Connell was referring to the relationship between pastors and curates, when he stopped and corrected himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, “out here you call curates ‘assistants,’ don’t you?” At which the fat pastor had stage-whispered to his companion, “Out here we call them assholes.” The two had laughed heartily. Only respect for the elderly had kept Koesler from knocking their heads together.
It had been as if a tight-knit group of pastors had to circle their wagons to protect the territorial imperatives of their parishes from the covetous hands of their eager assistants.
But even then, with vast differences in age and position, there had existed a strong fraternity of like-minded clerics. Virtually no one had argued about theology. Everyone had believed in one doctrine and one morality.
Now, the divisions among priests frequently were sharp and profound. And one, particularly one who was familiar with the old camaraderie, could see evidences of this in just such a gathering as this in St. Anselm’s rectory. Whereas a few years before there would have been one or two groups and much intermingling, now there were quite a few very small groups and almost no intermingling. Greetings at the door were hearty enough, but then the newly arrived priest would find the appropriate companions in one of the rooms of the rectory and in compatible company don his Mass vestments.
Popularly, the blame for the recent sharp divisions in the Church was laid at the door of the Second Vatican Council. The Council was indeed responsible for drastic liturgical change. But the substantial change in hierarchical structure, the free-wheeling questioning of the Council’s utterances, its brave entry into the modern world, all had been pretty well stifled by Roman curial authorities. With the exception of some very bad new hymns and pedestrian vernacular texts, Vatican II was now, by and large, an ineffectual memory.
Koesler had long thought the far more likely, if subtle, cause of divisions among the clergy as well as laity must be ascribed to the decision made by Pope Paul VI to override the majority opinion of his own birth control commission. On July 29,1968, the Pope had released his encyclical, Humanae Vitae—Of Human Life—and Koesler now dated everything from that.
He could well recall when, shortly after that encyclical was published, Archbishop Boyle and his auxiliary bishops, Bishop Ratigan among them, were going about the archdiocese, meeting with territorial groups of priests, trying to explain the meaning and implications of the encyclical.
As far as many of the older priests were concerned, the Pope had made his decision; there was no need of further explanation. Nothing had changed; all methods of artificial contraception were condemned. Again. Roma locuta est, causa finita.
As far as many of the younger clergy and the majority of younger Catholic laity were concerned, the Pope clearly had been wrong. His citing of the natural law as the basis for his reasoning was misplaced at best and quite incorrect at worst.
And if the Pope could be mistaken, or dead wrong, on what or whom could one—at least a loyal Catholic—depend?
As far as Koesler was concerned, it was not the closing of the Vatican Council in 1965, but the promulgation of Humanae Vitae in 1968 that had split the Church asunder.
For the most part, the laity and some of the clergy had resolved the question of family planning quite apart from the Church’s magisterium. The remainder of the clergy and the hierarchy were holding fast to a moral teaching that was backed only by longevity. Koesler wondered whether the Church would ever again be able to teach with its former authority. He doubted it.
He kept these thoughts in mind as he wandered from room to room, identifying each group by the century they seemed to inhabit. He attempted to get the various groups to intermingle but was largely unsuccessful.
There was only one clear-cut conclusion to be drawn from a rectory full of priests in various stages of vesting: A funeral involving wealthy, influential Catholics draws a bumper crop of clergy.
The usual funeral home procedure was being turned topsyturvy.
Ordinarily, the bereaved family remains in one place near the coffin while visitors approach to offer condolences and, perhaps, pause at the bier to offer a prayer.
In the case of the Hoffman wake, Frank Hoffman’s two sons and his daughter and their families occupied the traditional position by the bier. But Frank seemed to flit from one spot to another in the large room, with little rhyme or reason.
He had been standing with his daughter when his sister and brother-in-law entered. Immediately, he crossed to them, greeted his sister perfunctorily and took Angie Mercury aside.
“I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Sure, Frank.” Mercury couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something different about Hoffman.
“Listen, Angie; we both know I’ve been giving you a monthly allotment and we both know it’s only because you’re married to my sister.”
Mercury nodded with ill-disguised bitterness.
“I haven’t asked that you repay any of it; we both know you couldn’t have—let alone considered any interest.
“But I have exacted payment from you, and I want to acknowledge that right now. I’ve forced you to eat humble pie not only when I gave money but at every moment of our relationship. I’ve insisted that you admit your dependence on my money. I’ve insulted your profession. And there was no good reason for that. However you happen to be doing in it, the theater is a very viable way of life and I shouldn’t have belittled it—or you.”
Mercury’s jaw was beginning to hang loose.
“And I know that when we competed at anything, you had to lose and I had to win no matter whether you could have beaten me in a fair match. And that’s not all: I cheated on a pretty regular basis.”
Mercury’s mouth was just plain open.
“I just wanted to tell you, Angie, that all that shit . . . uh . . . nonsense is going to stop, as of now. I’m going to use every contact I have, in whatever time is left me, to help you get the good, fat parts. And if you continue to need any help, it’ll be there. Only in a quiet unobtrusive way.”
“Frank, you don’t have to—”
Hoffman held up a hand. “Along with the promises I’ve just made goes my apology for the way I’ve treated you.”
“Frank, I . . . I just don’t know what to say.”
“No need to say anything, Angie. That’s the way it’s going to be. Now, why don’t you rejoin Cindy. And be sure to see me after the funeral.”
Hoffman returned to his place near the bier. Mourners and those offering condolences continued to stream by. After greeting the bereaved family, visitors would try to find a place to sit or stand in the fast-becoming-congested room.
Hoffman’s height allowed him to see over the heads of most of the visitors. He spotted Charles and Louise Chase entering at the rear of the room. They did not appear to be making any effort to enter the line of those proceeding to the bier. Hoffman approached the Chases and maneuvered them into an alcove where he could speak to them in relative privacy.
“We’re sorry about Em’s death.” Louise Chase intended to make it clear from the outset that Emma’s demise was the one and only reason they had come.
“Thank you, Louise. It was good of you both to come. But I have something to say to you and I’ve got to say it while I have time.
“Charles, what I did to you through the assistants I sent you was unforgivable. So I am not asking your forgiveness. But I do want to apologize.”
Charles Chase’s face remained immobile, his expression severe.
“I know an apology is small coin for the damage I did to your career as well as to you personally. So I have gone a step further than an apology. This morning, I sent a hand-delivered letter to Frank Martin, with copies to the other members of the board, detailing my responsibility for what happened at the meeting. I also tendered my resignation.
“I understand that even this cannot erase the harm I’ve caused you. But it should go a long way toward correcting the damage. It is both the least and the most I can d
o.”
There was an embarrassed silence that was almost broken by Louise. But, sensing that Hoffman had addressed his apology to her husband, she decided that if either of them were to respond, it would be her husband’s place to do so.
But he did not.
“Well,” Hoffman shrugged, “that’s about it. Sorry I entered your life. I will now leave it.”
Hoffman returned to his place in front of the room.
“Don’t you think you should have made some sort of response, dear?” asked Louise. “After all, it was a most generous move on Frank’s part. He’s sacrificed his career for yours. Granted he’s the one who ruined yours; still, it is a rather remarkable act of reparation.”
The stern expression had not left Chase’s face. “I’ll believe that son of a bitch when I see the letter with my own eyes and not one second before.”
Along with relatives, friends, and neighbors, quite a few representatives from The Company were gathering. The time was nearing to close the proceedings at the Morand Funeral Home and move on to St. Anselm’s Church. The large room was now almost completely filled. It was Standing Room Only.
At long last, Hoffman spotted the last two people he had intended to speak to before the funeral. Fortunately, both Al Kirkus and Clem Keely, along with their wives, were together in the line of those offering condolences. And again fortunately, they were near the end of the line. It was relatively simple for Hoffman to steer the two men off to one side.
“I did something this morning that you two should know about.” He looked from one to the other. Both met his gaze. He had their attention.
“I sent a letter to Frank Martin and the other board members explaining what we did to Charles Chase.”
“You did wha—?”
Hoffman’s upraised hand stopped Kirkus. It was indicative of his shocked reaction to Hoffman’s statement that Kirkus would dare question his superior.
“In explaining what caused Chase to miss the mark so badly in his report, I naturally had to include the role you two played.” He sensed their agitation and anxiety, so he quickly added, “Of course, I took complete responsibility for the entire affair. I don’t think The Company will come down on you too hard. After all, you were only following my orders.”
Keely appeared ready to offer a rebuttal, but Hoffman’s raised hand put an end to that before it had a chance to begin. “That’s the way it is, gentlemen, and the way it’s got to be. Thanks for coming. I’ll see you after the funeral.”
They passed Hoffman’s grieving family and the bier. Keely was numb with fear for his future with The Company. Kirkus was lost in thought: Now this is a strange turn of events. Who would think that Hoffman would do anything so completely stupid? All I hoped to accomplish was to scare him into getting out of there—taking an early retirement and opening up a position for me. I wonder how serious I would have been about actually killing the bastard if I had known he was going to blow the whistle on us. No, I don’t think I could actually have killed him. Not even Hoffman. Threatening is one thing; actually killing is something else.
Louis Morand ushered the visitors out of the room and into their cars, almost all of which were products of The Company. Small flags with a cross insignia were attached to fenders. It would be one of the largest funeral processions in Morand’s memory. Inside, a curtain was drawn to spare the bereaved family the sight of the closing of Emma Hoffman’s coffin for the final time.
Kirkus, sitting silently in his car, continued to ponder the threatening note he had sent to Hoffman. He was beginning to second-guess himself. Would that note become a problem sometime in the future?
Kirkus could not know that it had been his threatening note that had brought about Hoffman’s change of heart and compulsive need to confess and repair. Kirkus, all unknowing, had scared Hoffman into a wave of virtue that might very well imperil himself.
Mike Ratigan looked like a bishop should, thought Koesler.
The vested clergy stood in the rear of St. Anselm’s as the cortege approached. Koesler looked about. No one could claim that they turned priests out on an assembly line. They came in every variety. But Mike Ratigan, tall, slender, athletic, looked every inch the bishop with the miter on his head and crosier in hand.
Finally, everyone was parked and assembled. The pallbearers, all Company men, bore the coffin into the vestibule, where they placed it atop the wheeled cart.
Bishop Ratigan sprinkled the coffin with holy water and prepared to drape it with a ceremonial white cloth. Frank Hoffman, first in line behind the coffin, circled it and rather urgently whispered something to Ratigan. The two conversed, in whispers, but intently, for several moments.
The others wondered what they could be saying. Koesler, if he had had to guess, would have supposed that Hoffman was carrying out the penance that had been imposed last night. Scarcely ever had Koesler encountered a penitent more genuinely frightened and—at least seemingly—repentant than Hoffman.
But one confession reminded Koesler of another.
Actually, the bizarre penitent who had now confessed twice to Koesler was never far from the priest’s thoughts and concern. Whoever it was had managed to maintain anonymity not only by confessing on the other side of a protective screen, but also by creating—that was the only word to describe it—a strange, if not unique, vocal sound, secure in the knowledge that the rules of the confessional oblige the priest to do nothing that might enable others to connect the penitent to the sin.
The classic case held up to the newly ordained was the possibly apocryphal story of the new priest hearing confessions for the first time. Afterward, he emerges from the box to join the party his relatives are throwing for him. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he says to an assembled group of kin and confreres, “but the first penitent I heard confessed adultery!” Not a minute later, an attractive woman in a nearby convivial cluster was heard to say, “. . .I was the first one to go to confession to Father.”
Of course the thought had crossed Koesler’s mind that it was always possible that the strange person who had confessed the killing had been lying. But it was not very likely. Koesler was well aware that police throughout the world had their “professional confessors”—people who had a pathological need to confess to crimes they had not committed. But these were public penitents of a sort, who needed the attention and notoriety. It would be unlikely to find such a person getting his or her gratification in the internal forum and secrecy of the confessional. Besides, the cardinal rule of thumb for confessors was that they were to believe the penitent no matter whether he was accusing or excusing himself.
The procession reformed and began making its way up to the front of the church. There were too many priests to all fit into the sanctuary. So the two front pews on the left side had been reserved for the visiting clergy.
Koesler watched the long line weave its way up the middle aisle. Pity they never taught marching in the seminary. Priests’ processions were notorious for their serpentine conformation.
As he pondered the goodly number of priests present, Koesler was reminded of a similar occasion at another parish years before. Instead of a funeral, it was the silver wedding anniversary of a couple who happened to have many priest friends. As was the case now, the sanctuary had been overflowing with priests. The altar boys, whom Koesler had trained but not prepared for such a priestly onslaught, were mightily impressed by the sight of more clergymen than they knew existed. So, for their own unfathomable reasons, they placed at the communion rail the six large black candleholders with their unbleached candles. Candles that were used exclusively for funerals. The couple was henceforth forced to endure predictable jokes about this ecclesial commentary on their twenty-five years of marital bliss. Father Koesler’s clerical friends had never let him forget it either.
The Mass of Resurrection for Emma Hoffman proceeded without incident.
A few years before, Koesler would have had to train altar boys in the then complex ceremonies of the solemn
pontifical Mass. But now, bishops put on their own miters, had no gremiels placed on their laps when seated, and no one any longer followed them about with a lit candle.
All of the priests present pronounced aloud the words of consecration. Words which, according to Catholic dogma, transformed the bread and wine into the real presence of Jesus Christ, while the appearance of bread and wine remained. Koesler was once again impressed that this, the Mass, was the thread that held together the fabric of the Catholic priesthood. Each priest present—slender, fat, old, young, traditional, liberal, conservative—found his common denominator in these common words of consecration.
At communion, Koesler watched as many came forward to receive the consecrated wafers. Among them were those suspected of Emma’s murder: Angie Mercury, Charles Chase, Louise Chase—even Bishop Ratigan himself, though he seemed to be taking his official interrogation rather lightly. And, although she did not present herself for communion, Jacqueline LeBlanc was present. Koesler could see her near the rear of the church.
Amazing to think that in all probability one of them had killed Emma Hoffman in an attempt on the life of Frank. Here they all were in the same church at the same time, attending the funeral of the woman one of them had killed.
It was like a mystery story.
And whoever had done it had been to confession to Koesler—twice. And he had no idea which one it might be.
And even if he were able to cut through the disguise and anonymity and identify the culprit through his or her confession, what could he do with the knowledge? There was the storied—by now clichéd—seal of confession to deal with.
Koesler looked about and marveled at all the secrets that were being kept by all the priests here today. One more thing that united them in a unique fraternity.
Although he could never envision himself violating the seal of confession, Koesler had a long-standing, at least theoretical, problem with the secrecy of the confessional. Was there, he wondered, no possible exception to this rule?
Jesus may indeed have commissioned His Apostles and their successors to forgive sin when He said, “Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven. Whose sins you shall retain, they are retained.” But there was no record of His having said anything about keeping sins a secret. That was what was termed a theological conclusion.
Kill and Tell Page 23
