The Gathering (43 page)

An officer approached Koesler. There were some routine questions. A confused housekeeper had been of little help. The officer had reassured her that these questions were not of supreme importance. He would ask around. Koesler knew the answers to most of the questions. For the rest, he suggested the officer contact the Chancery. They were likely to know all the minutiae.

Stan had left no specific request for a liturgy. Koesler elected himself principal concelebrant. He hoped that some of the Detroit priests would attend. Koesler, the Chancery, and the funeral home would take care of lingering details.

The phone rang. Mrs. Schutz answered it, then handed the receiver to Koesler.

“Father Koesler …” It was the familiar, Teutonic-accented voice of Dr. Willie Moellmann. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I was waiting for the lab report.”

Good old Dr. Moellmann: He placed his own phone calls. It was never, “Just a moment please for the doctor.”

“That’s okay, Doctor. I’m grateful you returned my call. Do you have anything on Father’s death?”

“Yes. Death was due to asphyxiation. The cause was carbon monoxide poisoning. From all appearances, most likely accidental.”

Koesler breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t wanted to think—! “You’re sure?”

Dr. Moellmann chuckled. “When am I
not
sure? It wasn’t difficult. From what I’m told, the rectory is an old house with a gas furnace, and a large fan and vent in the kitchen. It was recently renovated; the doors and windows were replaced. Also new insulation was added. All in all, an accident waiting to happen.”

“How so?”

“Obviously, no fresh air could enter without cracking open a window or door. The fan was running, creating a backflow down the chimney, instead of exhausting from the chimney. The furnace goes on under negative pressure. Carbon monoxide replaces oxygen. The victim suffocates.”

Koesler automatically almost asked again, “You’re sure?” but stopped himself. Dr. Moellmann had already committed himself on that, and did not suffer foolish questions gladly.

Koesler would rephrase the question. “There’s nothing else involved?”

“I just got the lab report. The carbon monoxide binds to the blood and the blood turns a dark cherry color. It was an easy test. There was no sign of struggle—or anything of that nature that would suggest homicide. There was no indication of suicide like a note. So, it will be termed an accident.” It was obvious that Dr. Moellmann’s statement was a conclusive one. Sort of, thought Koesler, like
Roma locuta est; causa finita est—
Rome has spoken, the matter is closed.

“Thank you, Doctor. Maybe we can do lunch sometime.”

“
Ja
. Call me.” And he hung up.

One thing more, thought Koesler: We have to have a gathering of the group.

   
THIRTY-THREE
   

I
T WAS 6 P.M.
The five remaining principals were assembled in the cafeteria of St. John’s Center.

“We haven’t been together as a group in a long, long time,” Koesler said.

“And now,” Sister Rose Smith said, “it is funerals that bring us together. First Mrs. Benson, and then our friend Stan.”

“He never really belonged to this group.” Michael Smith had a perceptible chip on his shoulder. “Bob dragged him in and the rest of us adopted him like a stray dog.”

“Come on, Mike,” his twin said. “Lighten up. We just buried the poor guy. If anything, we ought to be examining our conscience and see what we did to cause his death.”

“Rose is right,” Alice said. “And, in a way, so is Mike. We weren’t exactly gracious to Stan. He was always odd man out. Maybe if we had been kinder, more welcoming, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“What did we have to do with it? It’s been declared an accident. That means nobody is responsible,” Manny said. “After all, it’s not as if he committed suicide …” He turned to Bob Koesler. “ … did he?”

Koesler had been mulling over the medical examiner’s conclusion: accidental death. But Koesler couldn’t rid himself of the bee buzzing around in his brain. What if … what if … what if Stanley, so upset and depressed over the news Koesler had given him, had indeed decided that life was no longer worth living? Just because Stanley hadn’t left any note didn’t necessarily mean that he hadn’t taken his own life. Maybe in committing suicide—if that was the case—Stan had thought of that old legal term,
res ipsa loquitur
—the thing speaks for itself.

Did “the thing” speak for itself? Was it so evident that Stan felt his whole life had been a waste, a lie, a farce; was that enough to cause him to turn on the exhaust fan, set the thermostat, and calmly lie down to go to sleep for the last time?

And if so, how would anyone ever know? Maybe Stan had intended for his death to be ambiguous, believing that his old friend and classmate, his fellow priest, Bob Koesler, would get the message and understand?

Oddly, Father Koesler, upright man that he was, had not till now even thought to consider the possibility that someone else—who?—could have set up the circumstances leading to Stan Benson’s death. But now that the horrid possibility occurred, all he could think of was: Who would do that? And why? The old rule in mysterious deaths was: Who profits? But nobody would profit from Father Stanley Benson’s death. What little he had—a pittance—would go to Maryknoll. And it was all Father Koesler could do to keep from laughing at the very image of any Maryknoller creeping into Guadalupe’s ancient rectory to commit murder. No way!

He was brought back to reality as Manny repeated his question, this time somewhat insistently. “He didn’t commit suicide, did he, Bob?”

“If nobody is responsible,” Mike interjected, “then what are we all doing here this evening?” He looked at Bob. “Maybe we’re here,” he said, answering his own question, “so that Bob—amateur detective that he is—can pace back and forth like Sherlock Holmes and tell us which of us ‘dun it.’”

“For heaven’s sake, Mike,” Rose said, “will you stop being such a jerk!”

Michael shot an irate glance at his sister but said nothing.

“In a way, all of you have a piece of the truth as I understand it,” Koesler said. “I think Stanley Benson has something to teach us—all of us. I think we owe it to him—and to ourselves—to learn something from his life … and from his death.”

Mike laughed. “He’s going to become St. Stanley?”

The others were growing short of patience with Mike. When no one responded to his jibe, Mike looked around the circle. One corner of his mouth pulled down in irritation. But he seemed to be getting the message.

Manny picked up Mike’s baton. “What, exactly, do you mean, Bob? What can we possibly learn from Stan’s life … or his death? That he was too cruel to be a priest?” They all knew that Manny was alluding to Stan’s sloughing off Manny’s granddaughter’s problem. “Or,” he continued, “that we should provide ventilation when we are dealing with carbon monoxide?”

Manny recalled Stan’s bragging that he’d had the rectory repaired and the windows and doors replaced. So the ME’s finding was that the cause of death was asphyxiation due to carbon monoxide fumes. The large kitchen exhaust fan was left running, eventually pulling inside the living quarters the poisonous fumes from the chimney. It appeared that Stan had forgotten to turn off the fan, had gone to bed, fallen asleep, and never awakened.

Now Manny too began to have second thoughts. Was it possible—? No! He dismissed immediately the idea that anyone had killed Stan. But suicide? Was that more likely? Manny shook his head. If truth be known, he didn’t think enough of Stan to consider that Stan had the grit to commit suicide.

Manny straightened up. “Sorry,” he said, in apology for his seemingly shallow or mean comments. “But”—he looked at Koesler—“why
are
we here now?”

This wasn’t going as Koesler had planned. He’d better get things on track and keep them there. “I think it’s important for us to understand Stan. And I confess I myself didn’t understand him until about a week ago—the night after we buried his mother.

“At his invitation, I met with Stan here at St. John’s. He told me pretty much everything about his life.”

He had their complete attention. They had not expected a biography of someone they’d thought they knew pretty thoroughly.

Koesler took them through Stan’s experience with the Mass, and his fidelity as a server. Mike and Manny could understand; they’d had similar experiences. Except that in their case, the fascination with the Mass and with the priesthood that produced it had led them toward the seminary. They were startled to learn that while Stan had shared their attachment to the Mass, the priesthood had never held the slightest attraction for him.

“Then why,” Alice asked, “did he go to the seminary?”

Koesler explained the linchpin role that Father Simpson had played. The phony annulment, the fake convalidation, the alleged leftover annulment from missionary days, locking everyone concerned into unbreachable secrecy.

“You mean to tell us that the Bensons and Stan fell for that!” Manny couldn’t believe it. “That’s incredible!”

“Not if you’re a tortured soul convinced you’re going to hell,” said Koesler. “Along comes a trusted priest, their pastor, and tells Mrs. Benson that she doesn’t have to go. No matter how fanciful this scenario seems to us now, she wanted so badly for it to happen that she would have believed anything … and she did believe everything Father Simpson told her.”

“And Stan?” Rose asked. “He didn’t have to have a fairy tale to clutch.”

“He didn’t have to swallow the myth. The motivation Simpson used on Stan was his mother’s happiness. She had always believed that Stan wanted desperately to be a priest. He hadn’t set her straight because it didn’t matter: He was an ecclesial bastard and was led to believe that his condition was an irreversible impediment to Orders—that it made it impossible for him to ever become a priest.

“Then,” Koesler continued, “Father Simpson waves his magic wand, and Mrs. Benson is back in the Church’s good graces. So, of course, she assumes there is no longer any impediment to Stan’s becoming a priest; now he can pursue what both of them wanted so desperately—the priesthood.”

“What kind of a monster would manipulate a family like that!” Rose stormed. “What kind of monster would manipulate
anyone
like that?”

“Good question,” Koesler replied. “Who’s to know? There must have been some reason other than sheer whimsy on Simpson’s part. Maybe it was for selfish purposes—or maybe he actually thought he was doing good. But, as I said, who’s to know?”

The silence was almost pregnant as each searched his or her brain for a possible answer. Finally, an oddly sympathetic Michael spoke. “I think,” he said, “all you have to do is look at the parish.”

“The parish? What’s the parish got to do with it?” Manny asked.

“Guadaloop!” Mike said in a don’t-you-understand tone. “It had gone to seed. Simpson was miserable. It was no secret that producing seminarians was the mark of a properly pastored parish. So if Simpson could produce a seminarian—even better, a priest—the Chancery might move him to a much more prestigious place. Actually,” he said, almost as a side thought, “
any
other place would’ve been more prestigious than Guadaloop.

“Believe me,” he said, “in the time I worked in the Chancery, I saw lots of guys like Simpson … although, now that I think of it, none of them were as mean-spirited and manipulative as that guy—at least, not that I know of.”

“Okay,” Koesler said. “Stan gave me the skeleton of what got him into the seminary and kept him there—and in the priesthood.” He looked around at the others. “We’ve put flesh on Stan’s ordeal.” The others nodded.

“The next thing on Stan’s agenda was to get lost in the crowd, as it were, and to stay lost. He was deathly afraid that someone might stumble on the secret he was keeping so diligently. So he deliberately led a life of colorless mediocrity.”

“I’ve got to confess,” Manny said, “I did wonder about that. I always thought Stan knew more—much more—than he showed.”

“In fact,” Koesler said, “he specifically mentioned you, Manny, and your granddaughter. I can tell you now, he agreed with you totally. But he was afraid that if he solved your problem, if he went along with you—which he could have done, and which he wanted to do—he would have smashed to smithereens clear Church law. The spotlight would be on him, and he feared what might be revealed. It tore him up to refuse you.”