Chameleon (6 page)

Well, come to think of it, thought Meyer, I didn’t challenge him either. Never mind that Meyer studiously avoided confrontation in order to maintain financial security and a considerable investment in a retirement fund. In the end there was no question about it: Bash got away with too much—far too much.

Koesler, like the others in the room, had no idea of what Bash and Meyer had been discussing.

Meyer it was who had saved a place for his boss. This came as no surprise to Koesler, He had met Meyer often enough to know it was almost impossible to get a firm opinion from the man. He was all questions and very few answers. That he would arrive at a place like this early enough to save a seat for his boss was to be expected. Meyer had made a science of kowtowing. Koesler found that sad.

But, Koesler wondered, what could Clete Bash mean by saying he could have killed a story?
What story?

No one who read the local papers, watched local TV, or listened to local radio could be unaware that Father Cletus Bash was, for starters, the official spokesman for the archdiocese of Detroit. Indeed, faidiful readers, viewers, and listeners could be forgiven for being fed up with Bash’s intrusion when it came to news stories. It was as if there could be no Catholic news or Catholic reaction to news unless Cletus Bash did it or said it.

But what could he have meant by saying that he could have killed a story? Surely not this story. He must have had reference to some other story.

Koesler dismissed the whole business.

He would have been distracted in any case by a sudden stirring in this overly crowded and overly warm room. Archbishop Lawrence Foley was making an entrance. There was no possible doubt about that whatever.

Foley had a distinct—nay, unique—way of clearing his throat. He would half bury his chin in his clerical collar, cover his mouth with a closed fist, and clear his throat with a series of rumbling sounds.

The cough was the result of a combination of causes, including nearly fifty years of cigarette smoking, inveterate tea drinking, and, eventually, sheer habit. While he had quit smoking some ten years ago, his hack sounded as authentic as if he had just walked off a tobacco plantation.

Five years ago he had retired as archbishop of Cincinnati. The stated reason for his retirement was his age—seventy—and ill health. Both reasons were real enough, but the more pressing issue was that in some Curial circles he was considered “soft” on such issues as homosexuality and abortion. Foley wasn’t really an advocate of either practice. He just loved everybody—including sinners and those considered by highly placed authorities to be sinners. The longer he lived, the more accepting and nonjudgmental he became—attributes not at all prized by the present administration in Rome. However, a few years before, Rome itself had been burned by the reaction of American bishops when a liberal West Coast bishop had his local authority shredded by some bureaucrats in Rome. Not wishing to be twice burned, yet not willing to endure any hint of doctrinal deviation, Rome had applied considerable pressure as Foley neared compulsory retirement age.

The archbishop, a loyal churchman despite his humanistic leanings, complied with Rome’s wishes. He retired, but stayed on in a private Cincinnati home as bishop-emeritus. However, despite his striving to maintain a very low profile, his popularity remained strong. He was invited to meetings of such fringe groups as former priests, and women who demanded ordination. Often, he attended. The good man had great difficulty refusing invitations, particularly those from people who were hurting.

Pressure was applied again: this time, to leave Cincinnati and the people with whom he’d built a long-standing, mutual love affair.

Obediently, he packed. But where to go? He prayed. His prayers were answered almost ideally by an invitation to reside in Detroit.

Detroit had become known throughout the country and the entire Catholic world as an “open” diocese. The Second Vatican Council had hit Detroit harder than any other U.S. diocese and certainly no less forcefully than any other diocese in the world.

Rome was not enthused by the Detroit Syndrome. But there were some substantial if subtle differences between Detroit and Cincinnati. Detroit’s archbishop, Mark Boyle, was a Cardinal, a “prince of the Church,” That, plus Boyle’s popularity among his confreres, had earned him the first elected presidency of the newly formed U.S. Bishops’ Conference. Even Rome had to take these facts into consideration.

There were also differences between Boyle and Foley.

Larry Foley’s conscience and conviction led him to more or less sympathize with the spirit of the fringe and outlawed groups with whom he dealt. Mark Boyle, on the other hand, seldom if ever swerved from the
vera doctrina
, the true doctrine as interpreted by Rome.

Boyle’s great virtue—or flaw, depending on which side of the fence one sat—was his ability to co-exist with those whose opinions he did not share. Without shouting, “Off with their heads!”

Thus Boyle got along with Foley as well or better than with just about any other bishop in captivity. They had been friends for years; it was only natural that Foley had considered Boyle’s invitation to reside in Detroit as heaven-sent.

With this background, Koesler understood why Archbishop Foley would receive mixed reviews from the people in this room. Many of them had the “bureaucratic mind” that disapproved of Foley as a maverick, while others appreciated him to the extent of loving him.

Among the latter was Sister Joan Donovan. While making no effort to conceal the details of her sister’s life and death, she had, with anxiety, let her wish be known that her sister receive a Catholic burial.

Archbishop Foley had been the first—and, actually, the foremost—to respond to her appeal. He told Joan it would be an honor for him to preside over the Mass of Resurrection and burial. Thus Sister Joan joined the long line of those beholden to him.

Foley was here to lead the rosary. To that purpose he now made his way toward the front of the room where a kneeler had been placed before the bier.

The archbishop gave new meaning to fragility. Thin as a pipe cleaner, he was slightly stooped. Although he bore a generally dour face topped by wispy white hair, it was his eyes that distinguished him. They were blue and danced with merriment.

Even the soft whispering gradually ceased as Foley shuffled to the front of the room. As he reached the casket, Sister Joan stepped forward and joined him. For several moments they stood gazing at the remains of Helen Donovan. Foley had spoken words of consolation at the time he’d agreed to preside at the funeral, so there was no need to go into that again.

“She was very beautiful,” Foley said finally. He had never met Helen Donovan in life.

Joan nodded, “She looks quite natural. I was told the bullet entered the rear of her head and didn’t come out. So I guess there was no extensive damage in the front to …” She choked back a heavy pressure in her throat.

“… repair?” Foley supplied.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Foley joined his hands as if in prayer. “Now that I’ve finally seen her, I am amazed how much she resembles you.”

“Oh, she was much prettier.”

“No, not really. She’s lovely, of course. But then, so are you.”

“Oh, come now!” Joan touched the bishop’s arm. It was as if she were holding naked bone.

“No, no. You are both lovely ladies. Now, if an old coot like me can’t get away with passing a compliment with no strings attached, who in God’s green world can?”

Joan smiled briefly. “You know, Bishop, she and I were never close. That surprises me now that I look back on it. We were the only children in our family, both girls. You’d think we would have appreciated each other, shared things. But aside of my hand-me-downs we shared almost nothing. I got excellent marks in school—that sort of challenged her. I did well in academics; she did not. But she did better in almost everything else.”

They fell silent for a few moments.

“Your sister is grateful to you now,” Foley said. “Grateful that you’ve gone to all this trouble to have her buried properly.”

“Oh, do you really think so? I’ve been wondering whether I’m doing all this for her or for myself. For a long, long time she couldn’t have cared less about the church or religion. What difference would this ceremony make to her now?”

“Well, m’dear, I’ve always thought that when we die, we will be judged by love. I am so very, desperately grateful that when I go, I will not be judged by any fellow human—no matter how understanding and forgiving that person may be. No, your sister’s been judged by the only one who goes on loving us no matter what we do. Keep in mind the words of St. John, ‘God is love and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him.’ Forgive the sexist pronouns, m’dear.”

Strange
, thought Joan,
he hasn’t said anything I didn’t know. And yet I feel so much better, so very much better.

“And while we’re at it,” Foley added, “we might remember some other words from Scripture: ‘It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.’ Will you join me on the kneeler? I promise I won’t get fresh.”

Joan almost laughed out loud.

As they knelt, most of those in the room followed suit. Archbishop Foley led the group in the glorious mysteries. To even slightly old-fashioned Catholics, the rosary, particularly in this setting, was a consolation. To others, the whole thing was a mystery—not joyful, not sorrowful, not glorious. Just a mystery.

The rosary completed, Foley creaked to his feet, said a few more words to Joan, patted her hand, and shuffled toward the exit.

The others waited, either out of genuine respect or in deference to his rank. Then nearly everyone participated in a mass exit. Koesler, intent on speaking to Joan, felt like a salmon swimming upstream.

By the time he reached the front of the room only a few people remained. They were clustered around Sister Joan. As he knelt briefly before the casket, he was struck by Helen’s resemblance to Joan. They were not twins, but they very definitely were look-alike sisters.

As he prayed that Helen be at peace with God, he wondered how two lives so joined in consanguinity could have developed so differently, as Helen and Joan had drifted apart in every conceivable way.

When he finished his prayer, he stood at the rear of the small group offering condolences to Joan. She noticed him standing there awkwardly and broke away long enough to thank him for attending. It was a perfunctory greeting. Koesler was certain that later Joan would not even remember his presence. But that was understandable. It was not at all uncommon for the bereaved to be distracted, even unaware of what was taking place. The death of a loved one may be the ultimate shock.

As Koesler turned to leave, none of the original crowd, outside of the few with Joan, remained—except the ladies who did not represent the Rosary Altar Society. They were in the doorway talking to a black man with an engaging smile.

Koesler knew the man from somewhere. As usual in such situations, he began reflecting on parishes he had served. Frequently, priests’ contacts with laity took place on the parochial level. This was an easy case to check; he had had relatively few black parishioners during his priestly ministry to date. He hoped to correct that imbalance through old St. Joseph’s parish.

But, if not a parish, then where? Of course: Lieutenant Tully. What was that nickname some used? Oh, yes: Zoo.

Koesler was tempted to classify their association as having “worked together” on a couple of cases. But that would be a somewhat grandiose description. Let’s keep things in perspective, he thought: Tully was the cop. And from what Koesler’s close friend Inspector Walter Koznicki had said, Tully was the inspector’s most valued officer in the Homicide Division. From the amateur’s point of view, Koesler would agree at least with the fact that Tully was totally dedicated to his work.

And Koesler? Over the past decade, Homicide had investigated some cases with decidedly Catholic angles. He had merely clarified some facets of Catholicism that had cleared the way for the police to do their job

In the periphery of his vision, Tully caught Koesler looking in his direction. He had been waiting for that. Graciously he terminated his conversation with the women and stepped forward into the nearly empty room toward Koesler. For Tully, Koesler represented an oasis of familiarity in a desert of foreign identities.

They greeted each other cordially but their mutual greeting was more pro forma than personal.

“For just a second there, Lieutenant”—Koesler’s sole use of nicknames was confined to colleagues who were friends from childhood—“I was surprised to see you here. Then I recalled that this is, after all, a murder investigation. So why wouldn’t you be here?”

“Uh-huh. Good to see you again, And you? Did you know the deceased?”

For just an instant, Koesler reacted as if he were being interrogated. “No, not at all.” Then he relaxed. “I do know her sister, Sister Joan. I was afraid there wouldn’t be many showing up for this wake so I was going to add my body to the few. Obviously”—Koesler’s gesture encompassed what had been a packed room—“I was mistaken.”

“You weren’t the only one surprised. What attracted this crowd?”

“Oh, I think certainly the fact that Sister Joan is the head of a department in the archdiocese. A few of the people here tonight are also department heads, and a lot of the others work in the various departments.”

That makes sense, thought Tully. “And you know all these people?”

Koesler nodded. “Most of them. Certainly all the department heads. Not everyone who works under them.”

“Interesting. The elderly gentleman, the one who led the prayers, he a department head?”

“No, he’s a bishop. An archbishop.” Koesler had had this perception many times before. There was no shorthand to explain the trappings of Catholicism—its law, doctrine, morality, liturgy, etc.—easily and simply. “He’s retired.”

“Retired? Then why’s he leading the prayers?”

Koesler didn’t immediately grasp the thrust of Tully’s question. “Leading prayers?” Then, “Oh, I see. Well, priests, bishops, even if they’re retired, don’t stop praying or even leading prayers. They can continue doing as much or as little as they wish and as the Church law allows, liturgically if not parochially. Most of them want to be rid of administrative work. But most of them still want to be with people—want to be of some service to people.”