Marked for Murder

10

“Inside, the church was filled to near capacity.” On the six o’clock news, TV reporter Ken Ford continued his muted commentary. “Many in this morning’s congregation were the merely curious who came to attend the last rites of a woman almost completely unnoted in life. A woman who might have remained unknown in death had it not been for the bizarre manner of that death.”

Father Koesler grimaced as he watched the TV account of the funeral he had celebrated that morning. He had been having second, third, and fourth thoughts all day about what he had done. All that he had told Monsignor Meehan earlier about the funeral had come true. The afternoon Detroit News carried two photos with an accompanying story in its first section. Undoubtedly the Free Press would feature coverage in its early editions.

Koesler could watch only one TV channel at a time. This happened to be channel 7. Later he would try channels 2 and 4.

He was standing in the doorway between the rectory kitchen and the dining area. He was trying to cook supper, a never-ending adventure in his life. After this morning’s funeral, it had been easy for him to convince himself that he deserved a treat. So, on the way back from visiting Monsignor Meehan, Koesler stopped to purchase a succulent porterhouse steak.

Ordinarily, he would flip something like that into a pan and fry it. But not this beauty. It deserved something better. Thus, he had solicited directions from one of his parishioners on the method of broiling. The parishioner had assured him that the process wouldn’t take long and that he should check the steak’s condition every few minutes, first to turn it, then to finish it.

Several minutes ago he had set the stove’s control on “broil” and tenderly placed the steak in the oven. He had just now checked for progress. Nothing. The oven wasn’t even hot. But Koesler was a man of faith. The kind lady had told him how to broil a steak and by God he was going to follow directions to the bitter end.

While waiting for some action from the oven, he had made himself a cup of instant coffee, which he was now sipping. He could not understand why his coffee was so universally disliked. He found it quite good. But it was difficult for him to recall anyone who had tasted his coffee ever accepting another cup. Ever.

“In the congregation,” reporter Ford continued, “were many of the slain woman’s friends and former associates. . . .” Ford put a peculiar emphasis on the words “friends” and “associates.” The picture made his implication quite obvious, especially if one kept in mind that Louise Bonner had been a prostitute. Koesler winced as the camera panned that section of the church where the working women had clustered.

In hindsight, Koesler wished he had not turned on the heat in the church. For the ladies had removed their coats, revealing clinging dresses that hugged curves and accentuated bosoms. That, plus their extravagant makeup, made it less than necessary for the reporter to get explicit about their line of business.

Koesler was just beginning to wonder how much longer it would take for . . . when the phone rang.

“Father?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you realize that the founding pastor of this parish is spinning in his grave tonight. In one morning you have violated all that holy man stood for. It wasn’t bad enough that you staged a funeral for a known prostitute; you had to invite all the other fallen women in the city to this travesty of a sacred rite.”

“Now, wait a minute: I didn’t invite anyone to this funeral. I merely agreed to bury from our church a Catholic woman who didn’t have a regular parish.”

“If you didn’t invite them, who did? They were all there. I read about it in the News and now everyone is seeing it on television. This is a scandal of the highest kind. And since when has St. Anselm’s been a receptacle for the refuse of society? If the woman didn’t go to church, she should have been buried like a dog. At best she could have been buried from one of the inner city storefront churches.”

Koesler thought he recognized the voice. “Just who is this?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Well, I do. And I’m not in the habit of talking with anonymous cowards.”

“How dare you!”

“Mister, you’ve got one distinct advantage over me: I’m busy.” He slammed down the receiver.

Immediately, he began to regret his action. How could he have said such harsh things to such a poor misguided soul?

However, on second thought, this was not your run-of-the-mill poor misguided soul. This was the quintessential pharisee. The one whose pharisaical scandal Koesler had dismissed when he’d agreed to take on Louise Bonner’s funeral. And he hadn’t been unChristlike; Jesus had always reserved his harshest words and criticism for those disingenuous pharisees who fought truth and charity every step of the way.

Besides, he had been correct about one thing: He was indeed busy. There was the matter of that luscious steak. What with the phone call, Koesler had temporarily forgotten it. Now anxious, he hoped it wasn’t overdone.

He quickly moved to the stove, opened the oven door, and slid the meat out for inspection. Wonder of wonders, it was hardly cooked at all. He checked the heat gauge. It was firmly set on “broil.” Koesler shrugged. Instructions were instructions. And that nice lady would not have led him astray. Resigned to following this thing through to its natural conclusion, he slid the steak back into the oven and closed the door.

As it turned out, he was to have plenty of time for phone calls. For he had placed the steak in the roasting oven, which was immediately above the broiling oven. The steak was, in effect, roasting in the oven, heated by the broiler. But very s-l-o-w-l-y.

It would be hours before the steak was done to Koesler’s desire. And it would be a long time before, in the course of casual conversation, he would discover how the stove had outsmarted him.