Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  The voice belonged to neither of the robbers. One customer shakily got to his feet to greet the second customer. “They shot him! They shot Mr. Abdoo! Call 911! Maybe they killed him! Didja see them?”

  “Uh-uh. All I seen was two guys in masks runnin’ outta here. I seen em get in a car. It was still runnin’. They whipped out right by me.”

  “You see what it was?”

  “A Jag. Late model. Black. Didn’t make no plate … bad grill.”

  “Call 911! Call 911!”

  “Okay! Okay!”

  Once clear of the neighborhood, Bonnie and Rick whipped off their masks. Bonnie, sobbing, buried her face in her hands.

  Rick would have paid more attention to her had he not been so busy evaluating his own emotions.

  This was different—vastly different—from what had happened last night. Last night he had provided the gun. He had ordered the outcome. But Ronnie had pulled the trigger.

  Now, it was he—Rick himself. He—no one else—had taken a human life.

  Once again by his peculiar rationalization process, clearly it was the victim’s own fault. All he’d had to do was hand over the money. He would be alive now if he had just done what he was supposed to. Just as it was that bitch’s fault last night: If she hadn’t recognized Ronnie, she’d be at her garden club meeting right now.

  Their fault!

  It took Rick no time at all to reach this point.

  Now he was testing his appreciation of what he’d done. It wasn’t quite the thrill he’d expected. If anything, he merely felt numb. He wondered about that.

  Next he thought of what he’d told the Golds last night: Once they’d done it—once they’d killed—things had to escalate. Now, hell, if anything, he was retrogressing.

  Last night the victim had been a cultured, wealthy woman. Her murder would have to be a very high priority for the police.

  That was one level—a high level.

  But he’d just killed a relative nobody. Maybe the guy owned the store. So big deal! In Detroit something like this happened by the day.

  That must be it … why this was almost a downer for him. And he had it figured out. He knew what had gone wrong.

  They had to move ahead. Aim high.

  He relaxed behind the wheel. He would take Bonnie home—to his house. He would quiet her, convince her. She would come around. She always did.

  Meanwhile he had learned a valuable lesson.

  His plan was nearing completion.

  They would act soon. Very soon.

  17

  It started in the shower.

  He had been pretty well composed as the police had returned him to his rectory. The woman, who had volunteered her eyewitness statement on the near fatality, had chattered incessantly. That had proven a distraction.

  The police were solicitous beyond question. They almost seemed to need reassurance that Koesler was all right. He reassured them.

  He did not wish to impose on either the police or the woman witness. He assured the police that he could make it to Cobo on his own and that he would stop off at 1300 Beaubien en route to the arena and file his report on the hit-and-run.

  On entering the rectory, he encountered Mary O’Connor, secretary and general factotum. She had arrived for work just after Koesler had started out for Cobo Arena.

  Mary was shocked. He was a mess. She could not recall ever having seen him so disheveled. She needed to be reassured that he was not hurt. He reassured her. Also, he explained that he had no time for an explanation, but that he would explain after he finished his business at Cobo for which business he was already late.

  In his room he decided that at very least his overcoat and trousers needed the cleaners. Fortunately he had been wearing his second-string suit and coat. There had better not be any further mishaps; there was no backup suit and coat in his closet. One more messy accident and he would have to give serious thought to a sweat suit or a barrel.

  Under the strong, hot shower spray he began to feel the stiffness and pain. At one point, he feared he might pass out. No matter how late he would be for his appointment, he would have to take the rest of this morning more slowly and gingerly.

  While dressing, he buzzed Mrs. O’Connor on the intercom and asked her to call a cab. No more slogging through the slush this morning for him. She asked how he was doing. He reassured her again.

  After a stop at headquarters, the cab discharged him in the circular drive outside Cobo’s main doors. He walked stiffly into the building. It was as if he were discovering muscles he hadn’t used in a long while. Actually, he was reacting to the bruises inflicted by his fall.

  He found the room where tomorrow two scholars would debate the doctrine of infallibility. A debate he was scheduled to moderate. A debate that was supposed to have been rehearsed this morning—beginning some forty-five minutes ago. Koesler was unsure what he might find at this time. He peered tentatively around the door.

  The room was much larger than he had anticipated. But there were fewer folding chairs than a room this size would seem to call for. He assumed more chairs were available if the crowd were larger than expected. It was difficult to estimate in advance.

  At this time there were no plans to accredit or even distribute tickets to the audience. As of now the debate was simply open to the public.

  Nor was there much evident security. A few guards here and there, but he couldn’t find even one Detroit police officer. If law enforcement people were here—city, county, or federal—they must be in plain clothes.

  On a dais at the front of the room were three chairs, a cut above the audience’s folding variety, and a lectern.

  While technicians and maintenance people were busy checking the electrical equipment, the thermostat, and the public address system, the two priests in animated conversation on the dais paid them no mind. It seemed that the two must have pulled their chairs together on the same side of the dais.

  Koesler surmised that they were the scheduled presenters at this conference on dogmatic theology. He had read some of their articles in theological journals, but he had never met them.

  One had to be Father John Selner, a Sulpician (a society whose choice it was to teach seminarians). Koesler recalled a photo from his days as editor of the Detroit Catholic; Selner was the one to Koesler’s right.

  John Selner was heavyset with a full head of dark hair. He wore a cassock that should have gone to the ragbag long ago. Probably it had been purchased during one of Selner’s abstemious periods. Now it stretched across Father’s midriff tortuously trying to hold on to the buttons. The upper edge of his clerical collar was buried under the folds of fat at his neck. Maybe, thought Koesler, that was why Selner’s face was so red. Perhaps the blood ascending from the powerful pump that was his heart could get through his pinched neck, but had a lot of trouble getting any further.

  There, thought Koesler, was a stroke waiting to happen.

  Further, Koesler thought that when he had the opportunity to get up close and personal he would find that much-used cassock would have a generous measure of food stains. Perhaps some cigarette burn marks as well.

  Here was a man consumed by matters theological and totally unconcerned with personal appearance. If he were correct in identifying this gentleman as Father John Selner, S.S., then Koesler had found the conservative proponent in this debate.

  Surely by accident, the liberal spokesman was to Koesler’s left. If he was correct so far, the other participant was Father Daniel Hanson.

  As if to accentuate their philosophical differences, the two experts were worlds apart physically.

  Father Hanson, while not pencil thin, was spare. His oval head was bald except for a white fringe above the ears and around the back. Unlike Selner, Hanson wore glasses. As Koesler recalled from photos he’d seen of Father Hanson, the priest usually wore civilian clothing, including a tie—all very businesslike, of course. Now, perhaps in deference to what would not be an academic setting, he wore a plain black
suit and clerical collar.

  The two priests were so wrapped up in their private conversation, they seemed oblivious to the hubbub around them.

  Slowly, gingerly Koesler approached them. When he came within a few yards of the dais they noticed him and immediately became aware of his halting gait. They both stood and came to assist him. As they did, Koesler noted that Selner, in addition to being overweight, was packed into a compact body. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-six or -seven.

  Hanson, on the other hand, was much taller, perhaps five-foot-ten or -eleven.

  Koesler felt like a relic as the two priests assisted him to a chair on the dais. As he hobbled along, introductions were made. Koesler had been correct in his tentative identifications. The two men had recognized Koesler since they had heard about what had happened to him; he was the only priest they had encountered who appeared to have been hit by something like a car.

  “Sorry …” Koesler eased himself into the chair. “I’m afraid I’m really terribly late. That is not my m.o. at all, believe me.”

  “My poor man,” Selner said, “don’t think of it. The police told us what happened to you. Are you sure you’re all right? Shouldn’t you be home in bed or something?”

  Koesler chuckled. At least that didn’t hurt. “No, no, I’m okay. A little stiff, that’s all. I don’t usually play Dodgem this early in the day … any time of the day, for that matter.

  “But I saw you talking to each other. Were you rehearsing your presentations?”

  Hanson smiled. “No, my dear man.” He looked at Selner. “Shall we confess, John?”

  Selner shrugged good-naturedly.

  “We were,” Hanson said, “arguing the relative merits of our soccer teams.”

  “Your soccer teams?”

  “Yes. You see, John and I have been out of the states for the best part of our priestly lives. With John, it’s been teaching in several seminaries in France. While I’ve been virtually exiled from my diocese, and wandering—on assignment of course—around Europe lecturing, writing, eluding the Church authorities as much as possible.”

  “You see,” Selner continued, “we’ve been away from stateside distractions like football, baseball, and basketball for all these years. But you have no idea how absorbing soccer is over there. So that, we confess, is what we’ve been discussing—not arguing about. Ignosce mihi.”

  “You’re forgiven,” Koesler responded. “But what about the rehearsal? This conference is scheduled for tomorrow. And again, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting all this time. Can we do something about that now?”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “There’s no real need,” said Hanson.

  “Daniel,” Selner said, “maybe we ought to explain. We take it all too much for granted. Father Koesler here—”

  “Bob,” Koesler suggested.

  “… Bob here would not be in a position to know what we do from time to time over there.”

  “What you do over … where?”

  “Oh,” Hanson said, “various places in Europe. Usually as part of seminars or conferences. Very much like this one, only not at all on such a grand scale. We’ve never been an opening act for the pope before.”

  “You see,” Selner added, “both of us are basically dogmatic theologians. And one or another topic in this field has been a subject for us to chew over in the past.”

  “Believe me,” Hanson said, “we’ve been over the topic of infallibility more than once.”

  “Dozens of times.”

  “You mean,” Koesler said, “that you just update your material as the years go by?”

  “There’s really not much to update, to be perfectly frank,” Hanson said. “It’s all pretty much rooted in history.” He winked at Selner. “As a matter of fact, after all this time, we probably could switch sides and argue against each of our own convictions.”

  “Without actually changing our own positions, mind you.

  “But, come to think of it, we are so familiar with the arguments as they develop in these debates, we probably could switch roles just to relieve the monotony.”

  With an impish grin, Hanson said, “Should we, John? Should we argue the other side for Bob here?”

  “Uh … I fear it would be a bit confusing for the dear man. But I think we should let him in on what will happen tomorrow. We certainly don’t need the rehearsal. But, since he’s never heard us before, we ought to cue Bob into what we’ll be doing tomorrow.”

  “Righto,” Hanson agreed. “First off, after you go through the curricula—”

  “I’m suffering a distraction already,” Selner said. “Haven’t we worked out the plural for a résumé? Is it curricula vitae, or curriculum vitarum, or curricula vitarum?”

  “Or curriculums,” Hanson offered.

  “Horrors! Well, continue.”

  “After you finish the backgroundings—which, by the way, you should have already..,” Hanson looked expectantly at Koesler.

  “Yes, I have them.”

  “Then,” Hanson continued, “it would be best to give me the floor first … wouldn’t you agree, John?”

  “Oh, yes, by all means. You see, Bob, the way this will develop in context is that infallibility is a given, a datum. We Catholics—and most non-Catholics—are familiar with the concept of infallibility. So it makes little sense for me to begin by explaining what infallibility is. Catholics, by and large, believe in it. Non-Catholics of course wouldn’t believe, but at least they’d be familiar with the concept.

  “So, since Daniel will deny the existence of that particular doctrine, it is more practical for him to lead off … at least, that has been our experience.”

  “Dan denies infallibility!” Koesler exclaimed. “You mean you claim there is no such thing as infallibility?”

  “Exactly,” Hanson said. “In a nutshell, that’s about it.”

  “I think I can see why you try to avoid the hierarchy.”

  “Well,” Hanson said, “I don’t go around shouting from the rooftops, you see. So the institutional Church does not have to confront me most of the time. That”—he scratched his head—“is why both of us have wondered why we’ve been invited to this particular convocation. This is going to draw an awful lot of media coverage. And while John is a dear soul, a brave colleague, and a brilliant theologian”—he winked at Selner—“he hasn’t a leg to stand on in this matter.”

  “Thank you, Daniel, for the extravagant adjectives. But I wouldn’t agree.”

  “Of course not. Where, then, would be the debate?”

  “So …” Koesler shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “… I call on Father Hanson to give the opening statement.”

  Hanson chuckled. “Yes, then pretty much hang back. We will shift into our debating gear … and we’ll be off.”

  “Is this,” Koesler asked, “at all related to that old wheeze about the orchestra conductor who mounts the podium and finds a note telling him to pick up the stick and begin waving it? ‘Beautiful music will start. Keep waving the stick until the music stops. Put the stick down, turn around, and bow.’ Is that sort of what I’m supposed to do—introduce the two of you, then get out of the way?”

  “No, not at all,” Selner said. “You are, after all, the moderator. If one or both of us gets out of line—starts to hog the stage as it were—you step in.”

  “It has happened,” Hanson admitted.

  “In that case,” said Koesler, “I’m a bit embarrassed. You ought to have an expert sitting in with you as moderator.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he added, “I’m honored to be with you. I probably would’ve attended this conference anyway. But I think I’ll be learning things from your talks. I may not know if or when you are out of line.”

  “Actually,” Hanson said, “we’d rather have … uh … a general practitioner—if you don’t mind that description. I mean it in the best sense of the term.”

  “I don’t mind. Especially in a situation like this,
with experts in their field conducting the program, what better way to describe a parish priest than a general practitioner.”

  “Okay,” Hanson said. “Again, you introduce us and call on me as the first speaker. And, with Father Selner’s permission, I’ll begin by dropping my bomb.”

  18

  “Your bomb?” Koesler wondered.

  “That,” Hanson continued as if Koesler had not spoken, “there is not now, nor has there ever been, such a thing as infallibility for anybody except God.”

  That is a bomb, Koesler silently agreed. Hitherto his idea of a bombshell would have been that for all of its controversial history, infallibility had been explicitly used only once.

  Selner was shaking his head. “Dan, that’s the weakest part of your argument.”

  “What?” Koesler was fast approaching bewilderment.

  “The part about no such thing from the beginning,” Selner said.

  Hanson nodded. “That is a strong point in your argument. But not entirely defensible by any means.”

  Their disagreement, to Koesler, seemed in the most amiable of spirits. There appeared to be nothing personal intended; each was arguing facts as he saw them.

  “To begin,” Selner said, “there’s Luke’s account, when Jesus says to Peter, ‘I have prayed for you that your faith may never fail. You in turn must strengthen your brothers.’”

  “Granted,” Hanson said. “But almost all the early Church fathers commented at great length on that passage. Not one of them interprets that text to mean that Peter or his successors were infallible.”

  “That comes under my ‘argument from silence.’”

  “Ah, yes,” Hanson addressed Koesler, “his famous ‘argument from silence.’ About which we will hear more later, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, as they say nowadays,” Selner said. “I think it unnecessary for the people who will be at tomorrow’s symposium to remind them that it’s Peter we’re talking about.”

  Hanson shrugged assent.

  “But,” Selner continued, “it may be important to point out that Peter was the only one of Jesus’ followers whose name the Lord changed. The Apostle’s real name was, of course, Simon—”