Body Count

2

Technically, but far more importantly, in actuality, Father Nick Dunn was not a “new associate” pastor at St. Joseph’s parish. He was “in residence.”

Father Koesler clearly remembered having received Father Dunn’s query letter. Dunn planned to take some psychology courses at the University of Detroit Mercy, a Jesuit institution located near the city’s north-central center. Would it be possible, he’d inquired, for him to live at St. Joe’s for the duration?

Koesler realized Dunn’s contribution to parochial life would be minimal. Help with Masses on weekends could be taken for granted. But little else.

Nevertheless, Koesler promptly assented to the request. Having another priest in the house would be boon enough. In effect, he had forsaken companionship when he’d accepted the celibate life. But St. Joseph’s rectory was the embodiment of a hermitage. Though easily adequate for a very large family, the house was home for only one man. And most evenings were so quiet, Koesler could easily imagine raising the drawbridge over the moat.

Quickly recovering from his surprise at finding Father Dunn in church, Koesler took his temporary colleague on a tour while showing him how to lock up the facility. Then the two moved Father Dunn’s baggage from his van and got him established in his suite. After which, Father Koesler left him to get settled in.

“Come in, ” Father Dunn said, answering the knock on his door.

Koesler entered, carrying a bottle and two small glasses. “I thought a spot of port before bed might be in order.”

“Absolutely.” Dunn turned away from the bureau where he had been stowing clothing.

They sat opposite each other in the spacious study. Each held a glass partly filled with the ruby liquid.

Dunn raised his glass. “To us, Father.”

Koesler nodded, smiled, and sipped. “How long since you were ordained, Nick?”

“Three years.”

“That gives me about thirty-five years on you. So I could easily be your father … even your grandfather. Still, I think it’ll work out better if you call me Bob. We are colleagues, after all,”

“Suits me fine, Bob.”

Koesler looked around the room. “Is this adequate?”

Dunn followed his gaze. In addition to the large study, there was a bedroom not much smaller, plenty of closet space, a lavatory, a queen size bed, desk, chairs, sofa, basic furnishings. “More than adequate. In my parish in Minnesota, I’ve got about half this much room.”

Koesler nodded. “Sorry about the bathroom being down the hall, ” he said.

“That’s okay. What it lacks in convenience it more than makes up for in size.” He sipped the wine, “You seemed surprised to see me … in the church, I mean.”

“I was surprised: I wasn’t expecting you until sometime next week.”

“Yeah. Well, I was able to get away a little earlier than I figured. So I just came on down.”

“Are you all set at U of D? This is kind of late in the term, isn’t it? Mid-September? Haven’t they started classes?”

“There was no trouble about that. They were very helpful with preregistration. Probably because I’m a priest. Also, I’m not going for credit; I’m just auditing some classes.”

“No credits? You aren’t going into the counseling business?”

“Not unless I pay for the training. I think the diocese got burned a few times too many. Some of the guys went away, came back with MSWs, quit the priesthood, and went into private practice. So now the policy is to pick up the freight only if the priest audits. Or if he’s going for a theology or canonical degree, Not much call for theology majors in business or industry.”

Koesler chuckled. “Keep them barefoot and pregnant, eh?”

Dunn nodded. “It doesn’t matter to me. I have no plans to leave. I just wanted to increase my skills. I discovered I was counseling people on a pretty regular basis, so I thought I’d better try to learn to do it right. So here I am. Courtesy of the archdiocese of Minneapolis-St. Paul.”

Koesler held the port up, seeming to study it in the light. “Yes, here you are. Funny, give or take quite a few years, this could have been a straight player trade.”

“Oh?”

“Years ago-good Lord, it must be twenty-five years ago-there was this family that I became friends with. Parishioners. Then the father was transferred to Minneapolis. For quite a few years I spent some vacation time with them. He was transferred a couple more times, then retired. I sort of lost touch with them. Though I do get a Christmas card every year or so. Anyway, for short periods back then, I was a Detroit transplant in Minneapolis. Now here you are a Minneapolis transplant in Detroit.”

“That is a coincidence.”

“Isn’t it? Where’s your parish, Nick?”

“Golden Valley … you know the place?”

“Sure; one of the neighboring suburbs … but not the suburb.”

Dunn seemed puzzled. Then he brightened. “Edina.”

Koesler nodded. “And is downtown Minneapolis still the hub of activity? As I remember it, all the major movies opened downtown. All the major stores were there, and there were skywalks that connected the buildings.”

“Still there, all right. You can go pretty nearly everywhere without getting your feet wet.”

“Or frozen.”

“You were there in winter? Voluntarily?”

“No, but I’ve heard about it.”

“Actually, they do a pretty good job of pushing the snow around and cleaning the streets-even the alleys.”

“Impressive. But what else could you expect from those industrious Scandinavians? Those Lutherans are still burying their sins under a blanket of snow.”

“It is a pretty Lutheran culture. But, hey, what can you say for a Lutheran town whose three main streets are named after Catholic clergy!”

Koesler tried to remember the street names as Dunn continued. “How is it in Detroit … winter, I mean?”

Koesler shook his head. “Don’t ask. Just enjoy this September while it lasts. If we get a big snow later, count on getting cabin fever. But then,” he reminded himself, “coming from Minnesota, you’d be used to that. However, you’re about to experience what’s worth the price of admission-fall, and the most breathtaking colors you could imagine.”

Koesler became aware that his right knee was quivering. Casually, he slid his hand down his leg and applied pressure on the knee until it stilled. He hoped Dunn had not noticed. Koesler knew the cause of his edginess was that confession of murder he’d heard earlier. He would have preferred to have been alone now. But there was no way of avoiding a courteous welcome for the visiting priest.

If Dunn had noticed the involuntary tremor, he said nothing about it. Koesler was grateful. “The only season I experienced in Minnesota,” he continued, “was summer-“

“Oh, summer,” Dunn interrupted, “the favorite season of our state bird, the mosquito.”

“There’s that. But I understand your spring and fall are all played out in a matter of days.”

“Hours. They really are over before you know it. Especially fall. One day there are leaves on the trees and the next day there aren’t.”

“Well, you needn’t fear being disappointed in Michigan’s fall.” Koesler crossed over and topped off Dunn’s wine glass, then resumed his seat. “Which leads to a question. I suppose I should have cleared up some details of your stay here when I got your letter. I guess I was just surprised to hear from you out of the blue. And the tone of your letter led me to think that you needed a quick reply. But now that you’re here-why?”

“Why?”

“Yes: Why the University of Detroit? And why St. Joseph’s? I mean, to begin with, I’m sure the University of Minnesota offers some pretty good psych courses.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Then …?”

“Well, at this stage I suppose I could say something about the value of a Catholic college, especially for one who’s going to function in a parochial setting. I could even fall back on the special considerations a priest can expect at a Catholic university. But if I did, you would observe …” Dunn’s explanation trailed off, opening an opportunity for Koesler to complete the thought.

Which, after a moment, he did. “I would observe that you’ve got more than one Catholic college in the Twin Cities area.”

“Exactly.”

Koesler wondered why the other priest continued to avoid a direct answer.

But Father Koesler had lots to learn about Father Dunn. “Then, ” he probed, “why U of D and why Old St. Joe’s?”

“Actually, the order is reversed.”

“Oh?” Koesler was tiring of the game.

“I wanted to spend time with you. The University of Detroit was a convenience. I did want some postgrad work in psychology. But, as you suggest, I could easily have gotten that at the University of Minnesota. Or, failing that, at Macalester or Collegeville or the College of St. Thomas, and so forth. Obviously, there is no dearth of Catholic educational opportunities in and around the Twin Cities.”

“So?”

“Why St. Joe’s? Why you?” Dunn rose and filled his glass once more. “Do you mind?” It was a rhetorical question. “Your reputation, Father-uh … Bob.”

“My reputation? As … what?”

“As a sleuth … detective.”

Koesler rarely laughed aloud, but he did so now. “My reputation as a … detective?” He shook his head. “Where in the world did you ever get that idea? You must be reading too much Father Brown!”

“Father Who? Brown? Who’s he, another local?”

Koesler was surprised. And a little disappointed. Apparently, the young man had never read or even heard of G. K. Chesterton’s fictional priest-detective. “Never mind Father Brown. What gives you the idea that I’m some kind of sleuth?”

“Word gets around. I’ve read about some of your exploits, mostly through the Catholic News Services in the Catholic Bulletin. Even the editor, Bernie Casserly, has written about you. At clerical gatherings, I’ve heard some priests talk about your … what-a vocation? I guess I’m surprised that you’re surprised.”

“Well, I am. But you must be exaggerating. I don’t have that reputation even here in my home diocese.”

“You’re saying you’ve never worked with the police on a homicide case?”

Koesler shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, no. But I’m sure you’ll learn that that sort of thing is not at all uncommon. As priests, we are, after all, in a helping position. As the years go by, you’ll find that you’re called upon to aid people in almost every conceivable way. Look what you’re doing here: going to a university to pick up some additional skill in counseling. And you’re doing it just so you’ll be able to help people better.”

“But …”

“Someday, in all probability, you may very well be called upon to assist the police in some capacity. And when that happens, they’re not going to be coming to you because you’re a clerical Dick Tracy. It’ll more likely be because there’s something distinctly Catholic involved. Don’t you see? There are times when an investigation involves the medical sphere. In that case, it simply makes sense for the police to get insight from a doctor or a nurse. Or maybe it involves bank fraud. In which case it makes sense to talk to a banker. Or maybe a crime has a very definite Catholic cast. So the police may want some background information from a priest.

“And that, Nick Dunn, is what has happened to me-more than once, I must confess.”

Father Dunn thought that over for a few moments. “For the sake of argument, let us grant your premise. Then what do you say to the fact that, by your own admission, you’ve been called upon ‘more than once’?”

“Partly coincidence. But I can see that that explanation is not going to satisfy you. So okay, I have proven of some help to the police in the past-merely to furnish information and insights that almost any priest could have given them. So it is quite natural that they might call on me again-if only because they have become familiar with me. I guess they’d rather deal with someone they’ve come to know than start all over getting to know some other source. But I assure you, Nick, I am a parish priest of the archdiocese of Detroit. And I have no ambitions to be anything else-any small publicity to the contrary notwithstanding.”

Dunn drained his glass and set it on the end table with a gesture of finality. Something else Koesler learned about Father Dunn: a nightcap was not an invitation to empty a bottle; a nightcap was a nightcap.

Dunn regarded Koesler thoughtfully. “You make a convincing case, Bob. And I would be inclined to take you at your word-though, I must confess, I would find that rather disappointing-but for one thing.” He paused dramatically. “The confession!”

“The confession?” Koesler feigned ignorance. He suspected he knew where Dunn was headed.

“I overheard that confession this afternoon-the one made by the killer. I couldn’t help hearing it; the guy talked so loud.”

Koesler set his glass on the table. He was finished even though he had not drained the glass. At this stage, he did not want to risk fuzzyheadedness. He leaned forward,

“Was there anyone else in the church during that confession?”

“Uh-uh.Just me.”

“Why are you talking to me about it? You are as bound by the seal of confession as I am.”

“I know that. But it goes to offset your argument. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not calling you a liar. Not by any means. I’m willing to grant that you don’t go looking for homicide cases to work on. Granted, you just want to be a modest, unassuming parish priest. But isn’t it funny how these interesting cases come looking for you? And-witness this afternoon-they find you.”

“Nick, that wasn’t an invitation by the police department. That was the sacrament of reconciliation, the sacrament of penance-confession! And, as such, it is protected by the seal.”

Dunn spread his hands, palms upward. “Can either of us doubt that a call from the police is just around the corner?”

“I can doubt it. Besides, what difference could it make? My lips are sealed! Anyone-anyone-who overhears a confession is bound by the same seal of confession. You know that.”

“You don’t understand, Bob. Together, we-both of us-know exactly who murdered a Detroit priest,”

“What’s that?”

“You heard his entire confession. I just came in while he was in the middle of confessing. You got the entire story. But I–I! — saw him, I could identify him!”

So Dunn had not been in church when the man had entered what was, for him, the wrong side of the confessional. Thus Dunn didn’t know that Koesler had seen the man too.

“This is nonsense, Nick. What difference does it make that I heard his confession in its entirety and you saw him leave the box? Our lips are sealed!”

Dunn pondered that, then smiled broadly. “What a delicious secret! The police maybe don’t even know the crime’s been committed yet, and we know who did it! I feel tingly inside.” Indeed, Dunn’s eyes were glowing. “Let’s check it out.”

“What!?”

“I don’t know, I just want to make sure.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“What was that guy’s name-Keating, wasn’t it? And what parish was that?”

“St. Waldo’s.” The question was academic; Dunn could easily have looked up the appropriate parish in the Catholic directory.

“Is St. Waldo’s in Detroit?”

“Bloomfield Hills.”

“Let’s call and ask for Father Keating.”

“Forget it, Nick. What would it prove if a priest is not in his parish on a Saturday night? Just plain forget it: It’s the best favor you could do for yourself and everybody else.”

Dunn still had a gleam in his eye. “Ah, but what if a priest is not in his parish on a Sunday morning when all his parishioners come for Mass?”

“Nick, I’m going to bed. And I’m going to bury this special secret deep inside me. And I advise you most strongly to do the same. And I’m as serious as I can be.”

Koesler regretted the chill left in Dunn’s room after this, their first encounter. He was surprised by it as much as he regretted it.

The dispute-their first-concerned a matter that was of prime importance to Koesler: the seal of confession. To him this was one of the most sacred tenets of religion. And in no other expression of religion was it more firmly entrenched than in Catholicism. In all his years as a priest-even as a seminarian-he had never known a priest to violate the seal of confession. Oh, there were a few jokes about it; there were a few jokes about nearly everything. But in actual practice, the seal was inviolate.

He got the impression that Father Dunn did not share that conviction. Was it the age gap?

Koesler had lived more than half his life in the pre-Vatican II Church. That span definitely colored his perception of the present post-Vatican II Church.

Dunn belonged to an interesting time frame.

Seminarians who were the immediate product of the postconciliar Church-the late sixties, the seventies-lived in a virtual rebellion against the beliefs and practices of the earlier theology. However, in the eighties, a peculiar rebound occurred in some seminaries, certainly in Detroit, possibly in Minneapolis-St. Paul as well.

With seminaries almost empty of candidates for the priesthood (the legacy of the sixties and seventies?), administrators seemed to be attempting to put as much of the toothpaste as possible back in the tube. The clerical costume, for instance-the cassock, clerical suit, full Mass vestments-returned to acceptable use. But a good portion of what had been discarded and subsequently lost could not be retrieved. It was a strange amalgam. And from this mixture sprang young priests such as Father Nick Dunn.

Koesler was unable to comprehend much of this sometimes bitter rebellion. Nor was he totally familiar with this latest seminary product.

Empirically, there was no compelling reason for Koesler to become an expert in either wave of the postconciliar phenomena. He had developed a theological approach to life that, as far as he was concerned, combined the best of both worlds-pre-and postconciliar. Armed with this comfortable and comforting theology, he was willing to work his small corner of the vineyard until he dropped.

Except for now. Now he would be forced to deal with Father Dunn.

But it was getting late. Time enough for that tomorrow.