“Nancy Baldwin, I presume.”
“Hello, Father.” She smiled.
“Hi, God,” said the little boy.
In his twenty years as a priest, Koesler had been called many things. But not until now, “God.” He stood staring at the boy, speechless, then glanced at Nancy. “Yours?” he asked.
“Oh no, Father. Billy’s my nephew. I’m babysitting today. I’ll explain the ‘God’ bit in a minute. I know this is an imposition, but is there someplace we can leave Billy while we talk?”
“I think I know just the place.” He leaned into the editorial room. “Irene…” He turned back to Nancy. “Even after five of her own, Irene Casey is still a sucker for little kids.”
“Irene, this is Nancy Baldwin and her nephew Billy. Would you please show Billy some of the fun we have putting together a weekly newspaper?”
“I recognize you from your picture in the paper. It’s nice meeting you, Mrs. Casey.” Nancy extended her hand.
“Pleased to meet you, too, Nancy. Come on, Billy. It’s never too early to start a journalism career.”
Some people just have a natural way with kids, Koesler thought as Billy trotted off after Irene. If I had invited the kid to come with me, he’d probably have hit the floor kicking and screaming.
“Won’t you come into my parlor?” Koesler waved his guest into his office. “May I take your coat?”
Nice trim figure, he thought as he hung up her coat. Carefully pressed pleated skirt, white ruffled blouse under a blue cardigan, small metallic cross on a thin gold chain. Nice legs, nice bottom, small breasts, short wavy hair. He had the intuitive impression she was the proverbial “nice Catholic girl.”
“Father, what we talk about, can it be a secret?” She removed a handkerchief from her purse and began winding it through her fingers.
“Sure. If you want to go to confession, that’s a very special kind of secret. If you just want to just talk to me, that’s a professional secret. In either case, I won’t tell anyone whatever it is we’ll talk about.”
“Oh, good.” A brief, nervous smile crossed her lips.
“Are you a nurse at St. Mary’s Hospital?”
“How did you know?”
“I won’t tell anyone what you tell me. And I can’t tell you what somebody else tells me.”
“You’re just full of secrets, aren’t you, Father.” There was a trace of bitterness in her voice.
Koesler was angry at himself. This, obviously, was what she had come to discuss, and he had led her into the matter prematurely. He’d been a priest long enough to know that people have their own time to talk about troubling things, and there was no hurrying that time.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Everything in life is not a secret. Your name came up in a conversation about Father Lord’s funeral. You were supposed to have said that his death might not have been due to natural causes.”
“It must have been my brother, Father Pete.” She was slightly flustered. Koesler didn’t know if he could recoup the moment and gain her trust. “But I didn’t actually say that to Pete. I tried to tell him about Father Lord’s death, but he got so excited he scared me and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Sometimes Pete hears what he wants to hear.”
“I see. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, Father.”
He let things be quiet for a while. She had to have a chance to think it out. She spent perhaps a couple of minutes—it seemed much longer—staring intently at the handkerchief she had tortured through her fingers. Finally, she raised her eyes to Koesler very calmly. Unsure if she were ready to tell her story, he said, “You were going to tell me about why your nephew called me ‘God.’ “
She laughed. “I never thought it would turn out that way. I live very near my sister and brother-in-law—Billy’s their child—and sometimes I take him with me to church on Sunday. To keep him quiet, I tell him that’s God up there at the altar and he shouldn’t disturb God. Only it’s usually you up at the altar. I didn’t think he’d put the two thoughts together. But when he saw you here today…”
“Gotcha.” Talk about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny! This was wild. But it was all in the interest of peace and quiet in church and, he thought, he’d drink to that.
They seemed to be on friendly terms again. The time appeared to be right.
“Now, would you like to tell me about it?”
“Yes, Father, I would. I’ve got to tell someone. And I want to tell you. Are you sure this will be between just the two of us?”
“You have my word.”
“Well, it really did happen. Someone disconnected Father Lord’s respirator. And that’s what killed him. It didn’t kill him much before he would have died anyway. But it—the lack of a life support system—caused his death.”
She paused. Koesler said nothing. Nor did he show any sign of emotion, though he was slightly shocked. He’d learned long ago that when people tell a priest—or, he supposed, a minister or a psychotherapist—something shocking, they knew damn well it was shocking and they needed no response, not even a raised eyebrow, to confirm their conviction.
Assured they both knew what she was saying, and encouraged by his silence, she continued. “I was the one who found him. Just the day before, he’d been moved to this private room from the intensive care unit. The head nurse on the floor—that’s me—was supposed to check him regularly. There was no need for a private duty nurse. God, Father, he was practically dead. We all expected him to slip away at any moment. We just tried to make sure he was as comfortable as possible, that he wasn’t in any pain. I’ll never forget it. I had just come back from the chapel—it was Ash Wednesday and we’d just received the blessed ashes. I went right to Father Lord’s room to check on him. Right away, I noticed there was no chest movement. And there was the smell of death in the room. Do you know what I mean, Father?”
Koesler nodded. He couldn’t define or even describe it. But long ago he had discovered, for instance, on entering a home where someone had just died, that there was indeed a very special odor of death. Once you experienced it, you never forgot it.
“I checked for his pulse. There was none. And then I saw the plug hanging loose by his bed. My first impulse was to reconnect it. But that would’ve been futile. He was gone. If he had been a younger person, I’d have called for emergency equipment. But Father Lord had been hanging on by a very fragile thread. It was just too late for anything.” She paused again, this pause clearly indicating she was finished with her story.
“And now, Nancy?”
“And now, Father, I don’t know what to do. And I feel just all torn up.”
“Does anyone else at the hospital know? I mean, for sure?”
“The only one I know knows for sure is Sister Mildred, the supervisor on my floor. I got her right after I discovered Father was dead, and showed her the disconnected respirator. She didn’t know what to do, either. We sort of agreed that someone in the hospital tried to do Father a favor and didn’t know he or she was committing a crime. Sister Mildred decided that, all things considered—Father’s condition and all—that it would be better to say nothing. She put the plug back in its socket. And that’s where things stand right now.”
“It’s not possible that Father Lord might have made one of those ‘living wills’ or that some authorized person, like his doctor, might have done this?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge. And I really would have been informed of something like that.”
“The police haven’t been called, nor have they investigated Father’s death, have they?”
“No. They don’t ordinarily investigate hospital deaths unless they’re called.”
Koesler hesitated. He knew what had to be done. And he was pretty sure Nancy knew also. She only wanted, he surmised, to be encouraged. But cautiously.
“Nancy, in effect, you’re living a rather crucial lie. The longer it continues, the worse it’s going to get, and the worse you’re going to feel.” Her
face brightened slightly and the furrows in her brow smoothed almost imperceptibly. Yes, this was right and she knew it. “Right now, you’re aiding and abetting a crime. But I’m quite sure it’s not too late. If I were you, I’d go to the police and tell them the whole story. Undoubtedly, it would be good to clear it first with Sister …what’s her name?”
“Mildred.”
“…Mildred. But no matter how she reacts, I’d go to the police in any case. I’m sure they will not hold it against you. And I can’t see them sending a sweet little old nun up the river. But this is a crime, and it has to be investigated. Whoever did it, probably, as you suggest, had noble motives. Whoever it is, all things considered, I wouldn’t mind being the accused’s attorney. It wouldn’t take Perry Mason to get him or her off lightly.”
It was evident nearly all the tension was gone. Nancy had relaxed the rigid position she’d held throughout the interview. She replaced the now refolded handkerchief in her pocketbook.
“I can’t thank you enough, Father. I guess I knew all along what I had to do. I just needed someone to say it.”
“You’re welcome, Nancy. This is still going to be rough, and I’ll pray for you. It’s going to be a can of worms. But, sometimes it’s just necessary to open the can.”
“Yes, Father. Oh…” She rummaged through her pocket-book. “…there’s something I wanted to give you.” She produced a small black rosary. “This is the rosary Father Lord was holding when he died. It wasn’t his. His was a mother-of-pearl rosary. When we prepared his body for the mortician, we sent his rosary with him. He was such a holy man, I kept this—sort of like a relic. I’d like you to have it.”
“Thank you, Nancy. I’ll prize it.” He slipped it into his pants pocket where it clinked against the rosary he always carried. You can never have too many rosaries, he thought, though he was coming close.
He helped Nancy on with her coat. As she buttoned it, she looked into the editorial room. “Come on, Billy, we’re leaving.” There followed the pitter-patter of little feet.
Koesler accompanied them to the door leading to Forest Avenue.
“Good-bye, Father. And thanks again, more than I can say.”
“Good-bye, Nancy. And, good luck, God be with you.”
“Goo’bye, God,” said the almost forgotten Billy.
“So long, kid.” After all, it was in the interest of quiet in church.
Everything was about to hit the fan. Only, Koesler had no notion that this was not the beginning of the end but the end of the beginning.
St. Mary’s Mercy Hospital on Detroit’s northwest side was gigantic. Partly due to its location—it was in one of those increasingly rare neighborhoods that had not yet “changed” much, ethnically or racially—and partly due to its isolation—no other comparably large hospital was nearby—St. Mary’s was one of the few Detroit hospitals that was not considering consolidation. On the contrary, St. Mary’s had just added a new wing.
Mondays through Fridays at least, St. Mary’s functioned at full efficiency. Nearly all its beds were always occupied. Nurses, each with her distinctive cap displaying the coded information of her classification and place of graduation, hurried through the hallways, always appearing to be three patients behind, which was usually the case. Orderlies wheeled carts through the halls with an abandon that could cripple a visitor. Patients shuffled through the corridors clutching their hospital gowns at the revelatory rear. Internists, stethoscopes propped in pockets, ambled about as if they owned the place, which they virtually did. And surgeons skulked, head and shoulders bent, as if they had just supervised someone’s death, which sometimes they had.
In all of this, St. Mary’s was not unlike the public hospitals in Detroit. But St. Mary’s was a Catholic hospital and that showed in subtle ways. Morning and evening prayers were broadcast over the hospital intercom. And, most distinctively, there were the nuns patrolling the corridors and rooms somewhat more purposefully than any other personnel. The nuns came in various ages and sizes— and various garbs, largely depending on their age. Most of the older sisters still wore the ancient, full habit that so delighted conservative eyes. The younger the nun, the more the habit seemed to diminish. The very youngest sisters wore uniforms not dissimilar to the nurses, with an identifying veil worn off the forehead and, usually, a small crucifix either on a chain or pinned to the uniform.
With the hospital chaplain, the nuns formed something quite recent in Catholic hospital history—the pastoral team. Together they handled much of the spiritual counseling. They comforted the suffering, consoled terminal patients and their relatives, even joined in charismatic prayer. As a pastoral care department, the nuns joined the priest-chaplain in all spiritual activities in the hospital, with the sole exception of dispensing sacraments. That remained in the chaplain’s consecrated hands.
It was precisely this—trying to determine whether to anoint one of the patients with the oil of the sick—that was puzzling Father Blaise Donovan, St. Mary’s Franciscan chaplain. At one time, this rite had been known by the foreboding title of Extreme Unction. The name alone was able to scare a terminally ill patient from this world to the next. Now, it was more kindly called The Sacrament of the Sick.
At this moment, Father Donovan was trying to determine if he should anoint Mrs. Eulalie Harris, one of St. Mary’s few Catholic black patients. The problem was that Mrs. Harris’ parish priest had visited her in the hospital, and Father Donovan did not know whether the other priest had anointed her. He did not want to repeat the ritual needlessly.
“When Father Maher visited you, Mrs. Harris, did he anoint you?”
“Ah don’t rightly know, Fathah.”
“Did he pray over you?”
“Oh, yes, Fathah, he sho’ did. Long time.”
“Did he do anything else?”
“Oh, yes suh, Fathah, he sho’ did.”
“What did he do?”
“He greased me.”
Marvelous answer. If Father Maher had greased Eulalie Harris, there was no reason why Father Donovan should do it again.
Outside Mrs. Harris’ room, a nurse’s aide overturned a tray full of breakfast dishes. Startled, an orderly dropped a filled bedpan. Everything was proceeding normally.
Except on the administrative floor. There, everything had indeed become chaotic.
There was no logical reason for the enormous number of police officers roaming St. Mary’s administrative floor. In a city like Detroit, with its reputation for being the “murder capital of the world,” the death of an old man for whom no one really cared could scarcely be called the crime of the century, even if technically it seemed to be murder. There was only one explanation for all the cops milling about St. Mary’s. The Detroit Police Department’s massive response was in direct proportion to the splashy publicity the case had received, especially in the Free Press, where the story had broken just that morning.
Actually, only a small group of police, a crack team of homicide investigators, was actively doing the work. The others were there to complete the showcase of total involvement. Some of the extras in this drama were drinking coffee in a kind of unannounced competition to see who could drink more. Others were exchanging trade gossip. Others were evaluating passing nurses. Three points for a perky rear, three for firm breasts, two for a trim waist, and three for legs. Few of these headless anatomical studies reached a full eleven.
Earlier, statements had been taken from Sister Mildred and Nurse Baldwin, supervisor and head nurse, respectively, on the floor where Father Lord had died. It had been a trying experience for Detective Sergeant Daniel Fallon, a veteran of twenty years on the force, particularly when he interviewed Sister Mildred. Fallon was the product of twelve years in parochial schools and, like most who shared the experience, he had the unspoken impression that there were men, women, and nuns.
“Sister, how good or bad would you say the security is on your floor?”
“Are you suggesting, young man…” Sisters, if they w
ere in the proper frame of mind, no matter what their age, were able to make grown men, no matter what their age, feel like little boys again. And Sister Mildred was definitely in the proper frame of mind. Detective Sergeant Fallon felt as if he were back in the fifth grade. “…that patients on our floor do not receive proper care?”
“Oh, no, Sister. That’s not what I had intended at all.”
“Because if you are, you are sadly mistaken. Sadly mistaken. Of all the floors of this hospital, no one gets better care than the patients on fourteen. No one. Read the hospital newspaper, if you will. Most of the published letters of gratitude from former patients are from the souls who spent time on fourteen.”
“I understand, Sister,” he had flushed. “What I meant was, what’s the possibility of an outsider—some unauthorized person-gaining admittance to your floor?”
“Practically nil, young man. Do you think we walk around up here with our eyes closed? Oh, no. The staff of this floor is among the most alert in the entire hospital.”
When the interview was concluded, Sister Mildred strode from the room calm, cool, collected, and shaking only at her inner core, where no one could see. Fallon, on the other hand, loosened his tie, mopped his brow, and wondered whether he’d ever get over this thing with nuns.
However, as a result of the statements made by Sister Mildred—when she wasn’t launching her own offensive—and Nurse Baldwin, who was nervously cooperative throughout, the police had established the time of death as being between 2:45 P.M. and 3:30 P.M., February twenty-third. At 2:45 P.M., Nurse Baldwin had stated, she had checked Father Lord before leaving for the hospital chapel, and all was well. At 3:30 P.M., she had returned to find him dead and the respirator disconnected.
The police homicide team had determined who among the hospital personnel could not account for their presence in the hospital during the time in question. Even now, those employees were being interrogated.
This would not be a difficult case, Fallon thought, compared with many he’d handled. Unless, of course, it turned out the murder had been committed by someone not on the hospital staff. In that case—and, as a firm believer in Murphy’s Law, Fallon sighed—this could be rough. And all those cops jawing their asses off out there would be very busy indeed.
The Rosary Murders Page 2
