II.”

  “Okay. I’ve read about that. What happened to her?”

  “Like lots of other nuns, she stopped teaching and went into another line of work. In her case, Joan got into parish ministry-working in a parish, doing a lot of things priests used to do back when there were lots of priests.”

  “Holding Sunday services?’

  “Not Mass. Sometimes when there’s no priest around, nuns or even laypeople conduct prayer services. But Mass is much more than that for Catholics. Only a priest can offer Mass. But Sister Joan did lots of other things, like counseling and visiting the sick and, of course, some office work too.”

  “But how did she get to be … what?”

  “Delegate for religious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Appointed. Kind of elected. But basically appointed. The powers that be recognized that she was popular with many of the nuns. They realized that she’d have to be effective as, in effect, their representative. Then, for formality, the Cardinal appointed her to the position.”

  “She could have made some enemies among the nuns?”

  “Enemies?”

  “It’s not a friend wants to kill her.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely.”

  “Okay, how about Hoffer?”

  “That’s something else. Assigning a job like his to a layperson is a very recent phenomenon. In the not-too-distant past, positions like that were always handled by priests. Probably not as well as they are now,” he added.

  “Not as well?” Tully was surprised. “The priests weren’t trained for specialized jobs?”

  Koesler pondered the question before responding. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. When an academic degree was called for, priests were sent away to get the appropriate certificate. Social workers, for instance, got an MSW. Or priests who were assigned to teach in the seminary were sent to graduate school, although sometimes in a field that didn’t interest them.

  “Or take my case: I was named editor of the Detroit Catholic. No academic degree was required, so I got none. Matter of fact, after my appointment was published, a priest friend called and asked if the archdiocese had spent a penny getting me ready for the job. I had to admit he was right in his assumption-not a cent. Then he said”-Koesler chuckled-“‘Well, it won’t be your fault when you flop.’”

  The faintest trace of a smile crossed Tully’s face.

  “Even more peculiar,” Koesler continued, “-and you may find this hard to believe-but in most of the special assignments, the priests didn’t want them in the first place.

  “You see, all these men I’ve been talking about, they all went to a diocesan seminary to become parish priests. That was their choice. If they had wanted to be social workers, if they had wanted to be teachers, they wouldn’t have gone to an institution that exclusively turned out parish priests. If I had wanted a career on a newspaper, I’d’ve gone to Marquette or the University of Missouri. I would have gotten a job at a newspaper.”

  “Seems like a funny way to run a railroad.”

  “We did what we were told. But back to Larry Hoffer, God rest him-”

  “Excuse me,” Tully interrupted, “but before you get into that, could we have another shot of that coffee?”

  “Certainly.” Koesler rose and picked up both mugs. “I’ll be right back.”

  Fortunately, Irene Casey had made more than enough for refills. Thus saving Lieutenant Tully from a memorable but awful experience.

  15

  While Tully waited for Father Koesler to return with the coffee, the lieutenant let his concentration relax a notch.

  He studied the room. Real wood paneling with meticulous detail. This was an old, old house. He reflected that Koesler, and, he supposed, all priests-at least the ones Koesler called parish priests-lived where they worked. Not many people did that anymore. In a situation like this, the demand on one’s time went on around the clock.

  Although he himself did not live where he worked, Tully thought wryly, he worked where he lived. And it was to her everlasting credit that Alice recognized that and tolerated it. All too frequently, he took his work home with him in the form of reports, assignment rosters, or just a preoccupation with a case he happened to be investigating. Had he been required to punch a time clock, in all truth he scarcely ever would punch out.

  Tully was a dedicated cop. None could deny that. In fact, very few officers cared to match his dedication.

  Yet, as he thought on it, he figured that most priests would have to be as dedicated to their calling as he was to his. The very condition of working and living in the same space, especially in a service occupation where people sought help at any hour of the day or night, demanded close to total dedication.

  He’d never before looked at it in this light. But then, to date, he’d seldom thought about priests. If he were a prayerful man-,which he most definitely was not-he would have prayed that he would never again get involved in a homicide case that had any religious overtones whatsoever. Immediately after that nonprayer, Koesler returned with two steaming mugs of-blessedly-Irene’s coffee.

  “Now, where were we?” Koesler said as he settled into his chair. “Oh, yes: Larry Hoffer, God rest his soul.” He took a sip of coffee, set his cup down, and throught for a minute. “Larry was a good example of what seems to be happening more and more these days. A growing number of men and women are turning to some sort of Church work after they retire from their secular careers. More men than women-although I think that will even up as women’s careers more nearly match men’s. The problem, of course, is that the Church can’t match the salaries and benefits offered out in the world.

  “Anyway, Larry Hoffer had a brilliant career in the comptroller’s department at Ford Motor Company. When he was nearing retirement, he decided he wanted to do something for the Church before finally retiring.

  “Needless to say, he was a great catch for the Detroit archdiocese. Cardinal Boyle hired him immediately. Of course we couldn’t match what he earned at Ford. But he wasn’t so much interested in the final buck as he was in contributing his talents to the Church.

  “Fortunately, the position of head of finance and administration was open when Larry offered his services, and he moved right in. He’s done a magnificent job, as everyone knew he would. Until … until …”

  “Was he married?”

  “Yes. Poor woman. I didn’t know her but I will certainly pray for her. Come to think of it, Larry’s situation is very much li
ke Quent Jeffrey’s,”

  “Humm?”

  “Quentin Jeffrey. A deacon-head of the deacon program.”

  “A deacon? The Baptists got deacons, as I recall.” Tully’s comprehension was threatening to disintegrate, “This may be more than my mind can handle.”

  Koesler could sympathize. “Lieutenant, it seems confusing because we’re dealing with the bureaucratic Church. It gets simpler as it gets down to just people.”

  “We are, unfortunately, where we’ve got to be,” Tully said, “Whoever killed the Donovan woman and Hoffer, if he’s messing with department heads, may know as much as you do about the top echelon. He sure as hell knows more than I do. Continue, please. What about deacons? What about Jeffrey?”

  “Deacons go back a long way. All the way back to the Bible. When the infant Christian Church began to grow, the apostles found they couldn’t do it all. So they appointed ‘seven holy deacons.’ The rank goes back that far! For centuries, men-and men only-in their progress toward priesthood were ordained to the functions that, in earlier times, had been fulltime jobs in the Church. In the ceremony called tonsure-a cutting of hair-” Koesler explained, “the man became a cleric.

  “Then,” Koesler continued, his explanation interspersed with subexplanations, “followed four ‘minor’ orders: porter (janitor), lector (reader), exorcist (caster-out of demons), and acolyte (a server at the altar). The ‘major’ orders were subdiaconate-which included the obligations of celibacy and daily recitation of the monastic hours of prayer, or the breviary; diaconate-the first step into the sacrament of Holy Orders; and finally, the priesthood.

  “The order fell out of practical use some centuries ago. Until very recently, nobody remained a deacon. It became merely a step you took on your way to becoming a priest. Then we started running out of priests, and what was called the ‘permanent diaconate’ was reestablished. Now, in the post-conciliar Church, the diaconate has also been made available to men who choose to remain in that office, without intention of progressing to priesthood.”

  “Why would the Church do that?”

  “Because a deacon can do almost everything a priest does-baptize, preach, witness marriages-everything except saying Mass and absolving from sin.”

  “But what’s the advantage? For the deacons, I mean: If they can do almost everything, why not just become priests?”

  “Deacons can be married.”

  “Oh.” Tully almost asked a follow-up question but thought better of it.

  “Now,” Koesler continued, “what got me started on Quent was the similarity between his background and Larry Hoffer’s, Both men were significantly successful in their lay careers, Larry a financial wizard prized by Ford, and Quent with his public relations firm, Jeffrey, Smith and Allan … maybe you remember them?”

  Tully thought briefly. “Yeah … didn’t they do a lot in politics?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I remember: Jeffrey used to sit in on WJR on election nights predicting the results. He was pretty accurate. Good-looking dude.”

  “Still is. But the election business was only part of what he did. Then, like Larry, he decided to leave the public arena and devote his talents to the Church. So he became a deacon. And because he was so talented, the Cardinal asked him to guide the program. Even though it goes all the way back to the Bible, for us, now, it’s a relatively new game.”

  “And,” Tully tested his understanding of the matter, “Jeffrey became a deacon and not a priest because he was married.”

  “That’s about the size of it. But now, unfortunately, he’s a widower.”

  Tully raised an eyebrow.

  “His wife died of cancer a while back. It was tragic.”

  Tully mulled that over. “But he’ll probably marry again. He’s still young and he’s still a good catch.”

  “No, he won’t marry again.”

  “You seem pretty sure of that.”

  “He can’t marry again. Church law makes it impossible for men who are deacons or priests to marry. In so many words it just says clerics in major orders cannot contract matrimony.”

  “But you just said-”

  “There is no second marriage allowed after one becomes a deacon or a priest. There is no marriage allowed for men who are going to become priests.”

  “Say again?”

  “Young men who go to a seminary to become Catholic priests know that they will never be permitted to marry if they go on to ordination. If a priest marries, he is no longer authorized to function as a priest. If a man is unmarried when he goes into the permanent diaconate, he never will be allowed to marry. Some men who are ordained in Protestant faiths, like Episcopalians and Lutherans, and who are already married, are allowed to become Catholic priests if they convert to Catholicism. They may remain married, but, like the permanent deacons, if they become widowers, they are not allowed to remarry.

  “Now there are some extenuating circumstances, for instance if there are small children involved who really need a mother as they mature. But there are none of these extenuating circumstances in Quent Jeffrey’s case. He will never be permitted to marry again. But of course he knew that going in.”

  Tully decided to ask the follow-up question he had rejected a moment before. “Just what do you guys have against sex and marriage?”

  Koesler’s first impulse was to laugh at the provocative exaggeration implicit in the question. But on quick reflection, he decided to take Tully’s question quite seriously on face value. What was the saying-If only we could see ourselves as others see us?

  “One could argue,” Koesler said, “that we haven’t got anything against sex and marriage. People who have gone through our matrimonial court trying to get a judgment that will declare their marriage null and void could assure you that we are extremely serious about marriage. As for sex, the teaching is that it finds its place within marriage.”

  The two regarded each other, each knowing Koesler’s argument could be considered extremely shallow.

  Nonetheless the priest forged on. “But I suppose you’re referring to the laws regarding marriage for the clergy.”

  “That’s what I had in mind.”

  “Lieutenant, I can only tell you what my experience has been. I attended the seminary in the forties and fifties. I became a priest in 1954, which was eleven years before that famous Church council was concluded. I spent the maximum number of years-twelve-preparing for the priesthood. All of us in the seminary wanted very, very much to become priests. It was made crystal clear that among the requirements was that if we were ordained we’d never marry. It was something you accepted and stayed in or rejected and left. It was no surprise. Adding credibility to the whole thing was the fact that in those days almost nobody left the priesthood. A priest who left and got married was looked on pretty much as a notorious sinner.”

  “But I got the impression lots have left and married.”

  “True. Another result of that remarkable council. Lots of the guys became convinced the rules of the game had been changed. There was a new way of looking at the priesthood, the laity, the Church, and marriage. As a result of this new vision they had, they couldn’t see any good reason why they couldn’t be married and still be priests.

  “But the Church didn’t see it that way. If they were determined to marry then they couldn’t function as priests. Not that everybody who left did so specifically to get married. But most did.”

  Tully thought that over. “But why the rule? Ministers get married. Rabbis get married. Why not priests?”

  “That is truly tough. It’s been a long while since I studied the history of celibacy. Jesus, of course was not married. But tradition tells us that all the apostles with the exception of John and Paul were. As I recall, there were a few attempts at getting an unmarried clergy early on, but it never took hold. After a while there was a problem with married priests willing their church properties to their children-thus taking some extremely valuable properties out of the hands of the Church
. But it was not till the twelfth century that the Church simply made a law rendering each attempted marriage by a cleric in major orders invalid. And it’s been that way ever since.

  “But let me have a question, Lieutenant: Why this interest in married and celibate priests? What’s it got to do with your investigation?”

  “Okay. A big part of what I’m lookin’ for is conflict, a grudge, resentment-things, emotions, that could become motives for violence, for murder. I thought I’d find something here, and I think I have. These guys who had to quit the Church …”

  “Wait,” Koesler interrupted. “If you’re talking about priests who get married, they don’t leave the Church. They may leave the priesthood, but they are not forced to leave the Church,”

  “Corrected.”

  “It’s a common enough mistake.”

  “Okay,” Tully said, “but they do have to quit bein’ priests if they get married … right?”

  “In effect, yes. They’re not allowed to function as priests-do what they’d done as priests-unless there’s some sort of emergency.”

  “The point I’m getting at,” Tully explained, “is that they could be pretty sore about that. You tell me that bein’ priests is just about the only thing they ever wanted to do. Then mis council happened and, if I’ve got you correctly, the rules of the game changed.”

  “A lot of people perceived it that way.”

  “You?”

  Koesler hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Now, through no fault of their own-at least they can look at it that way-mey can’t be priests anymore. Just because they want to be married.”

  “Some of my former confreres certainly see it that way,”

  “Then they could be pretty angry about this. Angry enough, maybe to want some sort of revenge.”

  “I find that hard to imagine, Besides, why would anyone who felt that way strike out against two innocent people like Sister Joan and Larry Hoffer? They didn’t have anything to do with the Vatican Council or the laws that create a celibate clergy. Or even the laws that allow some of the clergy-deacons and converted ministers-to marry and still function as clergymen.”