“Ain’t I supposed to do somethin’? Seems to me when I went to confession the last time I had to say somethin’ while the priest blessed me.”
“What a memory! Okay, repeat after me: ‘Oh, my God …’”
“Oh, my God …”
Maybe that’s as far as we ought to go, thought Koesler. But he continued. “‘I am heartily sorry …’”
“I am heartily sorry …”
Truth in advertising, thought Koesler. But he continued to lead the man through the traditional Act of Contrition, and then gave him absolution.
The man got up, grunted, then stumbled his way out—leaving the priest somewhat the worse for wear.
Did I do the right thing? Koesler asked himself over and over again. What would somebody else have done in my shoes? Undoubtedly some other priest—maybe most priests—would have just told the guy to hit the road. Should the man have been denied absolution? Who could say for sure?
Koesler had been hearing confessions for thirty-eight years. The majority were familiar, repetitious, routine, dull. Once in a great while a confession could be a small miracle in removing an oppressive burden of guilt or as a vehicle for transforming a life. Some few confessions proved unnerving. But this confession—the one he’d just heard—was the oddest ever.
Ostensibly, the man had come for absolution. Was his case so far removed from that of neurotics and psychotics Koesler had absolved in the past—sometimes entire hospital wards of the pitiful people one by one?
In the final analysis—the bottom line, as current culture would have it—this remained a matter between the sinner and God. Koesler believed, firmly, that Jesus gave His disciples the power to forgive sin and that the disciples, in turn, passed on this power to their successors. Koesler could see the wisdom of it. The talking cure. Long before psychotherapy stumbled upon it, God would have known what would comfort and relieve His children. But no matter what power the priest might have as an intermediary, or how important it was that people should forgive each other, God forgave sin.
So it did not much matter whether the murderer was sincere or not in his expressed repentance, his contrition for what he’d done; God would not be tricked. Should a sinner try to fool God, it would be the sinner who played the fool.
Abruptly, Koesler became aware that it had been quite a while since the penitent—the murderer—had left the confessional. He glanced at his ever-present watch: 7:30. He’d been sitting there half an hour overtime, with no penitents on deck. He had fallen behind in his Saturday evening routine. He had to lock the church and return to the rectory.
Hurriedly, he blew out the candle, turned out the light, and stepped from the confessional.
He was pulled up short by the sight of a figure seated in a nearby pew.
The very first thing Koesler noticed was the young man’s clerical garb: black suit, black vest, and at the top the roman collar—not the fairly modern and more comfortable narrow white plastic insert, but the full white collar that encircled the neck. Koesler also noticed French cuffs peeking out of the jacket sleeves.
The young man stayed seated, smiling all the while.
Koesler approached him. “Father?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“I hope so. There may even be something I can do for you. I’m your new associate.”
2
Technically, but far more importantly, in actuality, Father Nick Dunn was not a “new associate” pastor at St. Joseph’s parish. He was “in residence.”
Father Koesler clearly remembered having received Father Dunn’s query letter. Dunn planned to take some psychology courses at the University of Detroit Mercy, a Jesuit institution located near the city’s north-central center. Would it be possible, he’d inquired, for him to live at St. Joe’s for the duration?
Koesler realized Dunn’s contribution to parochial life would be minimal. Help with Masses on weekends could be taken for granted. But little else.
Nevertheless, Koesler promptly assented to the request. Having another priest in the house would be boon enough. In effect, he had forsaken companionship when he’d accepted the celibate life. But St. Joseph’s rectory was the embodiment of a hermitage. Though easily adequate for a very large family, the house was home for only one man. And most evenings were so quiet, Koesler could easily imagine raising the drawbridge over the moat.
Quickly recovering from his surprise at finding Father Dunn in church, Koesler took his temporary colleague on a tour while showing him how to lock up the facility. Then the two moved Father Dunn’s baggage from his van and got him established in his suite. After which, Father Koesler left him to get settled in.
“Come in, ” Father Dunn said, answering the knock on his door.
Koesler entered, carrying a bottle and two small glasses. “I thought a spot of port before bed might be in order.”
“Absolutely.” Dunn turned away from the bureau where he had been stowing clothing.
They sat opposite each other in the spacious study. Each held a glass partly filled with the ruby liquid.
Dunn raised his glass. “To us, Father.”
Koesler nodded, smiled, and sipped. “How long since you were ordained, Nick?”
“Three years.”
“That gives me about thirty-five years on you. So I could easily be your father … even your grandfather. Still, I think it’ll work out better if you call me Bob. We are colleagues, after all,”
“Suits me fine, Bob.”
Koesler looked around the room. “Is this adequate?”
Dunn followed his gaze. In addition to the large study, there was a bedroom not much smaller, plenty of closet space, a lavatory, a queen size bed, desk, chairs, sofa, basic furnishings. “More than adequate. In my parish in Minnesota, I’ve got about half this much room.”
Koesler nodded. “Sorry about the bathroom being down the hall, ” he said.
“That’s okay. What it lacks in convenience it more than makes up for in size.” He sipped the wine, “You seemed surprised to see me … in the church, I mean.”
“I was surprised: I wasn’t expecting you until sometime next week.”
“Yeah. Well, I was able to get away a little earlier than I figured. So I just came on down.”
“Are you all set at U of D? This is kind of late in the term, isn’t it? Mid-September? Haven’t they started classes?”
“There was no trouble about that. They were very helpful with preregistration. Probably because I’m a priest. Also, I’m not going for credit; I’m just auditing some classes.”
“No credits? You aren’t going into the counseling business?”
“Not unless I pay for the training. I think the diocese got burned a few times too many. Some of the guys went away, came back with MSWs, quit the priesthood, and went into private practice. So now the policy is to pick up the freight only if the priest audits. Or if he’s going for a theology or canonical degree, Not much call for theology majors in business or industry.”
Koesler chuckled. “Keep them barefoot and pregnant, eh?”
Dunn nodded. “It doesn’t matter to me. I have no plans to leave. I just wanted to increase my skills. I discovered I was counseling people on a pretty regular basis, so I thought I’d better try to learn to do it right. So here I am. Courtesy of the archdiocese of Minneapolis-St. Paul.”
Koesler held the port up, seeming to study it in the light. “Yes, here you are. Funny, give or take quite a few years, this could have been a straight player trade.”
“Oh?”
“Years ago—good Lord, it must be twenty-five years ago—there was this family that I became friends with. Parishioners. Then the father was transferred to Minneapolis. For quite a few years I spent some vacation time with them. He was transferred a couple more times, then retired. I sort of lost touch with them. Though I do get a Christmas card every year or so. Anyway, for short periods back then, I was a Detroit transplant in Minneapol
is. Now here you are a Minneapolis transplant in Detroit.”
“That is a coincidence.”
“Isn’t it? Where’s your parish, Nick?”
“Golden Valley … you know the place?”
“Sure; one of the neighboring suburbs … but not the suburb.”
Dunn seemed puzzled. Then he brightened. “Edina.”
Koesler nodded. “And is downtown Minneapolis still the hub of activity? As I remember it, all the major movies opened downtown. All the major stores were there, and there were skywalks that connected the buildings.”
“Still there, all right. You can go pretty nearly everywhere without getting your feet wet.”
“Or frozen.”
“You were there in winter? Voluntarily?”
“No, but I’ve heard about it.”
“Actually, they do a pretty good job of pushing the snow around and cleaning the streets—even the alleys.”
“Impressive. But what else could you expect from those industrious Scandinavians? Those Lutherans are still burying their sins under a blanket of snow.”
“It is a pretty Lutheran culture. But, hey, what can you say for a Lutheran town whose three main streets are named after Catholic clergy!”
Koesler tried to remember the street names as Dunn continued. “How is it in Detroit … winter, I mean?”
Koesler shook his head. “Don’t ask. Just enjoy this September while it lasts. If we get a big snow later, count on getting cabin fever. But then,” he reminded himself, “coming from Minnesota, you’d be used to that. However, you’re about to experience what’s worth the price of admission—fall, and the most breathtaking colors you could imagine.”
Koesler became aware that his right knee was quivering. Casually, he slid his hand down his leg and applied pressure on the knee until it stilled. He hoped Dunn had not noticed. Koesler knew the cause of his edginess was that confession of murder he’d heard earlier. He would have preferred to have been alone now. But there was no way of avoiding a courteous welcome for the visiting priest.
If Dunn had noticed the involuntary tremor, he said nothing about it. Koesler was grateful. “The only season I experienced in Minnesota,” he continued, “was summer—“
“Oh, summer,” Dunn interrupted, “the favorite season of our state bird, the mosquito.”
“There’s that. But I understand your spring and fall are all played out in a matter of days.”
“Hours. They really are over before you know it. Especially fall. One day there are leaves on the trees and the next day there aren’t.”
“Well, you needn’t fear being disappointed in Michigan’s fall.” Koesler crossed over and topped off Dunn’s wine glass, then resumed his seat. “Which leads to a question. I suppose I should have cleared up some details of your stay here when I got your letter. I guess I was just surprised to hear from you out of the blue. And the tone of your letter led me to think that you needed a quick reply. But now that you’re here—why?”
“Why?”
“Yes: Why the University of Detroit? And why St. Joseph’s? I mean, to begin with, I’m sure the University of Minnesota offers some pretty good psych courses.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Then … ?”
“Well, at this stage I suppose I could say something about the value of a Catholic college, especially for one who’s going to function in a parochial setting. I could even fall back on the special considerations a priest can expect at a Catholic university. But if I did, you would observe …” Dunn’s explanation trailed off, opening an opportunity for Koesler to complete the thought.
Which, after a moment, he did. “I would observe that you’ve got more than one Catholic college in the Twin Cities area.”
“Exactly.”
Koesler wondered why the other priest continued to avoid a direct answer.
But Father Koesler had lots to learn about Father Dunn. “Then, ” he probed, “why U of D and why Old St. Joe’s?”
“Actually, the order is reversed.”
“Oh?” Koesler was tiring of the game.
“I wanted to spend time with you. The University of Detroit was a convenience. I did want some postgrad work in psychology. But, as you suggest, I could easily have gotten that at the University of Minnesota. Or, failing that, at Macalester or Collegeville or the College of St. Thomas, and so forth. Obviously, there is no dearth of Catholic educational opportunities in and around the Twin Cities.”
“So?”
“Why St. Joe’s? Why you?” Dunn rose and filled his glass once more. “Do you mind?” It was a rhetorical question. “Your reputation, Father—uh … Bob.”
“My reputation? As … what?”
“As a sleuth … detective.”
Koesler rarely laughed aloud, but he did so now. “My reputation as a … detective?” He shook his head. “Where in the world did you ever get that idea? You must be reading too much Father Brown!”
“Father Who? Brown? Who’s he, another local?”
Koesler was surprised. And a little disappointed. Apparently, the young man had never read or even heard of G. K. Chesterton’s fictional priest-detective. “Never mind Father Brown. What gives you the idea that I’m some kind of sleuth?”
“Word gets around. I’ve read about some of your exploits, mostly through the Catholic News Services in the Catholic Bulletin. Even the editor, Bernie Casserly, has written about you. At clerical gatherings, I’ve heard some priests talk about your … what—a vocation? I guess I’m surprised that you’re surprised.”
“Well, I am. But you must be exaggerating. I don’t have that reputation even here in my home diocese.”
“You’re saying you’ve never worked with the police on a homicide case?”
Koesler shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, no. But I’m sure you’ll learn that that sort of thing is not at all uncommon. As priests, we are, after all, in a helping position. As the years go by, you’ll find that you’re called upon to aid people in almost every conceivable way. Look what you’re doing here: going to a university to pick up some additional skill in counseling. And you’re doing it just so you’ll be able to help people better.”
“But …”
“Someday, in all probability, you may very well be called upon to assist the police in some capacity. And when that happens, they’re not going to be coming to you because you’re a clerical Dick Tracy. It’ll more likely be because there’s something distinctly Catholic involved. Don’t you see? There are times when an investigation involves the medical sphere. In that case, it simply makes sense for the police to get insight from a doctor or a nurse. Or maybe it involves bank fraud. In which case it makes sense to talk to a banker. Or maybe a crime has a very definite Catholic cast. So the police may want some background information from a priest.
“And that, Nick Dunn, is what has happened to me—more than once, I must confess.”
Father Dunn thought that over for a few moments. “For the sake of argument, let us grant your premise. Then what do you say to the fact that, by your own admission, you’ve been called upon ‘more than once’?”
“Partly coincidence. But I can see that that explanation is not going to satisfy you. So okay, I have proven of some help to the police in the past—merely to furnish information and insights that almost any priest could have given them. So it is quite natural that they might call on me again—if only because they have become familiar with me. I guess they’d rather deal with someone they’ve come to know than start all over getting to know some other source. But I assure you, Nick, I am a parish priest of the archdiocese of Detroit. And I have no ambitions to be anything else—any small publicity to the contrary notwithstanding.”
Dunn drained his glass and set it on the end table with a gesture of finality. Something else Koesler learned about Father Dunn: a nightcap was not an invitation to empty a bottle; a nightcap was a nightcap.
Dunn regarded Koesler thoughtfully. “You make a convincing
case, Bob. And I would be inclined to take you at your word—though, I must confess, I would find that rather disappointing—but for one thing.” He paused dramatically. “The confession!”
“The confession?” Koesler feigned ignorance. He suspected he knew where Dunn was headed.
“I overheard that confession this afternoon—the one made by the killer. I couldn’t help hearing it; the guy talked so loud.”
Koesler set his glass on the table. He was finished even though he had not drained the glass. At this stage, he did not want to risk fuzzyheadedness. He leaned forward,
“Was there anyone else in the church during that confession?”
“Uh-uh.Just me.”
“Why are you talking to me about it? You are as bound by the seal of confession as I am.”
“I know that. But it goes to offset your argument. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not calling you a liar. Not by any means. I’m willing to grant that you don’t go looking for homicide cases to work on. Granted, you just want to be a modest, unassuming parish priest. But isn’t it funny how these interesting cases come looking for you? And—witness this afternoon—they find you.”
“Nick, that wasn’t an invitation by the police department. That was the sacrament of reconciliation, the sacrament of penance—confession! And, as such, it is protected by the seal.”
Dunn spread his hands, palms upward. “Can either of us doubt that a call from the police is just around the corner?”
“I can doubt it. Besides, what difference could it make? My lips are sealed! Anyone—anyone—who overhears a confession is bound by the same seal of confession. You know that.”
“You don’t understand, Bob. Together, we—both of us—know exactly who murdered a Detroit priest,”
“What’s that?”
“You heard his entire confession. I just came in while he was in the middle of confessing. You got the entire story. But I—I!—saw him, I could identify him!”
So Dunn had not been in church when the man had entered what was, for him, the wrong side of the confessional. Thus Dunn didn’t know that Koesler had seen the man too.
Body Count Page 3