Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries:

15

Father Koesler was concerned. He had come again to the Burtha Fisher Home to visit Monsignor Meehan. This time, the old monsignor had decided to abandon his wheelchair and walk, though none too steadily. To complicate matters, the janitor had just washed the marble floor; signs warned of the slippery surface.

Meehan walked deliberately enough, holding onto the railing that ran the length of the corridor. Regardless, Koesler lightly grasped the monsignor’s arm. The limb felt so fragile that Koesler feared that if Meehan should fall, Koesler would be left holding an arm that had simply broken off from an equally fragile trunk.

But they survived the walk and entered the visiting parlor. It was one of those glorious January days where, after a night’s dusting of snow, the sun shone brightly, reflecting off the unbroken white surface with an intensity that was almost painful to the eye.

“So, Bobby, it happened again, didn’t it? With the murdered prostitute?” Meehan’s pleasant, slightly nasal tenor was unmistakable. His shriveled body made it difficult for some familiar with his former somewhat rotund shape to now recognize him. But the voice hadn’t changed. The voice alone put everything into perspective.

“You’ve been following the news?” Koesler never failed to be surprised anytime Meehan happened to be au courant.

The monsignor chuckled. “For your sake, I’m trying to keep up with things. And, Bobby, isn’t it lucky you didn’t have to make a pastoral decision about burying that poor girl . . . I mean the second prostitute.”

“Indeed. That’s about all I would have needed.”

“A lot of flak after the first funeral?”

“A bit. Some nasty calls. A few irate parishioners.”

“Anything from downtown?”

“Not a word. Blessedly. But you know how Cardinal Boyle is. He knows he carries a lot of clout, even with the secular news media. He wouldn’t speak out on an issue like that unless he absolutely had to. For which I am deeply grateful.”

“Oh, I didn’t really think the Cardinal would give you a hard time. I wondered about the auxiliary bishops.”

“I suppose with one or another of them it could have been possible. But I think in a situation like this, they take their cue from the boss.”

“Well, you can never tell about these auxiliaries. Some of them can be pretty ambitious.”

“That’s true. Remember our friend in Chicago—the one who was running for bishop, and made it? Remember what his mother said after he’d been named bishop?”

“Wait, wait . . .” It was on the tip of Meehan’s memory. “Yes! She was quoted as saying, ‘If we’d known that he was going to go this far, we would have had his teeth straightened.’”

“That’s right.” Koesler was gratified at Meehan’s powers of recent recollection. The Chicago incident hadn’t happened all that long ago.

“Ah, mothers,” Meehan said, “they surely can put you in your place. But . . . where were we?” Meehan searched for the conversation’s drift.

“I believe you were saying something about the ambition of auxiliary bishops.”

“Oh, yes . . . that’s true, you know, Bobby. They’ve got to compete. Statistically, they’re not all going to make it.”

“Make what?”

“Ordinary—have their very own diocese to run. No, there are just so many of the poor men who will end up spending their whole episcopal lives being just mere auxiliary bishops. It’s sad.” They both knew he was being sardonic.

“Sad, I suppose . . . but still a measure of satisfaction ending up so close to the top”

“Bobby, do you remember when John Donovan and Henry Donnelly were made auxiliary bishops at the same time, here in Detroit?”

Koesler nodded. He remembered it well. The two were consecrated bishops only a few months after he had been ordained a priest in June of 1954.

Monsignor John Donovan had been Cardinal Mooney’s secretary and, as such, was a logical choice for bishop. But while recognizing his devoutness, clerical wags had been at a loss to explain the selection of Henry Donnelly.

“Remember the story that was going ’round then? About their coats of arms?”

Koesler’s expression betrayed his uncertainty. It was one of the more difficult tales to recount with accuracy. He’d have to listen carefully and hope that Meehan would recall the details correctly.

Encouraged by Koesler’s apparent puzzlement, Meehan proceeded. As long as Koesler could not remember the story clearly, it was as much fun as finding a new audience for a tried and true tale.

“You must remember that John Donovan was a shoo-in for bishop—because of his relationship with Ed Mooney . . . being his secretary and all. But nobody could quite figure out how Henry got in there.

“Well, as the account goes, the gentlemen picked out their episcopal rings and had only to okay their coats of arms and pick out mottoes and they’d be all set. So, according to the story . . .”

A good part of this tale, Koesler knew, had to be apocryphal.

“. . . the two bishops-to-be tried to outwait each other, each hoping to come up with the better motto.” Meehan gave a Barry Fitzgerald-like chuckle. “See the competition starts even before the consecration. Anyway, finally Henry Donnelly made the first move and selected the motto, Per Mariam—‘Through Mary.’“

That much was true, Koesler knew—and immediately wondered why Meehan had thought it necessary to translate.

“Then,” Meehan continued, “when Donovan learned what Donnelly had chosen, Donovan settled on Per Eduardum—‘Through Edward.’” If Donnelly had gotten to be bishop through the intercession of the Blessed Mother of God, then Donovan was supposed to have concluded that he’d made it through the intercession of Ed Mooney—the Cardinal.

“So, when Donnelly heard about Donovan’s motto, Henry changed his to Per Accidens—‘By Accident.’” Meehan chuckled so helplessly he began to choke.

Koesler patted him on the back—gingerly. He did not want to break the old gentleman.

Now that the story had been recounted, Koesler remembered it well. Of course, the only truth to it was Henry Donnelly’s selection of Per Mariam as his motto. The rest was an object lesson on the infighting that goes on in the competitive world. Even inside the Church.

When Meehan had sufficiently recovered from his coughing bout, Koesler said, “Here’s a brand new one for you. It just happened a short time ago.”

Meehan rubbed his hands and leaned forward. It was not every day that a new and possibly memorable story came along . . . especially when one was confined in a nursing home.

“Do you know Carl Kaminski?”

Meehan shook his head. He knew very few priests under sixty. It didn’t matter.

“Well,” Koesler said, “this happened, as I said, just a little while ago. It seems that Carl was invited to the confirmation services at St. Hugo of the Hills—”

“Better known as St. Hugo of the Wheels,” Meehan interjected, alluding to the wealth of its parishioners.

“Right,” Koesler affirmed. “Anyway, as Carl told me, he went to the confirmation at the invitation of a classmate. He intended to just relax and have a good time. To ensure that, he downed two or three martinis before dinner. The fact that he couldn’t remember how many he’d had was testimony that he’d had more than enough.

“Then, the fathers sat down to dinner. At which time the pastor informed Carl that he was to be chaplain to the confirming prelate.”

“Don’t tell me: The confirming prelate was Cardinal Boyle!”

“How did you know?”

“It had to be. It couldn’t have been a mere auxiliary and still be a first-rate story. And then . . .?”

“Then Carl knew this was not destined to be an enjoyable, relaxing evening . . . not with too many martinis and the job of accompanying the Cardinal in and out of the church. So Carl tried to eat as many potatoes and as much bread as he could get down to neutralize the gin.

“Which he did to some extent. By the time they all got to the sacristy to vest for the ceremony, Carl was feeling pretty much in control. Then he found it was his job to put the crosier together.”

“The one,” Meehan interrupted, “that the bishop carries with him in the case? The one in three parts that have to be screwed together?” He was beginning to anticipate.

“Exactly! Well, Carl got the bottom third and the middle third screwed together all right. But when it came to the middle and the top third, he just couldn’t manage it. Actually, it turned out it wasn’t his fault: The thing had just been used so frequently that the threads were stripped. No one could have gotten the crosier together. But Carl didn’t know that. He wasn’t sure whether it was the martinis or the instrument. So he just kept on trying.

“Meanwhile, all the kids had processed into the church, the organ was playing, and the Cardinal was vested—ready to go—and drumming his fingers on the vestment case.

“Finally, Carl gave up. He turned to the Cardinal, handed him the top third of the crosier, and said, ‘Why don’t you go in on your knees and pretend you’re Toulouse-Lautrec?’”

Meehan began laughing at the point Kaminski told the Cardinal to process into the church on his knees, so he choked out, “on his knees and what? And what?”

“And pretend you’re Toulouse-Lautrec.’”

“Oh, oh, very good, Bob. Very good.” He shook his head as he wiped his eyes. “And is this true on top of everything else? Is this really true?”

“According to Kaminski, yes. And I don’t think anyone could make up a story like that, do you?”

“No, not really.”

“But you see, Monsignor, that while bishops—even auxiliary bishops—are upwardly mobile, I fear Carl Kaminski’s ecclesiastical career has come to a screeching halt.”

“Well”—Meehan was regaining self-control—“I guess that’s not totally bad. After all, we got into this vocation to be parish priests. And, while God or the Pope or somebody picks some of us to go higher, it’s best down here with the people as a simple parish priest.”

Koesler could not have agreed more. “Yes, working in the trenches, as it were.”

Meehan was silent for a few moments. Then, “Speaking of work, I’ve been wondering more and more frequently about Dick Kramer. For some reason, he’s been on my mind a lot lately. I don’t know why. It’s not that he visits me—oh, maybe once or twice a year. But somehow . . . I don’t know . . . have you seen Dick recently?”

“No. Just no reason to, I guess.” Koesler found it strange that Meehan would bring Father Kramer up in conversation two consecutive weeks. Maybe there was some sort of ESP going on. “Are you worried about him for some reason?”

“No . . . I couldn’t say worried. Concerned, perhaps. In the time we were together at St. Norbert’s he was so intense. We didn’t have a parochial school when he got to the parish, though we had plans for one and the archdiocese was willing to loan us the money for construction. The big thing was, we didn’t have the teaching nuns.

“But once I got a commitment from the Dominicans, there was just no stopping Dick. He did all the landscaping . . . with the generous help of some of the parishioners, of course. But no one worked nearly as hard as Dick Kramer to get that school built.

“The sad thing is, Bob, he was—is—a driven man. And I worry about him at that parish of his. There comes a time when you must let something die. And that’s about the state of Mother of Sorrows parish. It’s dying. But Father Kramer will work it even as it sinks into the grave. The frustration of it all can take a lot out of a man . . . especially a man like Dick Kramer.” Meehan looked expectantly at Koesler.

“So, Monsignor, is there something you’d like me to do about this?”

“Look in on him, if you would. I feel he needs some support. The support only another priest can give. Unless he’s changed a great deal—and I don’t believe he has—then he doesn’t have more than a few close friends. And he would never ask for help. It’s just not in him to do that.”

“Monsignor,” Koesler protested, “I really don’t have all that much time to—”

“Oh, now, Bobby, I’m not askin’ you to spend a lot of time. Just look in on him once in a while. Let him know someone cares. Another priest. It’ll do a lot of good. I know it will.”

“Okay, Monsignor. I’ll do it . . . first chance I get.”

Koesler made his goodbyes. It was just 11:30 A.M. Time for Monsignor Meehan to lead the rosary in the chapel of the Little Sisters of the Poor. As usual, six or seven little old ladies and one or two little old men would join him for this daily prayer before lunch.

Before leaving, Koesler watched the pious group gather. One day, he thought, if you live long enough, this will be it: The high point of your day will be leading the rosary for a group of your peers—all of you on the shelf.

Oh well; it could be worse. Needed, for one reason or another, right to the end. There was a lot to be said for the quiet life of a simple parish priest.

In a little while he would value that quiet, simple life even more because he was about to temporarily lose it.