Man Who Loved God

Four

“I don't blame you for being startled when your brother told you he knew me,” Koesler said as he sat across the kitchen table from Father Tully. “I suppose you thought the only way Lieutenant Tully would know a priest is if the priest were in trouble with the law.”

“No, nothing like that.” Tully chuckled. “Just surprised. How did it happen?”

“Actually,” Koesler explained, “my meeting with your brother took place quite a few years after I first got involved with the Detroit Police. Again”-he smiled-“not as a felon.

“I was,” Koesler proceeded, “editor of the Detroit Catholic-the diocesan newspaper. So, with that assignment, I was pretty much out of parochial ministry-just helping out.

“I lived at a Detroit parish when there was a series of murders of priests and nuns. I happened to discover the body of the second victim-a nun. I also happened upon the killer’s calling card, a plain black rosary.”

Tully seemed to recollect. “Yeah … I remember that. Didn’t the media call it ‘The Rosary Murders’? Because the killer left a rosary with each body …. wrapped around the wrist?”

“That’s it. You’ve got a good memory; that was a long time ago.

“But through that investigation I met some people in the police department. Perhaps the closest connection was an inspector-Walter Koznicki. We’ve become good friends.”

“Is that where my brother came in?”

“No. We didn’t meet until much later. See, my contact with the police sort of grew gradually over the years. After that original investigation of the serial murders, I’ve been involved, to varying degrees, in a few other homicide cases. Sometimes because I happened to be around … or because the case involved a parishioner or two. Or just because the case hinged on a knowledge of things Catholic.

“I know,” Koesler continued, “that this must sound surreal, but with one thing or another, I’ve been involved in a homicide investigation just about every year since then.”

“You weren’t Father Brown in a previous life?” Tully joked, referring to G. K. Chesterton’s fictional priest-sleuth.

“Nothing of the kind. It just happened. What can I say?”

Tully glanced at the stove. “The water’s boiling.”

“So it is.” Koesler measured instant coffee into two mugs and added the hot water. He placed the mugs on the table. “Anyway, that’s how I met your brother. But it was maybe four or five years ago. And it was just such a case as I was describing: murder with a Catholic twist.”

Tully blew across the surface of the coffee and took a sip. He almost shuddered. It must, he thought, be the high degree of heat.

“I think,” Koesler said, sipping the coffee with no apparent ill effect, “your brother was the most skeptical of all the officers I’ve met in the department.”

“Skeptical? How so?”

“Skeptical of me,” Koesler clarified. “I can understand that any police officer might react negatively when some outsider steps in and tries to out-professional the professionals. I mean, the police are a highly skilled group. I know I’m even less than an amateur when it comes to police procedure. And I never for a moment thought I could do their work. I tried to make it clear that I was at best a resource person. But some of the officers, at least at first, objected to my presence-none more forcefully or wholeheartedly than your brother.

“But, over the years, we’ve come to a better understanding. I think, by now, your brother even likes to have me around when things Catholic are mucking up an investigation.”

Once more Tully tried to cool the coffee with his breath. He sipped, then suppressed a grimace. He focused on the instant coffee container. It was a brand-name product-indeed, a brand he had enjoyed from time to time. Could it be the water? The kettle? The cup?

Whatever, this was the worst coffee he could remember. He would have to go easy on the food and drink here until he sampled each serving. “I can understand my brother’s reluctance to let you in on a criminal investigation. But I’m still not clear where you fit in. What could be ‘Catholic’ about a murder case?”

“Hard to say,” Koesler admitted. “But maybe I can give you a couple of typical cases.

“Our first go-round is as good an example as any. You mentioned that the media called it ‘The Rosary Murders’-”

“And the rosary is almost exclusively a Catholic devotion,” Tully interjected.

“Right. But on top of that, maybe only a priest would recognize that particular prayer as part of the penance he might give a penitent to say after confession. And indeed, that was at least part of the clue to solving those murders.

“Then there was another serial murder case where the motto on a papal coat of arms was the clue. And another when the solution depended on knowing the kind of perks a priest might enjoy on vacation. And another when a murderer equated the cards in a poker hand to various officers in the diocese. That sort of thing.

“Any clearer?”

“A little.”

Koesler looked at his watch, something he was apt to do many times during the day and perhaps a couple of times through the night. “It’s getting close to seven.”

“So it is,” Tully said as he checked his watch. “Guess I’d better get going.”

“Do you have a car? You can borrow mine for the evening. I’ll be busy packing.”

“Thanks, but I’m renting one. It’s on the order.” He grinned. “The vow of poverty comes in handy every once in a while.

“Besides,” he added, “Mr. Adams said he’d send a car to pick me up tonight.” Tully stood and peered through the window overlooking the parking lot. “And here it is now. That is, unless you’re driving a Lincoln.”

Koesler chuckled. “Not a chance. I’m surprised he didn’t send a stretch limo. There’s a lot of that going on around here.”

“Probably in deference to that vow of poverty,” Tully joked.

“I won’t be leaving too early tomorrow,” Koesler said. “If you have any questions, we can talk about them in the morning. And of course I’ll leave you my number at Georgian Bay.”

Tully, on his way down the steps, looked back and smiled. “Don’t worry, Father, I’ll take good care of your baby. And I’ll return her to you safe and sound with no heresies flourishing on your return. Trust me. After all, I’m not fresh out of the seminary. Just relax and have a good rest.”

Koesler watched Tully’s departure until the Town Car turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Even though the car and Tully were gone, Koesler continued to gaze out the window. He wasn’t seeing what he was looking at. His mind was miles away.

He was beginning to be … what?… homesick. And he hadn’t even left home yet.

What had he to be concerned about? St. Joseph’s parish had existed long before he came into being. It had survived many pastors. It would survive him.

He should be confident in entrusting the parish to Father Tully. For one, Koesler long had had friends among the Josephites. He admired the order.

But Father Tully had asked too few questions when the two had toured the buildings. Then again, as Tully himself had stated, he was not a newly ordained priest, the oil of ordination still moist on his hands. He was a seasoned veteran. Surely he could administer old St. Joe’s.

Besides, his brother was Alonzo Tully, a proven professional. Trustworthy and competent.

On the other hand, though the two had a common father, they had different mothers. Raised entirely differently. The priestly Tully could not be measured by his policeman brother. And if he could not be measured by what Koesler knew of his brother, what, indeed, did Koesler know about this visiting priest?

Not much.

Before the phone call, neither Koesler nor the lieutenant had been aware of Father Tully’s existence. His call had taken Koesler completely by surprise-a voice volunteering to step in and make it possible for the pastor to enjoy a most rare vacation.

In the final analysis, Father Zachary Tully was a complete stranger. And in the present setup, the visitor would be completely unsupervised.

What if there were some sort of emergency? Could Tully be trusted to call Koesler if he were needed?

But most of all-and this was important-there was this pressing premonition: something was going to happen that would demand the presence of Father Koesler. He knew it.

Maybe he could shorten his vacation. One week would give him as much rest as two. In fact, it probably was statistically proven that after such a long hiatus in vacations, brevity in leisure was advisable. Better to get into something like that slowly, gradually.

Doing things cold turkey was not Koesler’s style.

But then he laughed at himself. All this rationalization was ridiculous.

In the little time he’d had to get organized, Koesler had prepared pretty thoroughly for Father Tully’s short stay at St. Joe’s. The most important element of that planning had been to brief Mary O’Connor on the newcomer. Mary, longtime secretary to Father Koesler, could and would see to it that the parish functioned on all cylinders in his absence.

No matter what else happened, Mary would hold the fort.

With a lighter heart, Father Koesler began to pack.