Body Count

by William Kienzle

  “Yes.” Dunstable seemed uncomfortable that he’d brought up the subject. But in his effort to indicate what a kind pastor Keating had been, he had let the cat out of the bag. He hoped Tully had not been paying attention. In this hope he was fortunate. Mitchell may or may not have known that, for a time, Dunstable had “lived in sin” with his second wife. It was there in the records to which Mitchell had access. But Mitchell didn’t matter. And Koesler seemed a nice sort.

  Koesler was pleased. He was so proud of his priesthood, he took quite personally both the good and bad reports about other priests. Besides, sometime in the future Father Keating’s body might turn up. In which case, there would be a funeral. It was at least possible that Koesler might be asked to deliver a eulogy. Learning as many good things as possible about Keating could be a practically rewarding enterprise.

  Koesler did not want to delve into the reason Dunstable’s first marriage had been ruled null from its inception—which would have to have been the case or the Church would never have granted a decree of nullity.

  Had he been curious, it would have been simple for Koesler to discover that the first Mrs. Dunstable had been committed to a rather nice rest home for the mentally disturbed. And that she was there to this day. Koesler’s assumption at that point would have been that her unbalanced condition was proved to have existed prior to her marriage to Dunstable. Otherwise, if he had married a sane woman who later became ill, the marriage could not have been declared null on those grounds. The marriage would have been found valid and there would have been no way the Church would recognize Dunstable’s freedom to marry. Nor would the Church have convalidated Dunstable’s civil second marriage.

  These would have been Koesler’s assumptions if he had been aware of the first Mrs. Dunstable’s present whereabouts.

  These assumptions would have been only partly incorrect.

  The first Mrs. Dunstable had been quite sane, though not entirely wise, when she married. Years of psychological abuse, the never-ending demand for perfection, service, sacrifice, and dedication to Dunstable, along with his requirement that she perform in public as a loved and pampered spouse, drove the poor woman bonkers.

  He divorced her when she slipped into a psychotic state, and he had her committed. But God did not will that Dunstable remain alone. At least that’s the way he saw it. He married again. But his previous marriage prevented the second marriage from being valid in the eyes of the Church.

  Dunstable was more than uncomfortable with this. It was common knowledge that he was Catholic—a pillar of the Church—and that, the second time around, he did not have benefit of clergy.

  Enter Father Keating.

  From experience and manipulation, Keating knew that one could find any number of psychotherapists—psychiatrists, psychologists—who could be counted on to categorize someone as sane or insane, depending upon which state was desired. And in conjunction with his search into the first Mrs. Dunstable’s past, Keating was able to come up with several such therapists. Those who judged her to be quite sane at the time of her marriage were discarded. Those who found that her unfortunate condition had been alive and thriving as early as her teen years were the ones interviewed for the record.

  Thus, with some expediting from a bishop or so, the nullity was granted and a quiet convalidation was witnessed by Father John Keating himself.

  “Yes,” Dunstable reaffirmed, “Father Jack was with me—with us—when we really needed him. I don’t know what we’d have done without him.”

  Koesler was touched by the seeming sincerity of this tribute. “How did he help?”

  Dunstable was most willing to go into some detail. “He just was … there. He opened the canonical procedure. He helped with the presentation of the case—even picked out the witnesses and arranged for them to testify. Just shepherded the whole thing through from beginning to end. Even had a bishop—a friend of his—smooth the way. But,” he emphasized defensively, “that doesn’t mean I got any special consideration because of my position. It’s not that I bought this dispensation!”

  “I understand,” Koesler said. “I understand. Thank God the day is past when the Church can be accused of selling these decisions.”

  “That’s right.” Dunstable seemed gratified that Koesler understood. “Father Jack actually kept the cost to an absolute minimum.”

  Tully had been paying only cursory attention to the records that marched past his eyes. He had been paying even less attention to the conversation between Koesler and Dunstable. But he hadn’t banked on silence. Like someone half asleep in front of a blaring television when someone turns it off: One is not prepared for silence, so one comes wide awake.

  Dunstable had a similar reaction. Why hadn’t Father Koesler replied? Their conversation had been running so smoothly. The priest should have said something to the effect of “Wasn’t that thoughtful of Father Jack?” Instead, he said nothing.

  The silence was electric.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Dunstable,” Koesler said quietly after a few moments, “did you say something about Father Keating keeping the cost of your nullity declaration to a minimum?”

  Dunstable felt unsure of himself, an exceedingly rare state. What had been a casual conversation with Koesler, with no indication that either Mitchell or Tully was paying any mind, had suddenly taken on some undefined significance.

  The aura of hauteur appeared to have dissolved. “Well, Father Jack explained how a case like mine would have to go to Rome. All the documents, all the testimony would have to be translated into Latin. Attorneys in Rome would have to be retained to argue the case.

  “Really, gentlemen …” Dunstable addressed not only Koesler, but the others, since everyone now was paying rapt attention. “… he didn’t have to go through all that. Don’t you see: It’s just one more example of how kind and thoughtful Father Jack was during my time of need.

  “Of course,” he added, “I understand that things cost money.” He smiled—a we’re-men-of-the-world smile. “We all have to live, after all. I presented a case that had to be worked on. Well, you pay for work. No one understands that better than I. Those lawyers in Rome have to eat! After all, I am well able to pay. Father Jack explained that if I were poor, there would be no charge. I think that rather thoughtful of the Church—not charging the indigent.”

  He smiled, smugly this time. “Really, gentlemen, I don’t understand your concern with this. I just said that with all this in mind that Father Jack went out of his way to keep my costs at a minimum. All things considered, I think that a rather touching example of how special that very special priest was—is.”

  Koesler, Tully, and Mitchell merely looked at Dunstable.

  Dunstable began to squirm a bit. Mitchell was beginning to get the point. Tully had no idea what was going on. But a sixth sense told him that something telling was happening and that this case had just taken a pivotal turn.

  Without speaking, Koesler returned to the desk, alongside Tully. After a few moments, he said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Dunstable, but exactly how much was that charge for processing your case?”

  “Well,” Dunstable sputtered, “I don’t see how that’s here or there …”

  “Answer him.” Tully’s quiet voice was incisive, commanding.

  Dunstable licked his lips several times. Finally, he decided he was not on trial. He had done nothing wrong. Simply paid a bill. If they were so goddam curious about the cost of his dispensation, well, hell, he’d tell them. “The total cost was a mere five thousand dollars. And with all that was involved, I considered it a bargain. And I know the value of money,” he added, as if daring anyone to argue the point.

  Koesler gave the impression of being dumbstruck. Out of the corner of his eye, Tully glanced at him. “What is it?”

  Without taking his eyes from Dunstable, Koesler said, “There is no charge for processing marriage cases. There hasn’t been for a good number of years. The diocese absorbs the cost. Been doing so for almost fifteen years
—well before Mr. Dunstable’s case.”

  Koesler slumped into the chair behind the desk. He massaged his forehead as he tried to make sense of this peculiar revelation. “Mr. Dunstable,” he said, “I assume you made this payment with a check.”

  Dunstable nodded.

  “Then,” Koesler continued, “who did you make the check out to?”

  “Why … why …” Dunstable tried to recall. “I made it out to the parish, I believe. Yes …” He was more certain now. “… to St. Waldo’s.”

  “Now that doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Koesler asked of no one in particular.

  “No, it doesn’t.” Mitchell picked up on the question. “If Keating charged five grand for a no-charge item, you’d think he’d have had the check made out to him.”

  “Now just a minute!” Dunstable objected. “There must be some explanation for this! You’re insinuating—”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Dunstable,” Koesler said. “We’re trying to figure out what happened here. Any light you can she don it?”

  Dunstable was confused. But then, so was everyone else. “No,” he said, “I have no idea. I told you just the way it happened. Just the way Father Keating helped. I don’t know …” His voice trailed off.

  “Mr. Dunstable,” Tully said, “this seems like it would be a transaction with Rome. Why would you make out the check to this parish?”

  “The question crossed my mind,” Dunstable admitted. “But Father Jack explained that since all the paperwork would be originating from the parish, the payment also would come from the parish. I was, in a sense, compensating the parish in advance for costs that would come from the archdiocese as well as from Rome.” He put on his contentious hat. “How can you even suggest that Father Jack would enrich himself from this transaction? If you knew him, you’d know that such a thought would never cross his mind. Besides, as Father Mitchell already said, if he were going to profit from this, why did he have me make the check out to the parish? Why didn’t he have me make it out to him?”

  No one had an answer. There was a prolonged period of silence and thought.

  “Wait a minute,” Koesler said suddenly. “I’m not sure of this, or how it fits, or if it fits, but … let’s take another look at those books.” He opened the current ledger. He ran his finger down the list of billings. “Something vaguely occurred to me earlier, when we were going through the books. Something … something … something … some of these accounts, some of these companies, some of these billings …”

  “What?” Tully wanted to know.

  “Well,” Koesler said, “some of these billings are from companies or institutions I’ve never heard of.”

  “Is that odd?”

  “In a sense, yes. See, I’ve been a pastor for twenty-two years. That’s twenty-two years of running up bills and paying bills or at least being accountable for paying bills. Some might find it surprising, I suppose, that the billings are not all that different from one parish to the next.

  “But, for example, there’s a firm that sells and delivers Mass wine as well as, in some instances, table wine. The ad for that company has it that only Catholic Teamsters drive the trucks that deliver the wine.”

  Tully smiled.

  “Okay,” Koesler said, “it’s hokey, but apparently it works. You’d be surprised how many parishes get their wine from this company. Then there’s the matter of hosts.”

  “Hosts?” Tully had the impression that this case was on the brink of coming to a conclusion. He didn’t want to risk being sidetracked by Catholic jargon.

  “The altar breads that are used at Mass,” Koesler clarified, “Communion wafers.”

  Tully nodded.

  “Well, when it comes to providing hosts, there’s a local convent whose nuns have virtually cornered the market. They’re available almost anytime and they’ve always got a good supply. Say some Sunday the crowded late Masses are coming up, and you’re running low on hosts. It could be time to panic—except for the good Sisters. They are especially at hand for that sort of emergency.”

  “And they deliver,” Mitchell interjected,

  “Like Domino’s?” Tully asked.

  “Not quite,” Koesler said, “but you’ll get the wafers as soon as the fastest cab driver can deliver them. And in a fix like that the priest will be happy to pay the cab fare. Besides, they are nuns.”

  “So,” Tully said, “how about this parish? Does St. Waldo’s buy from the Catholic Teamsters and the handy nuns?”

  “Yes,” Koesler looked again at the ledger, “they’re both on the billing list. So are a number of other firms, companies, and services that I’m familiar with.

  “But there are others that I’ve never heard of. I could swear I’ve never gotten any literature from them. I’ve never heard any of the guys mention doing business with any of them.” He looked up from the books. “And we do talk about these things.

  “As I said before,” Koesler continued to look in a baffled way around the room at the other men, “I don’t exactly know what this means. It’s just that in the light of Mr. Dunstable’s paying for a canonical process for which there is no charge, I thought that these completely unfamiliar billings were a bit peculiar. But I don’t know where we go from here, I’d sure like to find out something about these companies.”

  “Well …” Dunstable stood, repossessed of his original aggressive manner.“… I know where we go from here.” He stepped around to join Koesler and Tully behind the large desk. He took the ledger from Koesler, who winced as Dunstable inadvertently brushed against the injured shoulder. “Which of these billings are you questioning?”

  “Well …” Koesler squeezed the sore arm with his left hand as he swallowed the pain. “… there’s this one—Med Corp Roofing—and Murray Athletic Supplies, and GOPITS, INC.—and these three down at the bottom of the page.”

  Dunstable shook his head. “I’ve seen these names any number of times when I went over the books with Father Jack. But I never suspected … not for an instant.” He looked around the room. “Any one have any objection if I follow through on Father Koesler’s hunch?”

  Mitchell was intent only on maintaining an extremely low profile, Tully couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have check out businesses than Dunstable. And of course it was Koesler’s lead that Dunstable was following. No objection. Koesler made his way back to the couch.

  Dunstable picked up the phone, whose cord seemed to be near infinite, dialed, and began to pace about as he ticked off orders à la Jimmy Cagney in “One, Two, Three.”

  Koesler could imagine whoever Dunstable had called being up to his or her ears in work. Now that person would be expected to drop everything and respond to these new orders. In all probability, the poor soul would also be expected to finish the interrupted work by the end of the day.

  Though Koesler was intensely interested in what Dunstable was saying, he could pick up only bits and snatches. Among these fragments were, “securities commission,” “articles of incorporation,” “names of directors and officers” and “copy of annual report.” Then followed the names of the companies Koesler had indicated. And a forceful instruction to get this information back yesterday. Dunstable gave his employee St. Waldo’s fax number and hung up.

  There was nothing to do but wait.

  Mitchell was resolved to stay in his corner and contemplate what possible future he had at this parish. It was a nice enough place, but he’d pretty well had enough of influential people who ran roughshod over others. Those who did this were only a small percentage of St. Waldo’s parishioners, but they certainly made their presence felt. Chief among these, of course, was Eric Dunstable.

  Maybe, Mitchell thought, he’d apply for a different parish. He was not immediately aware of an attractive opening, but there had to be one someplace. Besides, it was a buyer’s market; he ought to be able to swing something worthwhile.

  Dunstable continued to pace.

  Inwardly, he was fuming. He
would not explode. Not here. Not in the presence of Tully. The man had bested him once already; he would not give the lieutenant another opportunity. But someone in the near future would pay. That vice president had better come up with that information soon or he would be the victim du jour.

  Dunstable well knew why some nameless serf would have to suffer. Because he could not get his hands on Father John Keating. Dunstable was now willing to admit that Keating was dead. And that was sad because it removed the opportunity of killing the priest himself.

  He had been had. He, Eric Dunstable, grossly successful executive, had been taken. And by a parish priest!

  It wasn’t the five thousand dollars. Hell, five grand to him was twenty dollars to the ordinary stiff. No, it wasn’t the money. It was that somebody—no, make that a nobody—had taken advantage of him. The shoe very definitely was on the wrong foot. Taking advantage of people was his game.

  It was as if a youthful, inexperienced card player had dealt from the bottom of the deck to a riverboat gambler and gotten away with it.

  The fire in his viscera burned when he recalled how touched he’d been when Keating had been so solicitous, had appeared to put himself out so that the petitioner had to do little more than sign his name to documents—and, of course, to that check.

  Purgatory was too good for the bastard!

  Sure, sure, sure, all the documents had to be translated, the Italian canonical lawyers had to eat, a little gratuity here and there with a well-positioned monsignor could help. Dunstable resolved he would have someone look into this and discover just how far his petition had had to travel before it was granted. Probably never even left the archdiocese of Detroit!

  Somewhere in this there had to be an expense. Nothing that complicated could be complimentary. There was no such thing as a free undertaking in the Catholic Church. If the expense was swallowed by the Detroit archdiocese it had to be absorbed by the annual archdiocesan collection. Dunstable traditionally contributed most generously to that drive. In effect, then, he’d paid for his dispensation twice. Once in the annual drive, which, among other things, covered the costs incurred by the matrimonial court. And again to line the pockets of Keating’s top-of-the-line black silk suit.