Body Count

18

The distance from St. Joe’s to the market was only a few blocks-albeit long blocks. Father Koesler was sure he could walk there in less than half an hour. Nonetheless, he gave himself a full half hour, leaving the rectory at 11:00 P.M. Koesler also left behind him an anxious Nick Dunn.

Dunn was left at the rectory to “mind the store.” Hardly a daunting task since nothing much ever occurred at this hour of night. Of course there was always the possibility of an emergency sick call or a sudden death in one of the condos or apartments. But usually that involved an EMS ambulance and the services of a hospital chaplain.

Father Dunn was left behind because there was no room for him in this enterprise by edict of none but Guido Vespa.

Koesler’s thoughts ranged all over creation as he walked briskly up Gratiot toward the market area. He was quite alone on the sidewalk. The few vehicles on the street sped by in a wink.

This sort of isolation engendered apprehension as he skirted one shadowy doorway after another. Anyone could pop out from any doorway, ahead of him or behind. Koesler knew that his clerical collar was little deterrent to a mugger desperate for whatever could buy some crack cocaine to send him into a far more pleasant fantasyland.

Forget the muggers, he thought. My God! He was going to meet a murderer. A man who had, among many other victims, indeed killed a priest! Sometimes, thought Koesler, this soul-in-need philosophy could get a practitioner in trouble. And this, very definitely, qualified as one of those times.

Father Koesler’s recent past was overflowing with too many questions and too few answers.

It had been a simple Saturday afternoon. The usual sporadic confessions. Then-Guido. Why had Vespa wandered into St. Joe’s for his second-ever confession? Why had he blundered into the “open” side of the confessional? With that simple error, Koesler had seen the penitent. A fifty-fifty chance. If Vespa had only entered the other side, he would have been nothing more than a voice, a whisper. Well, no; he wouldn’t have been a whisper. Koesler had tried, without any success, to get Vespa to speak sotto voce.

Then another turn of bad luck having Father Dunn happen in just then. Just in time to overhear Vespa’s confession.

In the final analysis, it didn’t matter all that much that he had seen Vespa, since Dunn also saw him. And then Dunn identified him from that fortuitous picture in the next day’s paper.

That Koesler had been dragged into the investigation of the missing Father Keating was not so much a matter of happenstance. By now, Koesler was almost accustomed to having his precious routine interrupted by a homicide investigation that bore a heavily Catholic aspect. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano or the buzzards to Hinckley, it had become an annual event.

But this was the first time he had known who did it before the investigation even began. With but a couple of exceptions, it was the only time he had been sacramentally prevented from participating fully in the case.

What a strange affair … capped by the missing body! And now, in all probability, he was about to find out what had really happened to Father Keating’s body. Would he be able to use productively the information he was about to learn? Probably not. Unless Vespa were to free him from the secrecy of Vespa’s own confession-which seemed highly unlikely-everything would still be bound by that earlier confession.

So … this evening would be entirely devoted to the service of one needy soul.

With this thought, Koesler arrived at the marketplace.

The only establishment open at this hour in this part of town was the Roma Cafe, too far distant to shed any light here. Otherwise the marketplace was deserted.

During the season, farmers brought their fresh produce, plants, and flowers to the market. During business hours trade in the outdoor market was brisk. Now the area resembled a stage set: an uncompleted cluster of buildings with ancient roofs and no walls, which had been deserted and abandoned. Papers, driven by a slight breeze, drifted along the pavements and walkways. Creatures were stirring, but only to feed on the scraps left behind when the farmers departed. Only a few streetlights were functioning. They did little beyond casting unreal shadows. Even though Koesler’s eyes had adapted to the darkness, he could not see very clearly.

“You been waitin’ long, Father?”

This was the third time he had heard the voice. In the confessional, over the phone a few hours ago, and now.

Guido Vespa.

Koesler about-faced abruptly. At first, he could make out only the outline of the other man. But from that outline, he could tell the man was easily as tall as himself and considerably heftier. As Vespa stepped closer, his face moved in and out of the unreliable light.

Koesler was at a loss to know how Vespa had arrived. The priest had neither seen nor heard any vehicle entering the market area. And it was quiet enough to have heard such a sound clearly. Vespa must have parked away from the scene, possibly on Gratiot.

“I said, You been waitin’ long, Father?”

“What? Oh, no. Just a few minutes, I guess.”

“It’s just 11:30,” Vespa said.

Koesler looked at his watch. He was able to tell the time only because of the luminous dial. “So it is. Just 11:30. Well, let’s get down to business, Mr. Vespa.”

“Guido,” Vespa suggested. Then, “You was there,” he said flatly. “You know.”

“Guido then,” Koesler replied. “Yes, I was at Trinity Church today when they opened the coffin.”

“How’d he look?”

“Huh? Who?”

“Father Kern.” Typically, Vespa used the title Kern had preferred: Father.

“He looked okay, I guess … I mean for having been dead and buried for so long.”

“That’s good. He was an up-front guy.”

“I agree. But that’s neither here nor there. There was only one body. The undertakers took out all the lining. There was no false bottom. The body of Father Keating simply was not there. So …?”

“That’s part of what I gotta tell you,” Vespa said. “I made that up … the part about putting Keating in with Father Kern.”

Koesler was once again surprised. Both he and Dunn had been banking on the alternate scenario that had someone exhuming Keating’s body after Vespa and company had paired Keating and Kern. So Vespa, by his own admission, had lied about Keating’s disposition.

“But … why?”

“I shouldna done it. I always do somethin’ stupid like that. Never leave well enough alone. I was tryna be cute. It seemed like a nice touch. I mean, Father Kern woulda helped a guy like Keating. He was always doin’ that kinda thing. Now I got a problem. If I hadn’t told you what I told you, this whole thing wouldna blew up. When I told you I planted Keating with Father Kern, I didn’t have any idea they was gonna dig up Father Kern. If I’da known that, I’da never made that thing up.”

“When do the lies stop, Guido? Did you even have a contract?”

“Oh, yeah. I had a contract okay. I’m not makin’ anything up anymore. This is straight. I even told-well, never mind, it was the person who gave me the contract that I told I was gonna see you tonight. I’m gettin’ everything straight. You can put what I’m tellin’ you tonight in the book. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Okay, Guido, I believe you. What is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“Hey, that’s just like in court. Okay. Get this, Father: That wasn’t no confession I made to you.”

There were several moments of silence as Vespa let this information sink in, and Koesler, for his part, digested this strange statement.

“It was no confession?”

“No. I used to go to confession once in a while. A long time ago. Once in a while, but not much. That wasn’t my second confession after the one I did before First Communion. It wasn’t no confession at all. It was part of the contract. Honest to God, Father, it was part of the contract. And that ain’t all-“

It happened quickly and suddenly, but there was an indefinable rhythm, even choreography, to it. The shots thundered in this cavernous space. As if the huge man were weightless, Vespa’s body jerked up and seemed to hang in midair for a split second.

Almost simultaneously, actually a split second later, Koesler was spun around. He pitched to the pavement as if he had been slam-dunked.

The pain in his shoulder permeated his body. He clenched his teeth as he winced. His mind clouded over. Fearing loss of consciousness, he bent every power of his brain to fight off the darkness.

The longer he remained conscious the more clearly he felt the agonizing pain in his shoulder. Still, he fought the looming unconsciousness that threatened to engulf him.

He was able to move his head. So he could see the hulk of Vespa lying facedown a few feet away. “Guido? Guido!”

No response. Koesler was unable to tell if there was much blood draining from either of them. Maybe Vespa was merely unconscious. Koesler prayed through the waves of pain and nausea that that was so.

He heard a siren in the distance. He fervently hoped it was coming for them. There was no other possible way he could think of to get out of this mess. Neither he nor Vespa could help themselves, let alone each other.

The siren continued to grow louder. At least it was coming in their direction. With the run of luck he was having, he half expected the sound to continue to increase until it passed them and then diminish in the distance as it answered some other emergency.

But it didn’t. The volume crescendoed until the blue and white screeched to a stop near the two fallen men. The driver headed for Vespa, his partner to Koesler. The priest thought he heard the driver say, “He’s gone!”

He managed to ask, “How did you …?” Then he found it difficult to speak.

“Someone heard shots and called 911.” The policeman turned to his partner. “Get EMS.” Koesler sank back into grayness.

As the ambulance sped toward Receiving Hospital, he felt his clothing being cut away. Somebody had applied a pressure bandage to stanch the flow of blood.

Koesler hoped they would give him something for the pain. They did not. Their only concern at the moment was to stop the bleeding and get him to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Someone asked him who the president of the United States was. The question actually had him stumped for a moment. He gave brief thought to, as a joke, giving them the name of Cardinal Mark Boyle. Boyle at one time had been president of the United States Conference of Bishops.

Fortunately, Koesler rejected this momentary temptation to frivolity. The ambulance crew was in no mood, and the mistaken identification would have clouded the diagnosis.

Once they reached the hospital, the flurry of professional activity amplified.

Koesler, the center of all this attention, could only wish this whole thing hadn’t happened. He had an impression of himself as a piece of meat whose various cuts were being processed. Somebody had taken his blood pressure. He tried to hear what the count was, but so many people were talking simultaneously he couldn’t isolate on any of them.

Several X rays were taken of his shoulder area. He wouldn’t have known that so clearly but that several consecutive times the cubicle he occupied was cleared of all personnel.

Finally, a doctor-bearded, young, olive-complexioned-appeared directly in Koesler’s vision. “Father, there’s a bullet in your shoulder. It’s got to come out. Other than that, you seem to be in good shape. A few bruises, but the bullet is our concern.”

This was followed by injections, a peaceful, floating feeling, and finally, mercifully, unconsciousness.