The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  “Was it an interesting funeral?”

  Father Bob Koesler stubbed out his third after-dinner cigarette. Dinners at old St. Ursula’s rectory were painfully elongated experiences for Koesler for the simple reason that he tore through his food like a starving European child, while Father Paul Pompilio, pastor at St. Ursula’s, toyed with his.

  Father Pompilio carefully cut a sliver of meat from his porterhouse, placed the knife beside his plate, transferred the fork from his left hand to his right, and began to swirl the meat in its juice. “Not particularly. You’ve seen one priest’s funeral, you’ve seen ’em all.”

  Koesler lit another cigarette. There were a million places he’d rather be, but, for politeness’ sake, he always waited until Pompilio finished eating. Which was always a good forty-five minutes after Koesler finished. Which was not helping Koesler’s effort to cut down on cigarettes.

  “Was Monsignor O’Brien there?”

  Pompilio’s fork and knife were resting on his plate as he thoughtfully chewed a morsel of steak. “Old O’Brien? It wouldn’t have been a valid priest’s funeral without O’Brien. He was there, all right, from the first psalm of the Office for the Dead until they wheeled the body out the door. They were great buddies, you know.” Pompilio resumed knife and fork and began sawing away at another cut of meat. “Old Father Larry Lord and O’Brien. Funny thing. Before they closed the lid on the casket, O’Brien tried on Lord’s glasses—took them right off the old man’s face and tried ’em on. Looked around the church, decided his own were better, put the glasses back on Lord, and went back to his pew like nothing happened. It’s a good thing O’Brien didn’t need teeth.”

  Koesler’s stomach turned. He was glad he’d finished eating. Pompilio built a forkful of mashed potatoes.

  “How was the sermon?” Koesler asked, crushing out his fourth after-dinner cigarette. He had tried early on to monopolize dinner conversations on the chance that, with nothing to do but eat, Pompilio would finish sooner. But by actual measured time, Koesler had discovered that it didn’t make any difference.

  “The arch is out of town, as you know…” Pompilio speared his last sliver of meat. “…so Bishop Donnelly gave the sermon. Same old Donnelly stuff, very spiritual. Told how Lord had died on Ash Wednesday. How significant that was. Can’t see it myself. Good Friday, maybe. But Ash Wednesday just isn’t a very significant day to die. By the way…” Pompilio shoved aside his well-scoured plate and tinkled the small bell that stood next to it. Sophie, five feet in every direction, entered the room, cleared the table, and served coffee. “…why weren’t you at the funeral?”

  Koesler lit another cigarette. “Couldn’t. Had negotiations with the newspaper guild. Contract’s up in another couple of months.”

  Koesler was priest-editor of the diocesan weekly paper. He wasn’t exactly assigned to St. Ursula’s. He was in residence there, said Mass daily and Sundays, heard confessions, helped out as much as he could. But his primary assignment was at the paper. He sipped his black coffee. “Did anyone say anything about the plug?”

  “Plug? What plug?” Pompilio stirred the third spoonful of sugar into his coffee.

  “Come on, Pomps,” Koesler chuckled, “You know there’s a rumor that somebody at St. Mary’s Hospital pulled the plug on Lord. Not that anyone, including God, would mind. The poor old guy had no place to go but out.”

  “Now that you mention it, there was some talk about that rumor at the priests’ brunch after the funeral. Say, Bob, if you print any of this,” Pompilio was grinning from ear to ear, “you will protect your sources, won’t you?”

  Koesler grinned back. Of all people on earth, Pompilio would be among those who most wanted to see their names in print. The problem, as usual, was not protecting sources but keeping the whole damn story out of the paper. He remembered just a few weeks back. Tony Vespa, the newly appointed Archdiocesan Delegate for the Laity, had called and asked if the Detroit Catholic would consider running an “Action Line” similar to the column in the Free Press that solved everybody’s problems. He had explained, “Look, Tony, besides the expense of hiring a staff to run a column like that, most of the problems Catholics have with the institution don’t have solutions.” Tony, after careful consideration, had withdrawn bis suggestion.

  “Don’t worry, Pomps, you’ll be well protected. But, go on, did the guys at the luncheon think it really happened?”

  There wasn’t any question of anything like that appearing in the diocesan paper. Koesler was simply a mystery buff. He read mystery novels like some priests read the Bible. He loved a mystery. And he felt this was as close to a real-life mystery as he was likely to get.

  “Disputatur apud peritos.” Pompilio didn’t know much Latin, but when he tripped over an appropriate phrase like “The experts are in dispute,” he liked to throw it in for everyone’s amazement. “Some thought yes. Others, no. Jack Battersby made a great point that according to Church teaching, nobody is bound to use extraordinary means to support life, and all those tubes and plugs certainly could be described as extraordinary. Ed Carberry, who, as you know, is still in the thirteenth, the greatest of centuries, argued that God was surely reducing Father Lord’s purgatory time with all that added suffering, and to shorten his time of expiration was thwarting God’s plan and so, against the Natural Law—or some damn thing—and gravely sinful.”

  Koesler, now bored, was about to yield to a gigantic distraction.

  “However,” Pompilio droned on, “Pete Baldwin’s sister is a nurse at St. Mary’s. And she told Pete somebody at the hospital definitely detached Lord’s respirator system. And that finally put the old man out of his misery.”

  Koesler, alert to the first bit of genuine news, fought off his distraction. “You mean they actually know the respirator was unplugged?”

  “According to Pete’s sister, yes.”

  “Is anybody at the hospital trying to find out who did it?”

  “I dunno. I get the idea that if it actually happened—and remember, Father Editor, this is still rumor—nobody at the hospital wants to know.”

  “Did anyone call the police?”

  “I don’t think so. If anybody did, there’d have to be an investigation. Pete, who seems to know more about this than I would have given him credit for, says the police couldn’t sweep something like this under the rug. If they knew about it, they’d have to investigate, and if they found who did it, there’d be a prosecution. I guess nobody at the hospital wants that. Especially a Catholic hospital with a dead Catholic priest whom nobody cared about anyway.”

  “I’ll bet they don’t.” For the umpteenth time, Koesler found himself wishing he belonged to a somewhat more legitimate news medium instead of being boss of what was little more than a religious house organ. Nevertheless, he felt drawn to speculate about who might have done it. He pictured a holy nun—one still covered from head to toe with yards and yards of habit—stealthily entering Lord’s quiet room, looking every which way to be sure no one was watching, then, with utmost compassion, jerking the plug out of the wall socket. Then, later, in great remorse, confessing her sin. Or maybe it was an agnostic doctor strolling into Lord’s room. No one around. He casually lifts his foot and kicks the plug out. Leaves the room. Thinks nothing of it. Never will.

  “So the consensus seems to be that Lord’s unplugged respirator is gonna be swept under the institutional rug, eh?” Koesler asked, lighting yet another cigarette. He counted the butts in the ashtray. This was his sixth. He shook his head.

  “Guess so.” Pompilio had finished his coffee. There was the usual residue of undissolved sugar at the bottom of his cup. He gave a little shove to the table. Nothing moved. It was just a signal that the dinner ritual was concluded. “Funn
y thing, though, about the rosary Lord was holding when he died.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It wasn’t his.”

  “Wasn’t his?”

  “Didn’t belong to him. Lord’s rosary was mother-of-pearl. It was in the drawer of the table near his bed. The rosary he was holding was an ordinary black one. But I guess a rosary is a rosary is a rosary.”

  Nelson Kane, city editor of the Detroit Free Press, stood looking around his large, rectangular, well-lit city room. As usual, at least whenever he was there, the dozens of reporters seemed to be developing Pulitzer Prize-winning stories. On those rare occasions when Kane wasn’t there, feet were propped on desks and typewriters, mobs formed at the coffee machine, after-hours dates were made, and gossip passed. Fortunately for the paper’s welfare, Kane was usually there, barking orders and being generally unsatisfied and demanding.

  Kane was looking for Joe Cox. Cox had come to the Free Press only three months before with an award-winning book under his belt and excellent references. For years, the Free Press had had no religion writer as such. Kane learned quickly from experience, and he had experienced a memory full of inaccuracies from past religion specialists. Cox was a staff writer, and a good one, who, among other things, was given most of the religious assignments. He handled them well.

  Cox came in and had just reached his desk when Kane spotted him.

  “Cox!” Kane’s practiced tone rose well above the noise of typewriters and ringing phones.

  Cox smiled at his master’s voice and hurried over to Kane’s centrally located desk.

  “Did you check that hospital lead?” Kane talked around his never-removed cigar.

  “Yup.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I talked to just about everyone on the floor Father Lord was on. Nurses, nuns, orderlies, nurses’ aides, doctors, interns, even the chaplain. Couldn’t get anything from anybody. Not even for nonattribution.”

  “What did your gut tell you?”

  “It happened.”

  “Goddammit, I know it happened! Are the cops in on this at all?”

  “I don’t think so. I made the tour of headquarters, real slow, and nobody’s movin’ on it.”

  “Whaddya think?”

  “Catholic hospital, Catholic priest, they don’t wanna admit they got a problem.”

  “Any more leads?”

  “One. There’s a nurse I talked to, a…” Cox flipped through his small notebook, “a …Nancy Baldwin. She just didn’t seem too sure of herself.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Nobody wanted to talk about no plug in no respirator. But she hesitated. Like she really did want to talk—or already had—to somebody. I thought I’d give her a day or so and get back to her. The story’s still there. All locked up in the priests’ pasture at Mt. Olivet Cemetery. It won’t go away.”

  “And it won’t get so old nobody cares. Not a Catholic priest getting knocked off in a Catholic hospital. That’s the closest to an eternal story we got at this goddam paper.”

  “Right, Nellie.”

  “Stay on it and keep me informed.”

  “Right.”

  Joe Cox, Kane mused, was his kind of reporter. Just as interested in and dedicated to a breaking news story as Kane ever was. With the young legs Kane no longer had.

  It was Wednesday, the day the Detroit Catholic weekly newspaper was put together and sent to Brown Printing for publication. It was also one week, to the day, since Father Lawrence Lord had died at St. Mary’s Hospital.

  Father Koesler pondered as he paced back and forth in his cluttered office at the paper on Forest Avenue close to downtown Detroit. There had been no mention of the unplugged respirator in any of the local media. There certainly would be no mention of it in the Detroit Catholic. It would be a straight priest’s obit, on the bottom of page one: picture, brief biography, length of service, number of buildings built, survivors, interment. In Lord’s case, there would be lots of buildings but no survivors. Few besides priests and other bachelors left no survivors, Koesler mused.

  Maybe there was no unplugged plug. It was, after all, just a rumor. And the other media, particularly the two daily papers, had the means to dig out the story if it were really there. If they had, it would have been the Detroit Catholic’s lot to react and defend the hospital in every way possible. Koesler had learned long ago that the guys in the chancery, from the archbishop on down, didn’t like waves. They could live with criticism being aimed at almost anybody or anything, as long as the target was not a member of the Catholic institution, especially another bishop. They were particularly happy when a controversial Catholic doctrine, such as abortion, divorce, or birth control, was being defended. On that score, they were often not happy with the Detroit Catholic. However, the archbishop had never suggested that Koesler be removed as editor. And that, in this day and age, Koesler reflected, was no small virtue.

  The tall, thin, blond priest’s pacing was interrupted when Irene Casey appeared in the doorway. “The editorial page is done, Father; do you want to look it over before we pack it up? And do you want another cup of coffee? It’s going fast.”

  Dear Irene. She’d been with the paper nearly fifteen years. It wasn’t a great deal of money, but it did help get her five kids through an increasingly expensive parochial school system. Irene, technically, was women’s editor. But on a publication with the Catholic’s small staff, everyone did a little bit of everything.

  “No, thanks, Irene, I don’t want any more coffee. And, yes, I’d like to see the editorial page. Did you change anything in my editorials?”

  “Does the pope change anything in the Bible?”

  “It probably hasn’t occurred to him.”

  Koesler was on his way into the editorial office when his phone rang. He backtracked.

  “Father Koesler,” he said guardedly into the phone. As often as not, he was greeted on the office phone by a hostile voice. He figured he got more calls and letters from Catholic nuts than any other priest in the archdiocese.

  “Father, you don’t know me. I don’t live in St. Ursula’s parish, but I go there every Sunday for Mass. I’ve got a problem, and I wondered if I could talk to you about it?”

  “Why me? Father Pompilio is home at the rectory today. Or there must be a priest in a parish near where you live…”

  “This is a complicated problem, Father. And I …well, I like your sermons and the things you write in the paper and I just …I’d rather talk with you if you could give me just a few minutes.” Her voice was strained and shaky with emotion.

  “Well, O.K. then. What’s it about?”

  “I’d rather not say over the phone, Father. Could I come and see you? I know where your office is, and I drive.”

  “All right. When do you want to come?”

  “Well, this is my day off. I could come this afternoon if that would be convenient with you.”

  “Two o’clock?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “All right. There’s a parking lot next to our building. Use that …this is not your Grosse Pointe neighborhood. By the way, can you tell me your name?”

  “Nancy Baldwin. I’ll see you at two.”

  Nancy Baldwin. The name rang a bell. Could she be Father Pete Baldwin’s sister, the nurse? And, if so, why wouldn’t she see Pete instead of him? Koesler was still wondering about that as he entered the editorial office.

  Sister Ann Vania, a tall, handsome woman in her middle thirties, was preparing the second graders of St. Alban’s parish in Dearborn for their first communion. Sister Ann (she had been known as Sister Paschal before her order decided to return their real names to the sisters as part of post-Conciliar renewal) was religious coordinator at St. Alban’s. As such, she was responsible for the religion program for the entire parish. As a professional administrator, she seldom got involved in actual teaching. But second graders and their first communion were a special delight to her, and she would delegate their training t
o no one.

  “Michael, can you tell us the story of the Good Samaritan?”

  “Yes, Sister. There was this guy who was goin’ somewheres. And some bad guys jumped him and beat him and mugged him and cut him up and…”

  “That’ll be enough of the violence, Michael. Go on with the story.”

  “…they wouldn’t help him. And then this Summertan…”

  “Samaritan.”

  “Yes, Sister …Samaritan came by. And the guy thought this Samaritan was his enemy. But the Samaritan helped him.”

  “Very good, Michael. And do you know what the moral of that story is?”

  “No.”

  Sister Ann sighed and suppressed a giggle. “Does anyone? Andrea?”

  “The moral is that everybody is our neighbor and that we should love everybody. Even people who want to hurt and kill us.”

  “Do you think you could love somebody who wanted to hurt and kill you, Andrea?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  Sister Ann didn’t think she could go quite that far herself. Fortunately, she knew of no one who wanted to hurt or kill her.

  It was two o’clock. Father Koesler had been helping proofread for the past four hours, with a break for a sandwich and coffee, and he’d forgotten his appointment. Judy Anderson, the receptionist, bobbed briefly into the editorial room. “Your appointment’s here, Father.”

  Appointment …appointment ... ah, yes, Nancy Baldwin. “O.K., thanks Judy.”

  As Koesler moved from the editorial room to his adjoining office, he pulled his black suit jacket from the coat rack and slipped it on. Since he was already wearing his clerical collar and vest, he was now in full uniform and ready to face whatever.

  He opened the door leading from his office to the reception area, and there was Nancy Baldwin. He recognized her immediately, though he had not hitherto known her name. Ten o’clock Mass on Sundays, toward the middle of the church, left side. Somehow, most regular Massgoers formed the habit of occupying the same place at the same Mass every week.

  She was shaking the late winter snow from her imitation fur coat. With her was a small, bundled boy, perhaps five years old.