Foley’s face was the only body part not covered. In death his years had caught up with him. He appeared skeletal. Had it not been for the wrinkles, his face might have been mistaken for a bare skull.
A shiver shook Koesler. He could scarcely believe this was all that remained of the kindly gentleman with the musical voice who spoke so forcefully just yesterday afternoon.
Someone coughed. It startled Koesler. How longhad he been standing there? It was not like him to be thoughtless of others. He was holding up the line. He moved from the bier quickly and was about to enter a nearby pew when he heard a muffled sob. He turned to see who had been so moved.
Third behind him in line was Sister Joan Donovan. A handkerchief was held tightly to her mouth. Tears flowed down her cheeks. Koesler waited as she viewed the body. Then, wordlessly, he led her to the pew and seated himself beside her. Soon the weeping stopped and she regained control.
“Excuse me, Father,” she said. “I didn’t intend to make such a fool of myself. I just couldn’t stop crying once I got in that line.”
“You know what they say,” Koesler said, “there’s no one as dead as a dead priest unless it’s a dead bishop. I think Archbishop Foley would be very pleased that you were so moved.” He amended himself. “The archbishop is pleased that you cared.”
“It’s just that he was sokind when Helen was … when Helen died. While I was worried whether she could have a Church burial, he called and volunteered to offer the Mass. And then at the wake, he was just like a father … or a grandfather. He was such a support. I hardly knew him before Helen died and, in a day, it was as if he’d been part of my life for aslongas I could remember.”
“Some people have the ability. I guess I should say ‘charism.’ It’s rare. But, I agree, Archbishop Foley had it.”
Father Koesler and Sister Joan fell silent. He glanced at her. The tears had stopped flowing. She seemed at peace and lost in thought.
She was right, thought Koesler. The archbishop had excelled in humanity. Koesler had witnessed Foley participating in liturgical functions innumerable times. He always seemed distracted, constandy called back by a master of ceremonies from a private reverie. But present at all times was the hint of humor and a concern for odiers that was open and genuine. The two men had met personally only once. Yet it was as Sister Joan noted: It seemed as if Koesler had known him, and known him well, for a long time, He wasn’t some remote dignitary lying in state, but a friend.
There was a rustle behind him; Something brushed against the back of his head. “Sorry,” a male voice said.
As Koesler halfway turned, he recognized two priests of roughly his vintage. They were about to be seated direcdy behind him. One of their coats had brushed him as diey entered the pew. He nodded. “Ted … Harry.”
Almost simultaneously, they replied, “Bob.”
The two priests setded into the pew, making barely audible rustling noises as they shifted about in search of comfort, knowing all the while they would never find it.
After a few minutes, they began talking to each other in tones that shifted between normal speaking volume and a whisper. At any rate, they were a distraction. Koesler glanced at Joan, wondering if they were disturbing her. Apparently not; she seemed transfixed as she gazed steadfastly at the remains of the man who, in so brief a time, had made such a lasting impression on her. She was not disturbed by the conversation going on behind hen
He was. Koesler tried recollecting his thoughts in prayer, but the conversation continued to distract him. He decided that living with it was an easier course than creating a small scene.
“Too bad about the old man.” Koesler thought it was Ted, but was not going to turn around to make certain.
“Yeah. He seemed like anice enough guy. How long’s hebeen here … a year?”
“About. He could’ve lived in Florida, you know. That’s where he was born and raised.”
“I knew that, but I’d forgotten. Retired in Florida! And it’s his home at that. Why in hell would he want to come up here?”
“The boss. They got along like brodiers.”
“I don’t think I like anybody that much.” They both chuckled. “Think the boss will go down now that Foley’s gone?”
“Hard to tell. If I had a last buck I’d bet against it. What’s there to do there now for him? He’s not a golfer. For him it’s just a long walk in the sunshine interrupted by hitting a ball with a stick.”
Silence. Then, “When we goin’ down?”
“Dunno. I was waiting for you to make up your mind.”
“Lent comes early this year,”
“When?”
“Sometime late February.”
“Wow! We better get on the ball.”
“A Titleist, preferably.”
Another chuckle. “Got to get back before Ash Wednesday.”
“It’ll be great getting down there. Winter’s just beginning here and already I’m tired of it.” A pause. “It just doesn’t seem right somehow,”
“What?”
“That the boss won’t be down. I mean with Foley gone and all. One thing you gotta admit: Nobody works any harder than the Cardinal. I didn’t think I’d ever say that about any priest, let alone a bishop, but, dammit, the guy deserves some time off. Personally, I hope he does go down.”
“Yeah, it’d be nice seeing him relaxed. I’d even buy him a drink.”
“You? With the tightest pockets in the diocese, you’d buy him a drink? Somehow I got to get the message through to him. Then he’ll go for sure.”
They laughed. Silence. Then: “Oh, I almost forgot: You wanna play a little cards tonight?”
“Tonight? Where?”
“The chancery.”
“The chancery? Clete Bash having a party?”
“Uh-huh. Some of me guys are from out of town. Here for the funeral tomorrow. Staying at the chancery overnight.”
“Sounds like it could be fun, despite Bash.”
“Why’despite Bash’?”
“Guy’s a prick.”
“What’s he done to you?”
“Nothing. I’m just sick and tired of seeing his mug on TV all the time. Who the hell’s he think he is, Walter Cronkite?”
“You got the wrong guy. Cronkite was anchor. Bash is a-whaddyacallit-a press officer-like that McLaughlin, the Jebbie, for Nixon. Besides, he doesn’t like wild card games.”
“Who?”
“Bash. They’re alot of fun.”
“But not professional. Probably some of those out-of-town guys are sticklers: five-card stud, nothing wild, down and dirty.”
“Well, I don’t know. It might be kind of fun meeting the new guys. Hmmm … I guess so. But I gotta leave early. I got early Mass at the convent tomorrow.”
“God! I forgot you’ve got a convent. Those are practically a relic of a bygone day. You may just end up having the last nun in captivity.”
“Hell, I don’t have ’em. They just live in the old convent. Five Of ’em. Soon’s the sun’s up, they’re off to the four winds doing God knows what. Social work, prison counseling, and so on and so forth. I can just barely remember when we had teaching nuns living there. By God, those were the days.”
“Gone forever. So, it’s settled then. We can go downtown in my car. I’d just as soon leave early too. I got a hunch somebody in that bunch is a ringer and there’s going to be a lot of local priests who are broke tomorrow I don’t want to be one of them.”
That did it.
Until this moment, Koesler was feeling left out. He hadn’t been invited to the party and he felt certain that in such a cosmopolitan group of priests there would be at least a few who would Want to chat. It was instructive for those living under the jurisdiction of Cardinal Mark Boyle to get a taste of what life could be like under the more rigid control of almost any other bishop in the country.
But Ted or Harry-whichever it was who said it-was correct: The poker probably would be unrelentingly serious; light conversation would
be at a minimum. And Koesler had had enough poker the other night to tide him over until spring or summer at the very earliest.
The organ sounded. There was a rustling as people throughout the now crowded cathedral struggled to their feet. The procession entered from the cathedral rectory. With enthusiasm and heartfelt sincerity the congregation took up the hymn, “And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings ….”
Cardinal Boyle, his dazzlingly white vestments set off by the scarlet-orange signs of office, halted at the bier. His tall, slender figure seemed bowed as he contemplated the remains of his old friend. He appeared able to remain standing only by clutching his crosier tightly with both hands. Clearly he was crushed by this senseless death.
Koesler’s heart went out to the Cardinal, whom he admired greatly. Cardinal Boyle had so many controversial responsibilities, and he obviously believed that the buck stopped with himself. He certainly did not need the grief he now bore.
These thoughts caused Koesler to consider the deep loss suffered by Mrs. Hoffer as well as the sorrow inflicted on Sister Joan, who now stood beside him. At sight of the Cardinal’s sorrow, silent tears again coursed her cheeks.
It was all so senseless.
But that was the point, wasn’t it: It wasn’t senseless. To someone it made a lotof sense. Someone had a purpose in all mis death and sorrow. What was it Lieutenant Tully had said? A thread. There was some kind of thread connecting these murders. If he, Koesler, could identify that thread, he-they-might be able to solve this case and possibly prevent further killings.
Koesler hoped that what he had told Tully had been of help. Maybe the whole thing was linked to: the parishes and schools and whether they were to remain open or should be closed.
One thing was sadly certain to Koesler: He was not as actively involved in this investigation as two archbishops had asked him to be. He was not as involved as he wanted to be.
27
“The Cardinal was good today.” then, remembering that he was not allowed to have an independent opinion, Bob Meyer deferred to his boss. “Didn’t you think he was?”
“I’ve been trying to get him to do that for years,” Father Cletus Bash said.
“Do what, Father?”
“Why, speak extempore, of course.”
Meyer reflected on that for a moment. “That’s right; he usually types his speeches and then reads them verbatim.”
“Always makes him sound like he’s reading a goddam dull textbook.”
“May I get you gentlemen something from the bar?” the waiter asked.
Bash wanted a Beefeater martini with a twist. Meyer ordered a Piesporter, an appropriate choice as they were lunching at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars.
“I think,” Meyer said after the waiter left, “the Cardinal is a shy man who doesn’t want to show his emotions,” As his mouth formed the words he again remembered that he was not supposed to think. Two blunders, and they hadn’t even ordered lunch yet. He knew Bash was keeping score. One more and Meyer would either be reprimanded here in public, or he surely would get a scathing memo later this afternoon.
Bash paused to tally the blemishes on Meyer’s current tab, “Of course it’s not that. The Cardinal is a precise man. Too precise. That’s why he writes everything out beforehand.”
Careful now not to strike out, Meyer lobbed the conversational ball into Bash’s court, “Why do you think he spoke without notes this morning?”
The waiter brought their drinks, took their menu orders, and left.
“Emotion got the better of him,” Bash said, “They were close … very, very close, the Cardinal and Archbishop Foley. Matter of fact, I’m surprised the Cardinal trusted himself to speak without notes. He got carried away. Don’t blame him.”
Bash felt a firm loyalty to Boyle. Next to the Catholic Church-as Bash perceived it-and the army, Bash’s greatest fealty was to his Cardinal. It was Boyle who had given Bash this job as director of communications, which, in turn, had freed him from the deadly monotony of a parochial ministry and offered the opportunity of becoming a big fish in an acknowledgedly very large pool. Which opportunity he had seized and made the most of.
No one would have accused Bash of having a particularly affectionate nature, nor even, for that matter, an affectionate bone in his body. But he felt … well, kindly, toward his benefactor.
When Bash had become a member of the “staff” because he headed his department, Boyle had been an archbishop. Since then he had become a Cardinal, a prince of the Church-short of being Pope, the highest dignity in the Church-and an elector of Popes, This dignity had rubbed off on everyone in the archdiocese of Detroit, not the least on Bash himself. He was official spokesperson for a prince of the Church. And Bash never let the media forget that fact.
Thus, when attempting to encourage the Cardinal to make comments off the cuff, Bash’s recommendations were made with sincerity and reverence. And that, in Bash’s life, was pretty much the extent of those virtues.
Bash was, in a word, selfish, with bottomless ego needs. As often as possible, he gorged himself on generous supplies of ego gratification.
Nothing was said for several long minutes. Bob Meyer sipped his wine. Bash had downed his martini in a few gulps and was enjoying the gin’s magical warmth as it seemed to be carried by his bloodstream throughout his body. He ordered another martini, which he finished before the waiter brought their meal. As he began to eat, fortified by the double martini, he felt slightly more kindly to the whole human race, even Meyer.
In this expansive glow, Bash became somewhat uncomfortable with the silence between him and Meyer. Obviously the younger man was content to eat rather than talk.
In reality, Meyer had simply run out of ways to keep the ball in Bash’s court.
“You know, Bob …”
That was a good sign, Meyer recognized. Bash seldom used Meyer’s given name. But when it was used it meant that Bash was in one of his rare relaxed and good moods.
“You know, Bob,” Bash said, “one of the good things-fringe benefits-of an occasion like this-die death of a priest or a bishop-is that the gang gets together to really let their hair down and relax. Last night, for example, we had a bunch of out-of-town priests spending the night at St. Al’s.” Bash thought about diat for a moment, and added sadly, “All those rooms above the chancery. Used to be overflowing with priests. Now diey’re empty except for when Something like this happens.”
Then, as rapidly as he had become maudlin, his happy frame of mind returned. “One of the guys from Toronto was telling about a priest’s funeral up there sometime back. The dead priest was lying in state in the rectory parlor. Some priests gathered to pay their respects. Then they went upstairs where there was a generous supply of booze. They all had a few drinks when this one screwball priest said, ‘You know, Tony would like this,’-Tony was the name of the dead priest.
“Then this priest left. Everyone figured he had gone home. But after a bit they heard this sound. Someone was dragging something up the stairs. Something stiff and heavy.
“They all had the same idea at the same time: that the screwball was dragging Tony upstairs so he could enjoy the party.
“Well, they all went running out into the hallway-and there was the screwball dragging a statue up the stairs.
“And one guy had thrown up for nothing.”
They laughed. Meyer 55 percent because he thought the story funny, 45 percent because it was the boss’s joke. Bash laughed for the same reason he told the story: The martinis had done their job and he was expansive.
One story reminded him of another, and so Bash told stories throughout their luncheon. In Meyer’s association with Bash this was a unique performance.
After finishing coffee, Bash pushed the check to his assistant. “Take care of this and take it out of petty cash.”
Meyer knew that Bash would eventually check to see that nothing more was taken than the luncheon’s tab plus a modest tip. Bash ran a tight ship.
; Bash stood without swaying. All evident effect of the liquor was gone. “I’m going to stop off at my room before I go back to work this afternoon. If there are any calls from any of the media I’ll get back to them later today.”
The direction was unnecessary. Meyer knew there was one, and only one, spokesman for the archdiocese.
Bash bundled up and started off. He crossed Larned and turned onto Washington Boulevard. He began the slow ascent toward Michigan Avenue. At his back was Windsor, calling up a Detroit claim to fame of being the only city in the United States whence one traveled south to reach Canada.
This close to the riverfront was one of the coldest areas in the city. The wind whipped off the water, turning the already frigid air into a humid, bone-chilling force as it swept through the skyscraper canyons. Bash had not dressed particularly warmly. After all, he knew he’d be spending most of the morning in the cathedral at Foley’s funeral. And, as anticipated, it had been very warm in there.
But that strategy had left him unprepared for this. The cold was so bitter he gave thought to hailing a cab. But it really wasn’t all that far-a little more than four blocks. Besides, there weren’t any cabs in sight. Practically nothing in sight. A combination of the early afternoon hour and the weather seemed to be keeping most cars and just about everybody off me streets.
God, it was cold! So cold his bones felt brittle-as if they would shatter any minute. Memories of Korea enveloped him. No matter how cold he had been before or since, nothing could match his experience in that wretched country.
MacArmur had been right, of course: You shouldn’t fight a war unless you fight to win. Didn’t learn it in Korea. Maybe learned it in Vietnam.
He squeezed his eyes nearly shut against the biting wind, as he tried to make his body crawl inside itself in search of an escape from the cold.
Once more, in memory, he was hunkered in a hastily dug trench. He had never been more terrified. The night was so black; no moon, no stars. His beard was frozen. He tried to keep tears from flowing. They were ice as soon as they left his eyes.
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