Body Count

Part Two
14

Earlier in the twentieth century, Detroit’s theater district-such as it was-was located bordering along Woodward not far from the river on streets such as Larned, Congress, Fort, and Lafayette. Many of those legitimate stages later became movie houses. All were now long gone.

Now, later in the twentieth century, the theater district-such as it is-of downtown Detroit lies above Grand Circus Park, about a mile north of where it once was. And the streets surrounding this district can be dangerous.

It was just after 10:00 on a balmy September evening when the show at the Fox Theater let out. A generally satisfied audience spilled out onto Woodward Avenue, which had the distinction of being M-l, the first highway in Michigan.

Most of the patrons had parked in the large adjoining lot. But Father Koesler, in a tribute to frugality, had parked in the underground garage beneath Grand Circus Park, which, even though evening rates had been drastically reduced to attract customers, was nearly empty. The garage was only a block or so south of the Fox, but a lot could happen in that short distance. And if anything did happen, chances were it would not be pleasant.

The four priest friends who had attended tonight’s performance had come in two cars. Father McNiff had chauffeured Fathers Marvin and Mulroney and had parked in the Fox lot. Indeed, of all those in attendance this night, Koesler seemed the only one to have parked any distance from the theater. Since the four had agreed to meet at Carl’s Chop House for an after-theater meal, Frank Marvin volunteered to go with Koesler so he would not be alone. Thus the two set off, walking briskly down Woodward.

It was eerie.

The area just outside the theater was brightly lit and swarming with happy, chatting people. Two steps from that scene and it was like a set from a wartime movie. There were streetlights, but it was nowhere near as illumined as the overlit Fox marquee. And there were no people. The impression that the infrequent pedestrian had quickly passed into some sort of no-man’s-land was due in large part to the contrast between a small zone comprising noisy people packed together like sardines and a desolate street-all within a few feet of each other.

The two priests could not help but be aware of their isolation.

“Is it worth it?” Father Marvin asked.

“What?” Father Koesler returned.

“The five or so bucks you save by parking in the garage.”

“A penny saved, et cetera,” Koesler said flippantly. But he didn’t feel that insouciant. As nonchalantly as possible he glanced over his shoulder to see who, if anyone, was behind them as they walked. There was no one in front of them as far as the eye could see.

But there was someone behind them.

A lone young man, possibly a teenager, in jeans and T-shirt. Somewhat lightly clothed, even for this mild weather. Definitely not part of the theater crowd. A casual pedestrian headed … where? Home? A rendezvous? Nowhere in particular?

Koesler did not want to alarm Marvin. But he certainly wanted to stay alert to this potential threat.

They walked in silence a few more steps. Koesler again glanced over his shoulder. The young man maintained his course in their wake. He stayed about eight to ten yards behind them, matching their pace. But something was added now: a car, old, weatherworn, so dirty it was difficult to tell how many passengers were in it.

Koesler did not wish to turn around and confront the young man or his companions, which very likely the occupants of the car were. The car was creeping down Woodward at the same slow speed as the priests and their shadow.

“Bob,” Marvin said softly, “somebody seems to be following us.”

“Oh?” So Marvin had also noticed this small procession. Koesler did not want either himself or Marvin to panic, but there was an unmistakable sense of serious danger here.

Of course it was possible the young man was simply out for a walk on an inviting evening. He might have been keeping a date.

And if Koesler flapped his arms, he might fly. No, that steady pace kept both by the pedestrian and the suspicious car boded no harmless explanation.

The fact that their quarry were priests apparently carried no weight with these predators. It was as if two animals had allowed themselves to be cut off from the herd and were now being stalked by wolves.

Koesler felt they would be lucky to be merely robbed. Yet he saw no alternative to playing this out and seeing what would happen. Though he was extremely apprehensive, he tried to act casual for his own sake as well as Marvin’s.

The two priests reached the corner of Adams and Woodward. Across the street was Grand Circus Park, beneath which was the parking garage, and safety-if they could reach it.

Ordinarily, they would have crossed with the light at the corner. But Koesler opted for a shortcut. He nudged Marvin to jaywalk toward the center of the Adams block and the ramp leading down to the garage.

They turned sharply to the right. Koesler glanced back. The young man also turned right. Now there was no doubt: He was following them. Whatever was going to happen would happen in just a few moments.

But something else was happening. The car did not turn right. It continued south on Woodward. That unexpected event was followed by another. The young man veered off and followed in the direction of the car.

Surprised, both Koesler and Marvin stopped to see what was going on.

They saw a marked blue and white Detroit police car, which had unobtrusively pulled up behind the other car. The officer had turned on neither siren nor flashing lights. But the police car had been spied by the driver of the car following the priests. And when the young man noticed his companions veering off, he also abandoned the chase.

For a brief instant Koesler thought the single officer in the car might give them a ticket for jaywalking. He would have welcomed one considering what the policeman had saved them from. But the blue and white simply glided by, the officer therein neither smiling nor showing any sign of concern. Probably he too was glad nothing had happened.

The two priests hurried to Koesler’s car. Koesler paid the dollar parking fee, then drove up the exit ramp. Both men looked in every direction. They were not being cautious of other traffic as much as making sure their potential muggers were nowhere in sight. Coast clear, they headed in the direction of the restaurant.

Well on their way, Marvin spoke. “Thank God for the Detroit police!” It was said with fervor and sincerity. Thereafter, neither spoke.

McNiff and Mulroney had arrived at the restaurant only moments before Koesler and Marvin. It was late in the evening and this was one of the few eateries still open and offering everything from a snack to a full dinner. There were three main dining rooms, only one designated as nonsmoking. At this hour, that meant little; heavy smoke hung almost motionless everywhere.

Most of the tables were empty; the quartet was seated almost immediately. It took several moments for their eyes to become accustomed to the soft lighting and the smoke. When they were able to see more clearly, McNiff immediately observed, “You guys look like you saw a ghost!”

“Damn right!” Marvin answered. “The ‘ghosts’ almost were us!”

There followed a graphic, detailed, and somewhat embellished narration of their memorable if brief stroll down Woodward. As he told the story, Marvin grew progressively more animated as well as more resentful of Koesler’s penny-pinching style that almost got both of them murdered.

Following this, there was general agreement-Koesler dissenting-on the danger of Detroit streets, especially after dark.

Responding to one of Koesler’s attempts to diffuse so sweeping an indictment of the city, McNiff countered, “What about that News reporter, Salden? What does that say about your safe streets? Here’s a guy just trying to do his job. And the job is covering religion, for God’s sake! And he gets killed!”

“Not too good an example, Pat.” Mulroney, it was generally acknowledged, was well read and well informed on current affairs. “According to reports I’ve read, whoever shot Salden wasn’t firing at random.”

“No?” When challenged, McNiff tended to react defensively.

“No,” Mulroney responded calmly. “It seems that all the shots-or all the shots that can be accounted for-hit Salden. The other people who were wounded were hit by bullets that went right through Salden.”

Marvin shuddered. “Do you mind? Koesler and I just went through an experience where we might have been used for target practice. I’d just as soon not talk about how bullets go through bodies.”

Koesler seconded the motion. He was no more eager than Marvin to converse about murder. “There’s tonight’s play.”

“Yeah … doesn’t it make you feel good to know that one of the brethren wrote it?” McNiff said.

With that, their waitress arrived, looking the worse for wear. She appeared quite elderly. Her white stockings hung loosely from swollen legs and ankles. Her wispy white hair was frazzled. One could be forgiven for wondering why she continued working this late at night, if indeed at all. One could only assume she really needed the money.

“Get you something to drink?” Putting her weight on her left leg, she listed to port.

McNiff ordered a manhattan, the others beer. The waitress shuffled off.

“Yeah,” Marvin picked up McNiff’s observation, “imagine a Detroit priest getting a play he wrote staged at the Fox!”

“He deserved the break,” Koesler said. “A Consequence of Heritage is a good play. Humor, conflict, a gentle touch, even a bit of tragedy. And did you notice in the program notes that Cliff mentioned how even though his play is about a Polish family, it could be understood as being indicative of any ethnic group?”

“I’d agree,” Mulroney said. “The tendency is to think of it as a slice of Polish life, because that’s the way it’s presented. But, with minor changes, it could portray almost any ethnic group. And even at that I wonder if it has to be ethnic.”

The waitress returned with their drinks. “Ready to order?” She shifted her weight to her right foot and listed to starboard.

“How’s the soup?” Mulroney asked.

“Like water. It was better earlier. Don’t order it now.”

The four were surprised at her candor. They all grinned.

“Okay,” Mulroney said, “I’ll have the deluxe hamburger, well done.”

“You don’t want it well done,” she replied. “It’ll be like shoe leather. Get it medium.”

“Uh …” Mulroney was not sure how to respond.”… but I … well, okay, if you say so.”

“And,” she added, “don’t get it deluxe. By this time the French fries are greasy. Get cottage fries. And don’t get them on individual orders; get an order for the whole table.”

By now, the priests were laughing heartily.

Their laughter did not seem to affect their waitress one way or the other. But she pretty well managed to order dinner for all of them, one by one,

After she left, Koesler returned to the topic at hand. “Getting back to Mo’s question about whether the play had to be ethnic; I think it not only had to be ethnic, but also a slice of the past. I mean, the kind of home life Ruskowski is portraying seems to me to be typical of what we had in the thirties and early forties, but certainly not sustained after World War II.”

“No, no.” McNiff stirred the ice in his drink with his index finger. “I’ve seen lots of families like that.”

“Lately? Come on!” Koesler said. “There were only two sets in the entire play. The principal set was the home. A living room took up almost the whole stage with one upstairs bedroom where Grandma just lay in bed with her back to the audience waiting to die. Her granddaughter comes home and has to put on a nun’s veil to visit Grandma who hasn’t been told that the girl left the convent years ago. And the other set was the grandson’s room in a rectory. How many families do you know of today with two kids, one a nun, at least previously, the other a priest?”

“Okay,” McNiff conceded, “maybe not a priest and a nun, not anymore. But that wasn’t the point. The fact that the kids had religious vocations was incidental to the point of the play, It was this close-knit family that depended on each other. And that’s not uncommon any time.”

“I didn’t think they depended on each other so much as they devoured each other,” Marvin said.

“Now, pay attention,” Koesler admonished McNiff. “Frank used to review plays for the Detroit Catholic.”

McNiff, grinning, drew a large imaginary circle, then mimed someone dealing playing cards.

Marvin laughed. “Okay, I get it: big deal!” He nodded. “Maybe so. But remember Grandma up on the shelf: Everyone and everything eventually had to revolve around that still, silent figure. That signified the unhealthy relationship that bound that family together. There wasn’t much free choice going on there.”

“Yeah,” Koesler agreed, “Grandma was the central character of that play. She was the patron saint of that family. That is, she was the saint until she spoke her last words-which were also her first words in the play.”

“There goes the ethnic thing again,” Marvin said. “She cried out much the same as Christ did on the cross. But her last words were in Polish. Which the mother first translated as ‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.’ But to her priest son, she admitted that Grandma’s last words were, ‘Shit! I don’t want to die!’ And there went her sanctity.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Koesler said through his laughter, “like the priest grandson said in the play-minus the vulgarity-that’s about what Christ said through his torment and death: ‘I don’t want to die.’”

“Even including the vulgarity,” Marvin said, “there’s no reason why that should argue against her cause for sanctity. It doesn’t seem to be hurting Clem Kern.”

Koesler choked on his beer.

No one reacted immediately, but as the choking continued, McNiff began to pound Koesler on the back, perhaps more vigorously than necessary.

Koesler waved him away as the breathing passage cleared.

It wasn’t news to Koesler that Monsignor Clem Kern had been nominated for sainthood. When his cause had been initiated years earlier, it had been big news, and played as such by the media. But that was a long while ago. And at the time, Koesler had subconsciously packed the item away in the recesses of his awareness. After all, wasn’t the aphorism something to the effect that one should be slow with unqualified praise after the manner of the Church, which didn’t canonize people until some three hundred years after their death? Since Monsignor Kern had been dead not even twenty years, Koesler had given the cause little thought. Even when Guido Vespa confessed the bizarre entombment of Father Keating with Clem Kern, Koesler hadn’t adverted to the ongoing cause for sainthood.

“You okay?” McNiff wondered.

“I’ll be all right,” Koesler wheezed. “Just went down the wrong way.”

“Clem Kern wasn’t vulgar!” McNiff turned back to Marvin.

Marvin grinned. “He could be earthy when the occasion demanded.”

“Besides,” McNiff said, “what chance has old Clem got? A parish priest from Detroit? Now, if he’d been a martyr …”

“Not so,” said the resourceful Mulroney. “It’s not all that out of the question … at least not today.”

Their salads arrived. There were no further drink orders, and their lugubrious waitress departed.

“For the last thousand years,” Mulroney continued, “Popes have been doing the canonizing all by themselves. Officially, since A.D, 1234-an easy date to remember. But the point is, in all this time there have been less than three hundred saints named.”

“So?” McNiff said.

“So,” Mulroney replied, “in 1988 alone the present Pope named 122 saints. So he likes saints; that’s obvious. He can and he does make lots of them. As a matter of fact, he kind of prods the Congregation for the Causes of Saints to keep the machinery going. As we all know, just from watching TV, the Pope gets around. For centuries, the Popes were the self-proclaimed ‘prisoners of the Vatican.’ Well, Paul VI got around pretty good. But he was a stay-at-home compared with our current guy. And, usually, when he visits a country, he likes to make one or more of the natives a saint.

“Say, for instance, he were to come to the States again-“

“Spare me,” Marvin interjected. “Have we finished paying for his last visit yet?”

That brought an appreciative laugh.

“Seriously,” Mulroney continued, “if he came back to the States, he’d probably want to name a saint or two, Why not good old Clem Kern?”

“Because, for one thing, Solanus Casey is ahead of him,” Marvin observed.

“Well,” Mulroney said, “a doubleheader then. Casey and Kern,”

“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 considerable 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.