Body Count fk-14

by William X. Kienzle

  “This is nonsense, Nick. What difference does it make that I heard his confession in its entirety and you saw him leave the box? Our lips are sealed!”

  Dunn pondered that, then smiled broadly. “What a delicious secret! The police maybe don’t even know the crime’s been committed yet, and we know who did it! I feel tingly inside.” Indeed, Dunn’s eyes were glowing. “Let’s check it out.”

  “What!?”

  “I don’t know, I just want to make sure.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “What was that guy’s name-Keating, wasn’t it? And what parish was that?”

  “St. Waldo’s.” The question was academic; Dunn could easily have looked up the appropriate parish in the Catholic directory.

  “Is St. Waldo’s in Detroit?”

  “Bloomfield Hills.”

  “Let’s call and ask for Father Keating.”

  “Forget it, Nick. What would it prove if a priest is not in his parish on a Saturday night? Just plain forget it: It’s the best favor you could do for yourself and everybody else.”

  Dunn still had a gleam in his eye. “Ah, but what if a priest is not in his parish on a Sunday morning when all his parishioners come for Mass?”

  “Nick, I’m going to bed. And I’m going to bury this special secret deep inside me. And I advise you most strongly to do the same. And I’m as serious as I can be.”

  Koesler regretted the chill left in Dunn’s room after this, their first encounter. He was surprised by it as much as he regretted it.

  The dispute-their first-concerned a matter that was of prime importance to Koesler: the seal of confession. To him this was one of the most sacred tenets of religion. And in no other expression of religion was it more firmly entrenched than in Catholicism. In all his years as a priest-even as a seminarian-he had never known a priest to violate the seal of confession. Oh, there were a few jokes about it; there were a few jokes about nearly everything. But in actual practice, the seal was inviolate.

  He got the impression that Father Dunn did not share that conviction. Was it the age gap?

  Koesler had lived more than half his life in the pre-Vatican II Church. That span definitely colored his perception of the present post-Vatican II Church.

  Dunn belonged to an interesting time frame.

  Seminarians who were the immediate product of the postconciliar Church-the late sixties, the seventies-lived in a virtual rebellion against the beliefs and practices of the earlier theology. However, in the eighties, a peculiar rebound occurred in some seminaries, certainly in Detroit, possibly in Minneapolis-St. Paul as well.

  With seminaries almost empty of candidates for the priesthood (the legacy of the sixties and seventies?), administrators seemed to be attempting to put as much of the toothpaste as possible back in the tube. The clerical costume, for instance-the cassock, clerical suit, full Mass vestments-returned to acceptable use. But a good portion of what had been discarded and subsequently lost could not be retrieved. It was a strange amalgam. And from this mixture sprang young priests such as Father Nick Dunn.

  Koesler was unable to comprehend much of this sometimes bitter rebellion. Nor was he totally familiar with this latest seminary product.

  Empirically, there was no compelling reason for Koesler to become an expert in either wave of the postconciliar phenomena. He had developed a theological approach to life that, as far as he was concerned, combined the best of both worlds-pre-and postconciliar. Armed with this comfortable and comforting theology, he was willing to work his small corner of the vineyard until he dropped.

  Except for now. Now he would be forced to deal with Father Dunn.

  But it was getting late. Time enough for that tomorrow.

  3

  Weekend services at St. Joe’s comprised a Mass at 5:00 Saturday afternoon, and four additional Masses on Sunday.

  Father Koesler got help with this schedule catch-as-catch-can. Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary, spent much of her time during various weeks phoning around in search of the rare surplus priest. Jesuits were always a good bet through the auspices of Sts. Peter and Paul, the nearby Jesuit parish. With the advent of Father Dunn, now, and for at least U of D’s first semester, St. Joe’s would have the luxury of an extra resident priest.

  However, the resident was not a barrel of help his first Sunday. Oh, there was no trouble with his presiding over a couple of Masses. The problem was he had prepared no homily. So Father Koesler had to preach not only at his own two Masses but also at Dunn’s. And, as any priest who strove to deliver decent homilies could attest, it wasn’t the number of Masses offered but the number of sermons given that wiped one out.

  Thus Koesler had spent virtually this entire Sunday morning in church. Searching for a silver lining for this fatiguing cloud, he had ample time to study Father Dunn’s characteristics.

  A slenderly built man of perhaps five feet nine or ten-some five inches shorter than Koesler-Dunn had a full head of dark blond, carefully groomed hair parted in the middle, set off by a matching mustache. He had a strong voice that probably could project without amplification. He seemed comfortable wearing the full complement of liturgical vestments and-somewhat rare these days-wearing a cassock beneath the vestments. By and large, he seemed the sort of priest Koesler could relate to more easily than the creations of the early postconciliar Church.

  With one exception: Father Dunn wanted to be a cop.

  Even worse, he seemed determined to grow up to be Father Koesler, whom he perceived as having made police officer before him. And, judging from last night’s conversation, there was no way of convincing him otherwise.

  Koesler wondered about that. Everyone he had known in the seminary, of whatever vintage, had wanted to be a priest. And that was it. Oh, here and there one might find a seminarian whose sights were aimed at a monsignorship or, more ambitiously, a bishopric. But those aspirations were still within the parameters of the priesthood.

  Where on earth did this desire of Dunn’s come from? Certainly there was nothing wrong with wanting to be a police officer. But such a desire had nothing to do with the priesthood-or at least nothing that Koesler could think of. The few times that he had worked with the police had not been comfortable experiences for him. Granted, there was a certain thrill to peeling back the layers of a puzzle to solve a mystery. But he could live without that sort of excitement-easily.

  Koesler wanted only to be a priest. How could he bring home this fact to Father Dunn? That young man was digging a shallow grave for his vocational dreams if he couldn’t realize he now had everything he needed for an eminently fulfilling life.

  Even more troubling to Koesler was the young man’s apparent attitude toward the secrecy requisite in the sacrament of confession.

  Koesler had been disconcerted by what Dunn seemed to be suggesting last night. That either of them should even consider revealing in any way what both had heard confessed yesterday Koesler found repulsive. And his sentiment had absolutely nothing to do with the man who had confessed the murder of a priest. If anything, Koesler hoped the police would get him. But not with Koesler’s help. And not with Dunn’s either.

  Koesler had heard, and Dunn had overheard, a man confess a sin and, at the same time, confide a secret. That secret, Koesler knew, was sacrosanct. Through the ages, the seal of confession had been challenged by hypothetical as well as factual questions and compelling circumstances. But the seal had to withstand every challenge and remain inviolate or its entire substructure would crumble.

  However, Koesler feared that last night’s brief discussion over what should be done about the confession of murder was far from concluded. He wished it were, but Dunn gave every indication that he was not convinced. It was this suspicion that late last night had impelled Koesler to consult some of his theology books and further ponder the matter. The more he researched, the more he was convinced his stand was valid.

  The essence of the matter was plainly stated in both the old (A.
D. 1917) and the new (A.D. 1983) Code of Canon Law.

  The most recent statement Koesler found in Canon 983, which stated, in part, “The sacramental seal is inviolable, therefore, it is a crime for a confessor in any way to betray a penitent by wordor in any other manner or for any reason.” And Canon 984: “Even if every danger of revelation is excluded, a confessor is absolutely forbidden to use knowledge acquired from confession when it might harm the penitent.”

  Imagine that: The violation of the seal is termed a “crime.” And one need not look far to find the punishment for that crime. Canon 1388: “A confessor who directly violates the seal of confession incurs an automatic excommunication reserved to the Apostolic See.” And anyone else-as in Father Nick Dunn-who violates this secrecy is “to be punished with a just penalty, not excluding excommunication.”

  It was Communion time. Koesler washed his hands, almost compulsively.

  This, the 1:15 P.M. Mass, was the final liturgy of Sunday. Dunn had also officiated earlier at the 10:30. Koesler, besides preaching at Dunn’s Masses, had celebrated the 8:30 and noon Masses. It had been straightway determined that Koesler would continue to offer the Sunday noon Mass as it was in Latin and Latin was Greek to Father Dunn.

  After Communion, the Mass was quickly completed. Koesler and Dunn took up positions outside the front threshold to bid the congregation farewell and chat with anyone who wished to bend their ears. Several of the predominantly elderly group briefly greeted and welcomed Dunn. Father Dunn seemed such a nice young man. They hoped he would be with them on a more permanent basis. But they were told at the outset that he would be in residence at St. Joe’s only while he was going to school.

  Koesler caught sight of the woman who had confessed to him yesterday, the former nun from 1300 Lafayette. This morning she had taken Communion for the first time in the number of months she’d been attending Mass here. She hadn’t yet registered as a parishioner. Koesler hoped that would happen. But he was not about to push it.

  Soon the flock was gone and the two priests stood quite alone on the sidewalk outside the main doors of the church.

  Koesler took the collection basket to the rectory while Dunn closed and locked the church. They met again minutes later in the spacious rectory kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind, Nick,” Koesler said, “but we don’t have a housekeeper on Sundays. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, though. So help yourself.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t usually have much for breakfast or lunch.” Dunn began foraging through the refrigerator.

  “Good, ” Koesler said. “I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

  “Great. By the way, do you have any plans for dinner?”

  Koesler usually ate in on Sundays and self-served the entire day unless he accepted an invitation from one or another of his friends. Or, occasionally he dined out with some other priests. Now he realized that his young resident was on his own in a strange city. “Why don’t we go out and get something later? There are some nice restaurants in the downtown area, and a few are even open on Sunday.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Dunn had found some sliced lean roast beef and some lettuce. It would make a delicious sandwich. No quarrel there.

  Koesler busied himself in and around the sink and the oven. Dunn constructed his sandwich, seated himself at the large dining table, and began paging through the weekend combination Detroit News and Free Press, the Siamese twins of a joint operating agreement.

  After placing a mug of steaming coffee at both places, Koesler sat down at the table opposite Dunn. He took a few of the back sections of the paper and began paging through them.

  Dunn glanced at his coffee. It was still steaming. He’d let it sit a while after adding a smidgen of milk.

  After some minutes and several rapidly turned pages, Dunn said, “Oh, by the way, Bob, I took the liberty of phoning St. Waldo’s this morning.”

  Koesler looked up, his brow knitting. “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh. Actually twice. I called at about 9:00 and then just after noon.”

  For no good reason, Koesler found himself annoyed that the calls had been made while he had been out of the rectory offering Mass in church. Dunn’s action put him in mind of a willful teenager defying parental rules. “And what did you discover?”

  Dunn sensed Koesler’s budding displeasure. “Well, the first call reached an answering service. The second time I got through to the rectory by implying that this could be at least a developing emergency. Of course, when whoever it was at the rectory answered the phone-some woman, maybe the secretary or housekeeper-she wasn’t at all happy with me.”

  “I don’t blame her.”

  “Well, people in rectories ought to be available.”

  “We could argue the point, but what did you find?”

  “That Father Keating wasn’t there.”

  Koesler made a brief study of Dunn, who seemed inordinately pleased with his discovery. Which discovery, Koesler concluded, only further indicated that what they had heard yesterday was probably true: The poor man was dead-murdered. “You actually asked for Father Keating?”

  “Uh-huh. And from the tone of her voice, I could tell something was wrong.”

  Koesler was not at all sure of the accuracy of Dunn’s instincts. “Tell me, what would you have done if when you asked for Father Keating, she had put him on the line?”

  Dunn grinned. “I’d’ ve been pretty surprised. I don’t think I would have believed it was the real Father Keating. I would have figured they had somebody pretending to be Keating in the interim.”

  “Pretending?”

  “Sure.” Dunn seemed extremely confident. “We don’t know what’s going on out there at St. Waldo’s. Maybe they’ve gotten word that Keating’s been murdered and they’re covering it up for the moment.”

  “And why would they do that?”

  “Maybe the police are there. Maybe the police told them not to talk to anybody until they can get the investigation under way.”

  “Nick, you have an overactive imagination. But now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it. In fact, whether you mind or not, I don’t want to talk about it … ever again”

  Silence. A rather uneasy silence.

  Dunn sipped his coffee. The temperature was about right. But the taste!

  He must’ve tasted worse coffee, but couldn’t think where. The seminary? Maybe; but, if memory served, even that was not as disagreeable as this stuff. Should he say something to Koesler? No, better not; he wasn’t off to all that good a start with the pastor as it was. No use muddying the waters. He wished he had not thought of mud. He gazed into his mug. Did the coffee really resemble mud, or was it just that it tasted so bad that it blighted everything else? He watched Koesler turn the pages of the paper all the while sipping his coffee. Was it possible that he’d prepared two separate brews? Was it possible Koesler had no taste buds?

  Meanwhile, Dunn continued to scan the first of the many sections of the paper Koesler had handed him.

  He was amazed at the bulk of this Sunday newspaper. It must be as large as the Sunday New York Times!

  Father Dunn was not far wrong. Had he been in the Detroit area a few years earlier, he would have witnessed one of the last of the great wars between two big-city newspapers. Then, at the conclusion of a battle to blend the management of both papers-allegedly for fiscal survival-the United States Supreme Court ruled that there was no legal reason to prevent the News and the Free Press from merging their administrative offices while still competing editorially. The resultant product was not altogether acceptable from nearly anyone’s point of view. But it did make for a humongous Sunday paper.

  Both priests continued to read while exchanging sections of the paper. Suddenly Nick Dunn gasped.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t believe it! This is too much! It just can’t be! I don’t believe it!” Dunn wheeled the paper toward Koesler and pointed to a photo.

  Koesler studied the picture, wond
ering what he was supposed to. discover.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Dunn said, “you didn’t see him.” He tapped his finger on a figure in the photo. “Him! He’s the one-the one who went to confession to you yesterday. I’m sure of it!”

  Koesler looked more closely at the picture. It hadn’t reproduced all that clearly. But, upon scrutiny, there was little doubt: It was he. Once again, Koesler reminded himself that Dunn didn’t know that he had seen the man who had mistakenly walked into the open confessional.

  The photo ran with a companion story under the heading: “Sons of Italy Honored at Charity Fete.” The caption read: “Salvatorean Father Mario Gattari, S.O.S., presents commemorative plaques to brothers Remo and Guido Vespa in appreciation of their outstanding service to the Salvatorean Mission Society.”

  There was definitely a resemblance between the two, but Koesler was sure Guido was the one who had blundered into the wrong confessional yesterday and eventually confessed killing Father John Keating. If corroboration were needed, Father Dunn’s nimble index finger was tapping precisely on Guido’s pictured head.

  “What I can’t figure out, ” Dunn said, “is why he’s getting a plaque. I know Detroit is big on murders, but I didn’t know that killers were given prizes! And by a Catholic missionary outfit? Who in hell are the Salvatorean Fathers, anyway?”

  “They’re … they’re a … uh … an … Italian missionary group …” Koesler spoke in a half-mesmerized state. If anything, he was more surprised and puzzled by this picture than Dunn was. “I think they work in Africa. They’ve got an office here … mostly to solicit vocations.”

  “But why would they be giving an award to this guy? He’s a hit man, isn’t he?”

  “Donations, funding drives, contributions. If you haven’t been exposed to this yet, you will be. There are some Catholic awards-like this one-that are given to the big spenders, or big collectors, that type of VIP. It doesn’t matter that the. …. uh …” — Koeslerglanced again at the paper in search of the name-“the Vespas aren’t very practicing Catholics. Shoot, it doesn’t matter that Guido Vespa hasn’t darkened a church door more than a couple of times in his entire life. The thing is the Vespas must have given a pile of money to the Salvatoreans. Or the Salvatoreans hope this award will prime the pump, as it were, and that the Vespas will give a bundle. It’s got very little to do with saints and sinners.”