Body Count

by William Kienzle

  “Both from Detroit? You’ve gotta be kidding!” Marvin said,

  “Not Kern!” McNiff said authoritatively,

  “Why not?” Marvin wanted to know.

  “He’s just not the stuff saints are made of,” McNiff insisted, “Okay, so he was good with bums. Better than I could be, I’ll admit, But giving bums a meal ticket just ain’t the way to become a holy saint.”

  “Pat, you’re not putting down the works of mercy!” Koesler by now was recovered from the shock of being reminded that Clem Kern, who was sharing a room with Jake Keating, was by no means completely forgotten.

  “What?” McNiff reacted,

  “Give food to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, shelter to the homeless; visit the sick, the imprisoned; bury the dead,” Koesler enumerated. “Those are the things that Clem did best and, according to Christ, that’s how you get into heaven. Or, absent all these things, how you get into hell.”

  “Besides,” Marvin added, “Clem wouldn’t let anybody refer to them as bums. They were ‘gentlemen of the road.’ At least mat’s what Clem insisted on calling them.”

  Somehow, everyone seemed to be zeroing in on McNiff. Which is how most of these priestly outings usually ended.

  “Frank’s right,” Mulroney said. “Clem didn’t just give his ‘gentlemen of the road’ a good word and a pat on the back. He had an arrangement with some of the local motels to house the gentlemen and send the bill to him.”

  It was cottage industry time for Clem Kern memories. The harvest of stories had begun. Koesler approved. Monsignor Kern had been so much an embodiment of the Gospel message that it was helpful to remember his goodness. It was, indeed, the memory of this compassion that had motivated Guido Vespa to provide Clem with a companion into eternity. If only these guys knew what I know!

  But of course they never would.

  “Remember,” Marvin said, “when Clem figured that though there were lots of places to send recovering alcoholics in the AA plan, there weren’t many places for just plain drunks? So he began the process of buying a flophouse in the neighborhood. Some of the small-time merchants in the area objected. So they went to court. And the judge asked Clem, ‘Does anybody in your facility have a history of venereal disease?’

  “Clem thinks about that for a while. Then, in that droll drawl of his, he says to the judge, ‘Well, Your Honor, I don’t believe we include that question on any form we asked the people to fill out. But I suppose in any facility that takes care of a large number of men, you could probably find some history of venereal disease. Perhaps in the Detroit Athletic Club, for instance.’

  “And the judge says, ‘Father Kern, I am a member of the Detroit Athletic Club,’ And Clem says, ‘Yes …’”

  “Then there was the time,” Mulroney jumped in, “when there was a Playboy Club in Detroit and the bunnies went on strike against the club. In the next day’s papers, there was Clem Kern, clerical suit and all, bundled up against the cold, walking the picket line and carrying a strike sign right along with the bunnies.”

  “Now,” McNiff objected, “you can’t think it’s a sign of high virtue to be picketing for the rights of naked” —he always pronounced it “nekid” —“women to wait on tables!”

  “He wasn’t campaigning for nudity, Pat,” Koesler said. “The girls claimed they weren’t getting a fair share of the tips. Clem was campaigning for justice.”

  “Justice!” McNiff snorted. “That’s not what the people think. They think he’s just parading with naked women.”

  Everyone but McNiff was laughing.

  “First of all,” Koesler corrected, “they weren’t ‘nekid.’ It was the middle of winter and everybody was pretty well covered up. And everybody knows Clem was virtually the patron saint of labor. My God, he was practically the chaplain of the Teamsters.”

  “Weren’t you tied up in the middle of that once?” Marvin asked.

  Koesler smiled. “Happened while I was at the Detroit Catholic. Our one janitor, who also drove a truck, joined the Teamsters. All of a sudden I found myself bargaining with the Teamsters.

  “Now, I’ve got nothing against the Teamsters, but the Detroit Catholic newspaper versus the Teamsters was David and Goliath all over again. Except that we didn’t even have a sling or a stone. So, in a sort of desperation, I called Clem and asked if he could intercede for us. He asked who I was bargaining with and I told him the guy’s name. And Clem said, ‘Oh, I know Claire very well. He always has me say Mass daily when he’s negotiating.’

  “So I asked Clem how many Masses he was going to say for the Teamsters so I could say the same number against them.”

  Even McNiff joined in the laughter.

  “Needless to say,” Koesler concluded, “Clem didn’t ask them to call off the hounds and we didn’t win that one.”

  The waitress brought their entrees. She more or less plopped the plates before each of them. It was not an encouraging presentation. However, having taken on faith the presumption that she had saved them from watery soup, leatherish meat, and greasy potatoes, her absence of charm did not foreordain a diminished tip.

  As they began eating, Marvin said, “He didn’t take his monsignorship seriously. That alone should argue for his heroic virtue.”

  That brought a smile to everyone.

  “I’ll say,” Koesler added. “At his own installation ceremony, he arrived at the cathedral late, and he was wearing borrowed monsignorial robes.”

  “I don’t get it,” McNiff complained. “All these qualities that you guys seem to think were cute as well as virtuous, were flaws in character. Sure he was late for his own investiture. But he was late for everything. He was late all the time. He smoked too much. And he was a terrible driver. In fact, that’s what killed him: a traffic accident.”

  “Well, you’re right about one thing, Pat,” Mulroney said, “you don’t get it. Sure he died as a result of a traffic accident. But no one else was injured. How typical of Clem Kern; he wouldn’t hurt anyone else for the world. Remember the time the con artist hit him up until Clem gave him some money? Another priest who had witnessed the guy’s performance–which was so implausible even the visiting priest could see through it–couldn’t figure why a priest as streetwise as Clem would fall for something so transparent. And Clem just lit up a cigarette and grinned and said, ‘I didn’t want him to think he was losing his touch.’

  “See, he didn’t even want to hurt a con man.

  “The point is, Pat,” Mulroney continued, “that people like Clem Kern seem to be just what this Pope is looking for. And if the Pope is looking for something specifically, you can bet the Congregation for the Causes of Saints is looking for the same thing. And what the Pope wants–along with the traditional martyrs and the like–are individuals that ordinary people can identify with. And Clem Kern, with his smoking, his tardiness, and his lousy driving habits was a person a lot of people could identify with.

  “Then, on top of that, you’ve got a guy who practically invented the corporal works of mercy. After his wake, at his funeral–altogether attended by some twenty-five thousand people, all of whom considered themselves personal friends of Clem–Frank Angelo, late of the Detroit Free Press, said that Clem Kern made Detroit a sweeter place to be. What could be a better tribute! Personally, I think he’s going to make it!”

  They ate in silence for a while.

  “Wait a minute …” Marvin had evidently experienced a sudden doubt; his fork was suspended between plate and mouth. “I haven’t got any solid evidence or proof–only hearsay–but, isn’t it kind of expensive? I mean, the whole process. I’ve heard that there are a lot of expenses. I can’t pin it down right now, but I know I’ve heard somebody say that. In fact, if memory serves, that is supposedly why so many religious order priests and nuns have been canonized and so few diocesan priests make sainthood. The religious orders can commit funds from their conglomerate treasure–which in large orders like the Franciscans or the Dominicans or the like can be a considerab
le fortune.

  “But diocesan priests have–what?—a relatively small territory like Detroit or Chicago or even New York or L.A., where money is always tight. Isn’t that so? And if it is, what chance has Clem Kern got? I can’t see this archdiocese throwing a whole bunch of money at a process of canonization. For Pete’s sake, the outcome isn’t even certain. And on top of everything else, Clem Kern managed to stay rock bottom poor. Does anybody know? Is this expense thing true?”

  There was no immediate response. Finally, Koesler said, “I don’t really know. But I’ve heard the same thing.”

  Mulroney, making ready to address the question, laid his fork on the plate. “It’s true. It is expensive by almost anyone’s measure. In Rome, the talk is it’s in the ballpark of fifty to a hundred thousand dollars. And that doesn’t even take into consideration the significant cost of the celebration at the end of the whole process.

  “But, to come up with an actual figure, you might be interested in another American, Mother Elizabeth Seton. The final tab on her canonization, from initiation to conclusion–including the whole formal process, renting fifteen thousand chairs from the Vatican, printing the souvenir programs; tickets, flowers, an official painting, and so forth–the bottom line was in excess of $250,000. And if you think that’s breathtaking, Katharine Drexel’s bill was $333,250!”

  McNiff couldn’t help himself; he whistled, softly, but enough to turn several heads at nearby tables. “Where would we ever get that kind of money!”

  “Not from the archdiocese of Detroit!” Koesler said without fear of correction.

  “No,” Mulroney agreed, “not from the archdiocese. Not in a million years. But–and I’m not sure whether to be surprised or not–but it is coming in. Some in dribs and drabs–nickels and dimes from the ‘gentlemen of the road.’ And some thousands of dollars from the better-heeled downtown executives and firms–the very people Clem used to hit up for the cash that flowed from them through Clem to the poor.

  “No, money, oddly enough, may not be as big a problem as we might think. If you recall, money was never a significant problem for Clem: He never had any. But it never was a problem. Example: One day a woman came to him with a seven-hundred-dollar gas bill that she couldn’t pay. Clem didn’t have a penny. But he told her to go home and he would take care of it. A little later that same day, some people from Grosse Pointe gave him a check for $750. And that’s the way it went for him. He was indifferent about money personally. But he always got it and he always gave it away.”

  “Just a second …” McNiff was gesticulating with his fork. Happily there was no food on it. “Has it dawned on any of you that Mo has one hell of a lot of familiarity with the process of canonization and Clem Kern’s chance for it?”

  “Yeah,” Marvin agreed. “We know you come up with an awful lot of arcane information, but this is out of the ordinary even for you. I mean, knowing how many saints have been canonized in the past thousand years, the A.D. 1234 date when Popes took over, how many saints were named by the present Pope in a given year, and–save the mark–how much it cost to make Drexel and Seton saints … did you bone up on this just for tonight’s conversation? And how in hell could you know we were going to get going on Clem and sainthood?”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Koesler interjected. “It was Mulroney who got us started talking about Clem. We were discussing the play we saw tonight and Mo shifted the conversation.” Koesler beamed as if he had won a contest.

  Marvin shook his head in disbelief. “Even then …”

  Mulroney smiled. “Both charges are true. I did steer the conversation and I did hit the books, but not just for tonight’s get-together.”

  “So what’s up?” McNiff wanted to know.

  Mulroney couldn’t help showing pride. “I’m part of the process. I was named about six months ago but it wasn’t to be announced until now–or, rather, next week. But I wanted to tell you guys before it hit the news. Just keep it to yourselves until the beginning of next week when the announcement’s made.”

  “No kidding! No kidding!” McNiff seemed unable to get over the news. “I can’t believe it. I never thought I’d know somebody who worked on a canonization. What happens next–you go to Rome? Are you the devil’s advocate?”

  Mulroney laughed. “No, I don’t go to Rome. And I’m not advocatus diaboli. As a matter of fact, along with a lot of other streamlining, they did away with the devil’s advocate.” Although, thought Mulroney, from all that had been said during this dinner, McNiff easily could qualify for the position naturally. “What they’ve got now, instead of lawyers, postulators, and devil’s advocates, is a relator, who gets a lot of help composing what is in effect a biography of the individual–the servant of God–containing the good as well as the bad. The relator picks a collaborator to actually write the document, called a positio.

  “The collaborator’s usually from the same diocese as the candidate and is supposed to be trained in the historical-critical method and also in updated theology. And …” Mulroney paused. “… the collaborator in the case of Monsignor Clement Kern is Father James Mulroney.” He finished with a vocal flourish.

  “No kidding!” McNiff was very impressed. “You’re a … a …”

  “Collaborator,” Mulroney supplied.

  “Sounds like a role out of World War II,” Koesler said. “Are you going to be involved in some sort of war crimes trial after the canonization?”

  Mulroney chuckled. “Only if Clem doesn’t make it.”

  McNiff was so impressed he seemed to have forgotten all about his dinner, which was only half-eaten. “You’ve been a collaborator for months? What have you been doing? Do you get to talk to the Pope?”

  Mulroney kept smiling. He’d anticipated that McNiff would be most bedazzled by the news. “No, I don’t get to talk to the Pope. Maybe someday but not yet. And what have I been doing? Just going about my job very, very quietly. We’ve got to gather everything we can find that Clem wrote. That’s important to the process. We’ve got to put together anecdotes, like the ones you guys were telling tonight. Thank you very much.”

  “Don’t you have to find some miracles that you can attribute to Clem?” McNiff asked.

  “Getting all that money donated might be one of them,” Marvin said. The others found this humorous.

  “I don’t care what you guys think,” McNiff said. “This is exciting. Imagine: Having a priest we all knew so well become a saint!

  “But Mo, how come you’re going to be public with your job now? What’s the occasion?”

  “Actually, we have no choice. We’ve got to make what we’re doing public. It’s the next step in the process. We have no alternative. It’s at this stage that we are bound by the rules to make certain of his identity. We’ve got to make certain that, when we get done with this business, we’ve got the right person.”

  “You mean …”

  “That’s right,” Mulroney completed Marvin’s thought, “we’re going to exhume the body.”

  “Bob! Bob! Are you all right?” McNiff began once again pounding Koesler’s back.

  Once again a liquid had gone down the wrong way and Koesler had begun to choke. In a few moments his struggle for air seemed successful; his wheezing subsided.

  “Be careful, Bob,” Marvin admonished, “your food is not supposed to kill you. At least not that suddenly.”

  “Anyway,” Mulroney continued, “the bottom line is that I’m going to be able to invite just a few people to witness the exhumation and the ritual surrounding it. It may very probably be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So how about it? You guys game?”

  Marvin and McNiff accepted enthusiastically. Koesler, tears streaming down his cheeks from the choking fit, was able only to nod. Just try to keep me away from that one! If you think the money pouring in is a miracle, wait till you see who, uninvited, is sharing Clem’s final resting place.

  15

  This was where it had all started. The cataclysm known as the
Detroit Riot of 1967 began in a building just a few doors north of St. Agnes Catholic Church.

  At that time, Zoo Tully had lived in this neighborhood. He recalled the event very clearly. He remembered how the police had reacted to the rioting. Some were able to relate and more were incapable of relating to the black community that inhabited the fringes of the New Center area, which encompassed the golden-domed Fisher Building and General Motors headquarters, as well as bordering on Harper Hospital and the Cultural Center. That experience had cemented his resolve to join the police force and make a difference.

  Now Zoo Tully and Phil Mangiapane were standing on the sidewalk outside St. Agnes Church on Twelfth Street, now better known as Rosa Parks Boulevard.

  The street was all but deserted. But Tully could well imagine what it had been like when, a little more than a week ago, a riotous situation had occurred right here. Though much less far-reaching than the, ’67 conflagration, still it had been a riotous scene nonetheless.

  “This is where the guy was standing, Zoo … right here.” Mangiapane indicated the spot. He had done yeoman’s work in catching up with the department’s investigation to date. And coming off the time spent looking for Father Keating, there was a lot of catching up to be done.

  “The church was packed,” Mangiapane continued. “Of course there isn’t a hell of a lot of room in there. So the crowd spilled out down the steps and onto the sidewalk here. It was sort of a semicircle with the biggest part of the crowd right here—right in front of the center doors. They had a loudspeaker rigged so the crowd could hear what was going on inside. It was in the middle of all this that Salden bought it.”

  Tully was struggling to pay attention. He had decided to start from scratch with his investigation of the killing of Harold Salden, religion writer for the Detroit News. Familiarizing himself with work already accomplished by Homicide detectives would provide him with a shortcut. Mangiapane and several other members of Tully’s squad had absorbed all they could of the progress of the investigation so far. If anything, the officers were a bit surprised that Tully was not already far ahead of them, but then they marveled too that he was not putting in his usual twelve to sixteen hour days.