Body Count

17

The box containing the mortal remains of Monsignor Clement Kern had been unearthed. Evidently that was enough for that day. The grand opening of the casket had been postponed.

Meanwhile, the unopened casket rested on a bier in the nave of the church just outside the sanctuary. And the church, quite naturally, was that of The Most Holy Trinity in old Corktown where Clem Kern had been assigned for thirty-four years.

Tradition has it that when the Lodge Freeway was constructed, linking Detroit’s northern extremities to downtown, the highway was supposed to go right through the site of Trinity Church. This prospect made Cardinal Edward Mooney, then archbishop of Detroit, a happy man. Trinity long had been a financial loser and a drain on archdiocesan funds. Mooney was said to have been ecstatic over the proposed demolition of the building. Some thought the Cardinal himself would come and bless the bulldozer that would do the deed.

Then, according to the story, a city councilperson, who would live in infamy in Mooney’s heart, spoke up to save the little parish that had been there when the Irish immigrants circled their wagons around it and later when the poorest of the poor had huddled within it for warmth, shelter, and sustenance. The courageous councilperson won out. And now, when motorists tool down the Lodge, they relive that administrative fiat as they head directly toward the little old church, only to veer off eastward at the very last moment. Trinity survived, to be transformed by the selfless ministry of Clem Kern into a monument for the ages.

It was now the third day since the casket had been removed from the earth of Holy Sepulcher Cemetery. It was the day as well as the hour when the casket would be opened.

The prime purpose for this otherwise ghoulish enterprise was to establish, insofar as it was possible, that the body of the man who might one day be venerated as a true saint actually was the body of the Servant of God in question.

There was another reason. There was always the possibility that in the process, the exhumers just might stumble upon another miracle. In the past, there had been some marvelous discoveries at this stage in the process of canonization. Sometimes the body was found in a remarkable-miraculous? — state of preservation.

St. Catherine of Siena as well as St. Clare of Assisi were cases in point. Enshrined within altars in their respective hometowns, they looked as good as new after centuries of inanimation-or so it is said.

Then there’s the blood of St. Januarius, which liquifies each year on the anniversary of his death, until last year. Still, not a bad track record.

And, among many surprisingly preserved saints, there’s the case of St. Francis Xavier. He died on a small island off the coast of China. His associate buried him on the spot, taking the trouble to throw quicklime over the body. Later, after scraping away the soil and lime, Francis’s body was discovered to be remarkably lifelike, even supple. He was to be entombed in the wall of the cathedral in Goa. Workers found the hole in the wall not quite deep enough. So they simply forced the body into the space, breaking the neck in the process. Francis Xavier’s body is still on display. It is, by now, quite mummified. But, considering all that was inflicted upon the poor remains, he’s holding his own.

Such incidents provide the special excitement and promise inherent in a canonical exhumation. One never knows in what condition one is going to find the Servant of God.

Of course, modern methods of embalming, the better-made caskets and vaults can muddy the matter. In today’s world, is a well-preserved body a sign of God’s favor to the deceased? Could it be a miracle, or could it be the miracle of modern technology?

Whatever.

Still there was the undeniable thrill of anticipation. What would Clem Kern look like these many years since his death and burial? Those strong of stomach, at least, wanted to know. It didn’t much matter in the final analysis whether he had been preserved or not. If he were well preserved, in all probability it would not be accepted as miraculous. Clem would have to come up with something clearly spectacular on his own. However, in the eyes of many of his old buddies, it would be good to see him again.

However, not all of his buddies could be present for the viewing, not by any means. The viewers were there by invitation only. And there weren’t many of them. There were, of course, representatives of the mortuary industry. There were heads of archdiocesan commissions and committees. There were a few who were invited but for squeamish reasons had declined. There was Cardinal Mark Boyle, who, as the local bishop, had authored the original petition to Rome to start this case. Finally, there was Father Mulroney, and his three friends, Fathers Marvin, McNiff, and Koesler.

As the “relator’s collaborator,” Mulroney was pretty much running this paraliturgical event. He had led an appropriate hymn and offered some appropriate prayers. He had held a copy of some of these specially prepared prayers for Cardinal Boyle to read aloud. The Cardinal had spread some sweet-smelling incense over the burning coals in the thurible. He had walked around the casket, sprinkling it with holy water. He had retraced his steps around the casket, swinging the thurible back and forth, filling the small church with the aroma of incense. Some of those present, Koesler included, rather hoped that the aroma might modify whatever smell there might come from the casket once it was opened after years in the ground.

In fact, the process of raising the lid was going on right now. Inspired by the preceding elaborate ceremony, the morticians were taking their sweet time in getting the lid off. They were sort of winging their own paraliturgy in an area wherein none had been composed by anyone.

An unmistakable air of expectancy permeated the small group.

Wayne County’s medical examiner had not been invited. He might have been the only one to whom this was old hat. The morticians present had some slight experience with exhumations, though never in the case of one who might be named a saint. As to the rest, emotions ranged from dread to morbid interest.

The only one who felt completely ambivalent was Father Koesler. He was pleased that Clem Kern was finally being given the sort of respect and attention that rightfully should be his. On the other hand, he was apprehensive about what he knew would be found in that casket.

Meanwhile, the morticians continued to fiddle with the fasteners that needed to be loosened before the entire lid could be removed.

“If they ever get that damn thing off, I don’t think we’ll be able to see what’s left of Clem for all this smoke,” Father Marvin said in a stage whisper.

“Don’t get me wrong,” McNiff stage-whispered in return, “but I don’t see what’s taking them so long.” He turned to Father Mulroney, and, still whispering, said, “I really am glad you invited us for this ceremony, although we won’t be able to tell our grandchildren about it. But how long is this supposed to go on?”

Mulroney smiled. “It shouldn’t be much longer,” he whispered. The four priest friends were standing close enough together to communicate through whispering without unduly disturbing the others. “I wonder what everybody will think when they find that Clem is not alone in there?”

Koesler’s eyes popped. He could not believe his ears. “What did you say?” He forgot to whisper, momentarily drawing the attention of the others. Koesler made an apologetic gesture, then repeated the question, this time in the approved stage whisper. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Mulroney whispered, “I wonder how many here know that Clem is not alone in there?”

How could Mulroney know?! It couldn’t have been through the confessional, or Mulroney would not be bandying the information about so casually. Hadn’t Guido made his crime a sacrosanct secret only to Koesler? If Mulroney knew, and if he could be so offhandedly candid about it, why hadn’t he told the police long ago? God knows everyone in Detroit who read papers or listened to radio or television knew the police were looking for Father Keating. Koesler clearly was bewildered.

His wondering was brought to a sharp conclusion by a flurry at the casket. Evidently, the morticians had finally undone all the fasteners. But now, they found the casket lid either too cumbersome or too unwieldy for two men to lift. As Father Mulroney stepped forward to help out, he asked his friends to lend a hand.

Marvin and McNiff joined Mulroney immediately. Under ordinary circumstances, Koesler would have helped too. But by now he was not only frozen in place, he had squeezed his eyes shut. Why had he come?! Yet how could he have stayed away?

Until Mulroney said something just a few seconds ago about how Monsignor Kern was not alone in the casket, Koesler had assumed that he and Father Dunn-and, of course Guido Vespa, plus whoever had helped him insert Keating-were the only ones who knew about Father Keating and what would be his penultimate resting place.

Eyes closed, Koesler was unable to gauge the sounds made by the bystanders. However, he had expected a considerably more shocked reaction. He did clearly hear McNiff say, “What the hell is this?” Still, that was hardly the response Koesler had expected from the sight of two cadavers in the same coffin. He opened his eyes.

At first he could see nothing. His eyes had been shut so tightly that upon opening them the light momentarily blinded him. In addition, smoke from the incense continued to pour from the thurible. It was several moments before he was able to focus.

No doubt about it: There was the body of Monsignor Clement Kern.

And nobody else.

And the explanation of Mulroney’s allusion to Clem’s not being alone as well as McNiff’s surprised “What the hell is this?”: In the casket, at about the level of Clem Kern’s hip, was an unopened bottle of Courvoisier, that extremely pricey cognac. Its position in the casket indicated that someone had slid it in just as the lid was lowered. Apparently, it was meant to accompany the monsignor into eternity. And apparently, Father Mulroney was among the few who knew about it.

But-the essential concern-Koesler carefully counted the bodies. There was one. One body.

Could there be a false bottom? What if Guido and friends had planted Keating beneath Kern somehow? That outside possibility was torpedoed when the morticians removed almost all the padding from the casket, probably searching for any particle of Clem’s clothing, or of his body, which might someday become a treasured relic.

As a result of the morticians’ digging about, it was clear that, one, there was room in the casket for a couple of-if somewhat cramped-bodies, and two, the body count remained at one.

Unable to grasp the significance of this turn of events, Koesler absently studied the one body available.

It didn’t seem that Clem was going to be a self-performing miracle. There was no doubt the remains were that of Clem Kern. All the contours were there. But Clem, in life a small person, had shriveled still more. What skin that could be seen-head, neck, and hands-was dark and discolored. The eyes and cheeks were sunken. There seemed to be some sort of fungus growing there. The body was leathery, seemingly mummified. Someone touched a vestment; it disintegrated. Someone else touched a finger; the nail simply dropped off.

That was enough for Koesler.

He moved away from the casket. It was an easy directional change; everyone else seemed to be closing in on the coffin to see what they might see. So, that quickly, Koesler was alone.

How to put this together? There was no doubt about Guido Vespa’s confession. Koesler had not dreamed it. If there were any doubt-and he was not hesitant to doubt himself-there was the testimony of Father Dunn.

Guido had freely and spontaneously confessed not only the murder of Father Keating but the peculiar disposal of Keating’s body.

But the body wasn’t here. It wasn’t anywhere in the casket. Could Guido have gotten the wrong casket? If so, whose? Why would he lie about a thing like that? Why would he lie in confession? To what purpose? The confession was reserved between the priest-himself-Guido Vespa, and God. Dunn’s involvement was purely accidental. Between Koesler, Vespa, and God, what would be the point of such a detail if it were a lie? Who was Vespa trying to kid?

Or could it be possible … could someone have removed Keating’s body? Undoubtedly Vespa had help in digging up that casket. One of his henchmen? Now there was a distinct possibility. One or more of Vespa’s sidekicks returns to the cemetery, digs up the casket once again, and takes Keating’s body. Where? Why? To blackmail Vespa? Perhaps someone who found out that Church authorities were going to exhume Clem’s body. Certainly within the past week or so that was no secret. As the time neared, the media were active in publicizing the event. If one of Vespa’s henchmen stole Keating’s body, as it were, could he-would he-blackmail Vespa?

Ees a puzzlement, as the King of Siam was wont to say.

There was no point in Koesler’s remaining in the church. He wasn’t about to force himself to view the body again. In fact, he couldn’t understand why the others seemed so fascinated with what was left of Clem Kern.

Nor was there any particular problem with Koesler’s leaving. No one appeared to be paying any attention to him whatsoever. So he simply circumvented the crowd and walked out the first door he came to.

There he found a group of clamorous media people who had been barred from the ceremony. Father Mulroney considered the sun-guns, the cameras, the gaggle of newspeople extraneous to the solemnity of this event. They had been promised entree only after the ritual was finished. So, actually, the media people could have entered now, but Mulroney and the others inside had forgotten all about them.

To the media, Koesler was fresh meat; they descended on him in a feeding frenzy.

He was caught off guard. He, too, had forgotten their presence in the outer darkness where there was little weeping but a lot of gnashing of teeth. Questions poured in from every side.

Had he seen the body? Was it miraculously preserved? Was there anything unusual about Monsignor Kern, other than that he was dead? (One had to allow for that sort of question in any media interview.) Were any of those who viewed the body especially moved by the sight? Did anyone faint? Get sick? Of what did the ritual consist? When could they get into the church and do their goddam job? Didn’t anyone in the Catholic Church ever hear of a deadline?

As far as Koesler could judge, just about every conceivable question had been thrust at him except, Was Father John Keating’s body in the coffin with Clem Kern? That was Koesler’s question, and he wasn’t sharing that with anybody.

Wait. There was one with whom he would be forced to share that question. And that person was waiting most impatiently at St. Joseph’s rectory, listening to every newscast. Fruitlessly hoping to learn what or who was sharing Clem Kern’s space.

Father Koesler needed to get back to the rectory right away.

Father Nick Dunn was as stunned as Koesler had been to learn that Monsignor Kern was as alone in his casket as he had ever been.

Koesler explained his hypotheses to the other priest: one, that Guido Vespa had lied about depositing the body, or two, that someone had removed Keating’s remains sometime after Vespa had interred them with Kern.

After considerable thought, conversation, and cups of coffee-made by Dunn-both priests agreed: Either Guido had lied about this detail-and neither priest could think of any reason for that-or, and more likely, someone, probably someone from the reburial squad, had stolen the body. And why? It had to be some form of blackmail. Possibly the blackmail had its roots in some arcane Mafia tradition. Maybe it had something to do with the contract.

Maybe-and this was Dunn’s hypothesis-the contract called for Keating to be buried with Kern. And that, after killing Keating, is exactly what Vespa and his gang had done. Then comes the news that Kern is going to be disinterred. So somebody, not necessarily from Vespa’s gang, but somebody who knows the two priests are buried together, steals Keating’s body, thus violating the terms of the contract. Now the one who has the body is in control and is in position to blackmail Vespa.

It sounded good. But Koesler was still uneasy over discussing someone’s confession with a third party. He realized that some of his feeling was the result of a perhaps overly cautious approach to the seal of confession. After all, neither priest had done anything whatsoever to disturb Vespa’s privacy. Both priests had heard the confession and neither priest had revealed the secret of that confession to anyone in any way. Still, it was a foreign feeling to Koesler to share any confessional secret with anyone but God.

Koesler felt it necessary to remind Dunn that they were still dealing with the sacred seal. But in the unlikely event that Vespa had lied about where he buried Jake Keating, even that lie was included as an inviolable secret. Dunn agreed.

At that moment, the phone rang.

Dunn, since he happened to be seated near the phone, answered. “St. Joseph’s.” He listened briefly, eyes widening. In apparent amazement, he handed the phone to Koesler. “It’s for you. I’m not sure, but I think it’s Guido Vespa.”

“Father Koesler?”

The voice over the phone sounded like that which Koesler had heard through the grill of the confessional. In neither instance was there a whisper. There was the same throaty quality and a strong hint of an Italian-American accent.

“This is Father Koesler.”

“This is Guido Vespa. Was you there in the church today when they-whaddyacallit-opened the thing, the coffin?”

“I was there.”

“Then you know.”

“I know, but I don’t understand.”

“Yeah. I gotta see you.”

“You want to see me? Can you come here, to St. Joseph’s, to the rectory?”

“That wouldn’t be so hot, Father.”

“All right. Then where? When?”

“You know where the Eastern Market is?”

“Sure. Of course. I can walk there easily from here.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll meet you at the southeast corner at 11:30.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Koesler was quite familiar with the locale. At that time of night it would be dark and deserted. The only likely illumination would come from the sparsely placed overhead streetlights-if they were working. He was wary of meeting in such a desolate spot. “Why don’t we meet in a more public place? Maybe a restaurant?”

“No. I don’t wanna have any people around. And you can’t bring nobody. But we gotta meet.”

Once again Koesler hesitated. Practical judgment dictated that he refuse the invitation and insist that if they were to meet at all, it would have to be in a much more public place. But experience told him that Guido Vespa would remain adamant and insist on the market for their rendezvous.

Two circumstances influenced Koesler to acquiesce to Guido’s insistence. Quite naturally he was more than curious about Vespa’s explanation of what had happened. Secondly, Vespa sounded as though he was desperate to talk to the priest to whom he had confessed. The second reason won the inner argument; Koesler could not bring himself to turn down a soul in need. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”

“Alone.”

“I’ll be alone.”

“Thanks, Father.” Vespa broke the connection.

“He wants to meet you tonight?” Dunn had of course heard only Koesler’s end of the conversation.

Koesler nodded.

“I’ll go with you.” Dunn considered that a rather fearless offer.

“Not if you don’t want to abort this meeting. The gentleman was quite insistent that I come alone.”

“But that-“

“Alone!”

“You’ll tell me about it?”

“I certainly hope I have that opportunity.”