Chameleon

20

“Five card draw, gentlemen,” the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey announced. “Jacks or better to open, and one-eyed jacks are wild. Let’s ante,”

Father Koesler scarcely ever attended poker games. Early on, he had learned that conversation, idle chitchat, was not welcome at the poker table. And Koesler did like to chat. What better to do when priests get together socially? Something that happened too rarely these days. Almost more importantly, he hated to lose. He hated it to the point of fearing it. And that was not the proper attitude to bring to the poker table.

So why was he here tonight?

Cletus Bash had asked him to come. Almost pleaded with him. Father Bash was having a difficult time gathering sufficient numbers.

No trouble getting Quent Jeffrey, of course. Poker was second nature to him. Everyone knew that. But all the other dependable regulars seemed unavailable. Bash could have played two-handed with Jeffrey but, in all candor, Bash knew he was no match whatever for Jeffrey. Safety in numbers, he figured.

All this was a conclusion Koesler easily reached. Another measure of Bash’s desperation was that the fourth player tonight was Monsignor Del Young.

While the Monsignor had an overstocked purse and didn’t mind losing at games of chance-which he did with determined regularity-he, too, was an irrepressible conversationalist.

Koesler was unable to guess how many clerical prospects Bash had contacted earlier. The number must have been astronomical if the best Bash could do was himself, Bob Koesler, and Del Young. It was next to impossible to tell how frustrated Bash felt. He was, normally, quite surly and sharp. Those words exactly described him tonight. But then, they probably would have defined his disposition even if he had had greater success in lining up more dedicated players. The few times Bash could have been considered as being ebullient, as far as Koesler could recall, were those occasions when his high profile was being featured in the local media, clearly identified as the archdiocesan spokesman-read best-informed person in captivity.

Bash spoke. “Someone’s light.”

Koesler glanced at the table top. Three white chips lay where they had been casually tossed. “Del,” Koesler said softly, “I think you forgot to ante.”

“Me? Did I? That was careless. Sorry.” He pitched a white chip onto the center of the table.

The cards were being dealt noiselessly, expertly, one at the time, five to a customer. Koesler marveled at Quent Jeffrey’s dexterity. While card games were not Koesler’s favorite pastime, he’d seen his share of dealers-mostly fellow clergymen-although he’d never joined any of the guys in a Las Vegas vacation, nor had he witnessed any truly professional players. Nonetheless he thought Jeffrey must come close to the professional norm.

Jeffrey did not bother looking at the cards as he dealt. Rather, he studied the faces of the other players. Particularly Del Young, who picked up and appraised each card as it was dealt. Neither Bash nor Koesler touched a card until all were dealt.

Following Jeffrey’s lead, Koesler scrutinized Young as he picked up the cards and fitted them into some sort of order in his hand. To Koesler’s surprise, it did seem possible to tell whether Young was experiencing good or bad cards by little movements of an eyebrow or cheek muscle. Young’s was the antithesis of the storied poker face.

Koesler wondered whether he himself betrayed his hand, bad or good, in the same way. But he decided that he played so seldom it wasn’t worth worrying about.

Everyone studied his cards in silence.

“I’ll open for two.” Bash dropped two red chips into the small pot.

“All right here.” Young contributed two red chips.

Wordlessly, Koesler and Jeffrey did the same.

Jeffrey picked up the deck and looked expectantly at Bash.

“Three,” said Bash. Jeffrey dealt him three, again studying the face, not the cards.

“One,” said Young.

“Three.” Koesler.

Jeffrey: “And the dealer takes three.”

Each player having discarded, picked up, and studied the newly dealt cards.

Koesler’s hand had not improved. He’d started with two tens; that was still the best he could do. It was a hopeless hand. One had to have at least a pair of jacks to open and Bash had done that. Thus Koesler was defeated without leaving the gate.

Jeffrey waited, looking at Bash, who had opened so it was his move.

“Check,” Bash said.

“Well, I guess I’ll open with five.” Young carefully deposited five blue chips in the pot.

Koesler, his hand already defeated, had studied Young as the monsignor had picked up his one card. Both eyebrows had reacted. It was a safe guess that he had gotten his card. Koesler threw in his hand, as did Jeffrey. Had Jeffrey also spotted the reaction?

“I’ll call you, Del,” Bash said as he dropped five blue chips in the pot.

Nothing happened. Something should have.

“Del,” Jeffrey said, “what have you got? Clete called you.”

“Oh!” Young exclaimed. “Yes, of course.” He spread his five cards on the table as he declared, “Full house. Kings over eights.”

“Damn!” Bash muttered, and pitched his cards face down on the table.

“Well,” Young said happily, “looks like my night.”

All things are possible, thought Koesler. But the likelihood of Del Young’s having a “night” of luck was so remote as to be ludicrous. There was his tendency to bet impetuously, which was definitely not the mark of a winner. Then there were the dramatis personae of the evening. On his best day, Del Young could not gamble successfully against Clete Bash. And Quent Jeffrey was way out of both their leagues.

As for himself, the difference between Del Young and Koesler was that Koesler knew his limits-and they were very narrow. Indeed, it had been at Koesler’s insistence that the stakes were reduced for the evening. White chips were worth twenty-five cents. Red chips were worth fifty cents. And blue chips were valued at a dollar. Usually the stakes were much higher.

But, as always, Koesler’s highest hope was to break even. While he did not mind contributing to charity, his favorite charity was neither Bash nor Jeffrey.

Clete Bash gathered the scattered cards and began to shuffle them.

“Anything new on the murders?” Young asked, making conversation. And then clarified, “I mean poor Larry Hoffer and the Donovan woman.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Koesler said. “I’ve tried to keep up with the news but it seems the police investigation is proceeding without any breaks in the case.”

“I wish they’d hurry up,” Young said. “I’m getting nervous. There’s somebody out there who seems to be hunting down officials of the diocese.”

“And you’re one of them,” Bash said as he shuffled. He was poking fun at the monsignor.

“All well and good for you to feel secure-at least tonight,” Young retorted. “After all, we’re playing on your turf. You don’t have to get home after this is over.”

They were gathered in the common room on the Chancery Building’s seventh floor. Bash’s living quarters were on the ninth floor. In former times the priests’ residence rooms on the building’s ninth and tenth floors would have been almost all occupied, and the common room well populated at this hour. However, these were lean times. Having a chancery full of resident priests at the expense of help in parishes would have been a senseless luxury.

“Five card stud,” Bash announced. “First and last card down. Ante two.”

Each pitched two white chips in.

Bash dealt the first card to each player face down, the second face up. Each glanced at his secret first card. Only the player himself knew what he held, while everyone knew what the second card was.

“King bets,” Bash said, referring to Young’s face-up card.

“Well, it does seem to be my night,” Young said. “King bets one.” He pitched in a red chip. Everyone else followed in kind. Bush dealt the next card to each face up.

“Well, well; a pair of kings.” Bash referred to that portion of Young’s hand everyone could see. “Kings bet;”

Young was so pleased he almost, twitched. “My goodness! Did I say this would be my night? Well, kings will bet five.” And he slid five blue chips onto the table center.

In three cards, Koesler had nothing. With only two cards remaining to be dealt, he would have to come up with at least a pair of aces to beat what Young had showing, let alone what might be the monsignor’s hole cards. Wisely, he folded.

“I guess I’ll see you, Del,” Jeffrey said, “and raise you five.” He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. Young answered his raise.

Bash, whose hand resembled Koesler’s, folded. It was between Jeffrey and Young. Bash dealt another card, face up, to each of the remaining two players. In addition to his two kings, Young now had a ten of hearts showing.

“Kings still high,” Bash, as dealer, announced.

“So they are,” Young agreed. He peeked again at the hole card, as if it might have changed spots since his previous look. “Well, then, kings will just chance another five.”

Jeffrey regarded Young with quiet amusement. He pushed ten blue chips into the pot. “And five,” he said.

Everyone looked more closely at that portion of Jeffrey’s hand showing. Two, seven, and eight of hearts. A flush? With one card yet to be dealt, it seemed the only possible hand that could beat Young’s. Interesting, even for Koesler.

Silently, with some temerity, Young pushed another five chips into the pot.

“All right, gentlemen, the last card. Down and dirty,” Bash dealt Young, then Jeffrey, each the final card, face down.

Young slipped both hole cards to the table’s edge in proximity to his ample stomach, lifted the corners, and contemplated the completed hand that only he could see. He continued to contemplate until Bash said, “Del, what’ll it be?”

“Eh?” Young realized a decision must be made.Be bold. For Jeffrey to have a flush both hole cards had to be hearts. The likelihood of that … not high. Young decided to smoke Jeffrey out. “We’ll just up things to ten.” And Young let ten blue chips drop one by one to the table. It could have been a dramatic gesture, except that he didn’t quite carry it off.

Amazingly, as far as Koesler was concerned, Jeffrey only now turned up the corner of his final card to see what it was. Cool. He paused only seconds before pushing twenty blue chips forward, and said, “Your ten and ten more.”

Everyone looked at Young, who betrayed surprise. He had been certain his ten-dollar bet would clinch his winning hand. Now this. He picked up his hole cards and studied them again. Whatever they had been they still were. No one pressed him. This was a fairly steep pot, worth thinking about.

Finally, Young exclaimed, “You’re bluffing!”

Jeffrey smiled and shrugged.

“There’s one way to find out, Del,” Bash said.

That was true. Young had three choices: He could raise the bet again, hoping to call Jeffrey’s bluff. He could call Jeffrey and end this hand one way or another. Or he could fold, in which case Jeffrey would not have to reveal his hand. He would take the pot.

Young, hand trembling slightly, added ten more blue chips to the pot. “Let’s just see what you’ve got there, Quent.”

Gazing steadfastly at Young and again not looking at his cards, simply aware of where they lay, Jeffrey turned over a five and a nine of hearts to go with the two, seven, and eight of hearts.

A flush.

Wordlessly, Jeffrey raked in the fat pot.

Young, rallying quickly, said, “Well, a little setback, but a good hand anyway.” Although there was no need, he exposed his hole cards, revealing he’d had two pair: kings and tens. Good but not good enough.

It was Young’s turn to deal. He began gathering cards. “Say, Clete, how about some refreshments?”

“So early?” Bash said.

“I’ll go along with Del,” Jeffrey said. “Missed supper tonight. I could use something, something solid.”

“Okay,” Bash said. He got up, went to the refrigerator, and began rummaging through it.

Koesler was elated at this break. Time for conversation. He hadn’t dared hope for a recess this early.

“I still say they should at least have some suspects by now,” Young said in what seemed a non sequitur.

“Suspects?” Jeffrey said.

“Suspects,” Young repeated. “Suspects in the murders of Larry Hoffer and what’s-her-name, uh, Helen Donovan.”

“They’ve got the kid who tried to kill Joan Donovan,” Jeffrey said.

“Not the same,” Young said, “The one who wants to kill diocesan officials is still loose out there.”

Bash was assembling cheese-and-cracker snacks. With his back to the others, he said, “They do have a couple of suspects.”

“They do?” Koesler noted the self-satisfied tone Bash did not attempt to hide.

“How do you know?” Young was not an instant believer.

“I’ve got sources in the police department. But it’s privileged information,” Bash cautioned. “The media doesn’t even have it yet. But when they get it, I’ll be ready for backgrounding.”

“Well,” Young said, “for Godsakes, man, who are they? Who are the suspects?”

“It’s privileged. I can’t reveal it,” Bash said.

“For Godsakes, man, we’re not going to tell anyone. For Godsakes, we’re …” Young paused. He was about to say they were all priests and disciplined in the ultimate secret of confession when he remembered that one of their number was a deacon and not empowered to hear confessions. After the slight pause, he concluded “… we’re all men of the cloth.”

“Okay,” Bash put the dishes holding cheese and crackers respectively on the table. “Remember, this is only in the investigative stage. But the cops are looking into …” He paused for effect. It worked; he had their undivided attention. “… into Arnold Carson and Fred Stapleton.” He smiled triumphantly.

“Stapleton!” Koesler exclaimed. “Fred Stapleton? There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” Bash responded. “What’ll anyone have to drink?”

“Pass here,” Jeffrey said. “The cheese and crackers should hit the spot.”

“Nothing here either.” Koesler made a sandwich.

“How about a beer?” Young said.

Bash returned to the fridge for beers for himself and Young.

“I hadn’t thought of it before,” Young said, “but Carson is not a bad bet. Good God, how many times has he taken the lead in protests? Why for heaven’s sake, he’s forever in the papers and onTV.”

“Before Vatican II, nobody ever heard of him,” Bash said. “But after the council … well, the guy never lets up. He’s forever up on the ramparts protecting Mother Church.”

Young nodded. “And now Mother Church may need protection from Arnold Carson.”

“Who’s Fred Stapleton?” Jeffrey asked. “Not the psychologist!”

“The very same,” Bash affirmed. “Don’t forget, he is an ‘ex.’“

Jeffrey smiled briefly. “I guess I had forgotten or at least overlooked the fact that he’d been a priest. But that was a long time ago. Now I tend to think of him as a psychologist. And a good one. At least very popular. He’s always being asked to give his opinion in local cases. He’s in the media more than just about any other local psychologist. What in the world would make him a suspect?”

“Not because he’s a shrink,” Bash said. “Because he’s an ‘ex.’“

“Come on …” Young had drained half his glass in a ehugalug. “There are hundreds of ex-priests around here. All of them suspects?”

“It’s because of his work for CORPUS. He’s become a militant,” Bash said. “And some say he is verging on becoming extreme.”

“Fred? Extreme?” Koesler was astonished. “That doesn’t make sense. Fred is one of the sanest, most reasonable men I’ve ever known.”

“About your time, wasn’t he, Bob?” Young asked.

“A year or two behind me, as I recall,” Koesler said. “But I know him as well as I knew most of my classmates. He really couldn’t qualify as a violent person. Just the opposite.”

“Seen him lately?” Bash asked.

“Well, no,” Koesler admitted. “It’s been a while. After he left and got into the psychology field we sort of drifted apart. I referred a couple of cases to him but that’s about it.”

“People change,” Bash observed.

“Not Fred. Not that much,” Koesler protested.

“You never know,” Bash said. “Besides, I’m not up to arguing the point. I’m just telling you what I got from my sources. But I can tell you one thing: If the investigation of these guys leaks, I’ll be more prepared for the press than anybody else in town. And we’re talking national coverage, gentlemen, not just the local guys.”

“Refresh me,” Jeffrey said, “what’s CORPUS again? It rings a bell, but I’m drawing a blank.”

“A bunch of exes,” Young said. “They want to getback in, fully functioning as priests-wives, kids, and all. Say, Clete, how about another beer?”

“You finish that one already?” Bash said. “You better slow up.” But he went to the fridge and brought back another beer for the monsignor.

“Okay, I remember CORPUS now,” Jeffrey said. “They’ve got just about all the arguments on their side: history, early tradition, and now the admission of converted married Protestant ministers. They’ve got it all. And they haven’t got a chance.”

“They’ve got one more thing you didn’t mention, Quent,” Koesler said. “We’re running out of priests. They’ve got need on their side. There are thousands of inactive priests who want to become active again. They’re completely trained. All that’s required is for the Pope to open the door and a good portion of our desperate need would be solved.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Jeffrey said. “The bottom line is canon law-and canon law holds all the cards.”

“Quent is right, Bob,” Young said. “The Church in Rome really got stung when these guys quit. It’s been a constant source of embarrassment to the Church that these men resigned from an office that brooked no resignation. They took on a lifelong commitment and then left it. In effect, the Church told the world, This is the highest vocation known to mankind; only the best and brightest can qualify. And then thousands of the best and brightest leave, That hurt. And the Church is not going to forget about that. Nor is the Church going to let them forget about it.”

“Now that I think about it,” Bash said, “that’s probably what would turn Fred Stapleton to violence: the sheer frustration of trying to accomplish the impossible.” He nodded. “It makes sense.”

“Maybe,” Koesler said. “But I just don’t see it. Carson, possibly Butnot Stapleton. No,” he shook his head, “not Stapleton.”

“Come on, Bob,” Young said, “you just admitted it’s been a while since you’ve had any contact with Stapleton. People change.”

“What is this?” Bash demanded. “Are we hosting a convention or playing poker?”

“Right! Where were we?” Young looked about him.

“Your deal, Del,” Jeffrey said, and began gathering the cards to give them to Young.

“Any more beer in the fridge?” Young wanted to know.

“More than even you can drink,” Bash answered. He went to get the beer. “Better be careful, Del. You’re the designated driver for your car.”

They laughed. Each of them was his own designated driver since each had come alone. Only Clete Bash would not be driving. And that only because he was already home.

As Del Young began shuffling cards with hazy determination, Koesler studied the group.

Three priests and a deacon. All four men were of a certain age, so they had much in common in addition to their vocation. They had each developed in the pre-Vatican II Church and all had been through the trauma of ensuing radical change. The only noteworthy thing about this group was how easily Quent Jeffrey had fit in with the priests.

The permanent deacon program produced deacons, not priests. With a preparation program of just a few short years, deacons were to priests what the ninety-day-wonders of World War II were to traditional military officers.

Added to that, the vast majority of permanent deacons were married. They quite naturally structured their lives around their families. Another sharply dividing feature from the celibate priests.

That had to be one of the reasons the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey fit into this group far more snugly than the average permanent deacon. He had been married. Now he was a widower, his children grown and living their own lives.

Here they were-four bachelors. Three had consciously chosen the celibate life. One had backed into it unintentionally, as it were. A married clergy was on the Way for the Roman Catholic Church-indeed, it had already begun-once the law of celibacy became optional. Koesler was certain of this. He had no idea how the Church could possibly continue without a sacramental ministry. And you needed priests to do the sacramental things.

Even now, there were “no-priest” parishes. On Sundays a nun or a layperson would lead a prayer service during which Communion would be distributed. But sometime before that prayer service, a priest had to offer Mass and leave behind him those consecrated wafers that were distributed at the Communion service.

There was just no getting around it: Priests were the only ones who could confect the Eucharist. And the Eucharist was at the center and heart of Catholicism. Koesler simply could not conjure up his Church without the Eucharist and the priest to confect the sacrament.

But clearly the Church was suffering already from a dearth of those priests. The only logical move had to be to get more priests through the method most often suggested: optional celibacy-a married priesthood.

But how would these married priests blend in with the remaining celibates? Would there be many remaining celibates? Any?

Koesler fully expected this radical move in his lifetime. One more gigantic change. These were interesting times.

His daydream was broken off as Cletus Bash almost shouted at Del Young, “Are you going to shuffle the spots off those cards!?”

Young, who had been shuffling the cards interminably, was roused. “Ah, yes, poker. Gentlemen, we’ll play seven card stud; low in the hole is wild.” After thinking about it, he added, “Also wild are twos, nines, and … uh … one-eyed jacks.”

“Why don’t you have fifty-two wild cards!?” Bash bellowed. “I’m out!”

“Before I deal?” Young said.

“I’m out!” Bash insisted.

Jeffrey laughed out loud.

It was then that Koesler realized that Jeffrey was merely tolerating this peculiar poker company. Much as a scratch golfer might temporarily put aside thoughts of a serious match when teamed with duffers.

As it happened, they played what passed for poker on and off until just after midnight.

Quent Jeffrey had won a ton. Clete Bash lost a small sum. Bob Koesler lost a bit more than Bash. Del Young was the evening’s big loser, which surprised no one, including Young.

However, the monsignor had enjoyed himself, gotten a lot of gossip out in the open, and demonstrated once again his prodigious capacity for beer.

After convincing everyone that he was fully capable of driving himself home, Young proceeded to do so.

Monsignor Del Young was in residence at St. Benedict parish in Pontiac. It was a long drive from downtown Detroit. Fortunately, at that time of night, the Lodge Freeway and Telegraph Road, his thoroughfares of choice, were uncluttered. So his muchdiminished reactive powers were not tested. But his need to empty his bladder grew with each passing mile. He did not see any restaurants still open, and he thought it unseemly for a prelate to relieve himself along the highway.

Thus it was with a relieved sigh that he turned from Telegraph onto Voorheis and then onto Lynn. Home at last.

He parked. The biting cold-an eighteen-below windchill-hit him hard after the comfortable warmth of his late-model Olds.

He tried to walk quickly to the rectory, but found himself staggering slightly.

Then he saw him.

Young couldn’t be sure at first. He wanted to believe his eyes were playing tricks.

He advanced no further. Fear cleared his mind of all alcoholic fog.

It was a man. He could make out the outline now. Trousers, some sort of short coat, a hat-looked like some sort of baseball cap. Not dressed for the weather. Dressed for what? Dressed to kill?

The man made no movement. He stood on the sidewalk just outside the rectory, blocking Young’s access to the rectory, to safety.

Just where the others had been killed. Donovan on the steps of St. Leo’s convent; Hoffer just outside his home. On the sidewalk.

Young was unsure what course to essay. All he knew was that he had been selected to be the next victim. But why? What had he done? Why me? he almost shouted. But he couldn’t speak.

Then, suddenly, he could. “NO!” he yelled. Then he ran. He ran as swiftly as he could. He didn’t dare look back. He gave brief thought to screaming for help. But what good would that do? It was near two A.M. Everyone in the neighborhood would be asleep. Besides, how eager would any of them be to come out into freezing cold in nightclothes. For what? To be killed for their trouble? He had to find safety.

The school! Somewhere on his key ring was a key to the school door. He hadn’t wanted it, but the pastor had insisted he have it. It just might save his life now.

He made it to the school. So far so good. Miraculously, out of all the many keys he carried, his fingers found the key to the school. He didn’t fumble. The key slid into the lock and turned smoothly.

He was inside.

For the first time, he dared look behind him. There was no one in sight.

Before anything else-he felt he was about to explode-he found the boys’ lavatory and relieved himself. Next he called the police.

The remainder of that early morning was an explosion of sound and light. There were sirens, questions, first from the police, then from the media. There were flashbulbs, of course, and the sun guns of the TV people.

He told his story over and over again. He walked it through just as he had earlier run it through. There would be no rest for him until late that afternoon.

He did not miss the sleep. After a while, he began to relax and enjoy the whole thing.

He was a celebrity. He had met the killer and escaped. Heady stuff.

Meanwhile, a stranger from out of town was one very bewildered man.

He had come up north from Florida. He’d been out of work too long. So, leaving his family behind, he hitchhiked to the Detroit area, certain he could find work here.

His first discovery was that he had badly misjudged the weather. It was so cold. He was nearly frozen. And he was in desperate need of shelter in a foreign land.

Good Catholic that he was, he was sure he would not be turned away by a priest. If only he could find one. It was late when he began his search for a friendly rectory.

A clerk in a twenty-four-hour gas station, where he’d been left off by his latest driver, directed him to St. Benedict rectory. He’d gotten there at about the same time as Monsignor Young.

He’d been surprised-happily-that he should be so fortunate as to have a priest meet him on the sidewalk-at that hour! Clearly, it was a most touching answer to prayer.

Then the priest had screamed at him! And began to run.

The vagrant could not figure out where this demented priest was running. He looked around to see if someone was chasing him. By the time he turned back, the priest had disappeared-there was no sign of him.

The vagrant found several packing cases in an alley and, somehow, survived the night.

The next day, a softhearted hash-house owner gave him a few hours’ work cleaning up the basement and the alley behind the eatery. He was about to tell the owner of his singular experience in the wee hours of that morning, when he heard the news on the eatery’s radio: A maniac serial killer, striking fear in Catholic leaders in the archdiocese, had almost struck again.

Good Catholic that he was, this news, quite naturally, interested him. So he stopped work to listen.

This killer had struck twice previously and would have killed again had he not been thwarted by the quick-thinking and courageous Monsignor Delbert Young.

Interesting.

The monsignor had arrived home early this morning when he was confronted by the alleged killer just outside the rectory. Somehow, the monsignor was able to elude the assailant and escape and call the police, who were even now conducting an investigation.

Interesting-and familiar.

The action took place at St. Benedict parish at 40 South Lynn in Pontiac.

Caramba!

What to do? He’d been in town less than a full day and already he was being sought as a serial killer. To lay low or not? With his luck, the police would find him, identify him as the one who was waiting for this crazy monsignor, and the next thing, he’d be in the electric chair. And if they didn’t have capital punishment in Michigan they’d establish it just for him.

There was no choice. He sought out the police and finally made them understand what had happened.

His account was reluctantly, and shamefacedly, corroborated by Monsignor Young.

As Andy Warhol said, everybody would be famous for fifteen minutes.