Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

  Tracy gestured at Koesler with his fork. “But who would do that? Who would contract for the murder of a bishop? Who cares enough?”

  “That’s where the dream culminated.” Koesler grinned. “It seems that there was a meeting of the Flint diocesan priests—all of them sworn to secrecy—and during the meeting, this plot was outlined for them. And one hundred of them consented to it and chipped in to pay for the hit man. It would have cost them between fifty dollars and one hundred dollars per priest, depending on the stipend for the assassin.”

  “ I love it!” said Tracy.

  “Sacrilegious!” growled McNiff.

  “Hey, it was just a dream!” Koesler protested.

  At this point, Moe Blair, the proprietor of the restaurant, approached the table. Moe made it a practice to circulate among his guests. And he scarcely could have overlooked a table not only filled with priests, but priests who looked the part, wearing black suits and Roman collars. Beyond that, he was concerned that the reverend gentlemen did not appear to be eating. He could not know that their abstemiousness was the product of Father Koesler’s dream. Indeed, Koesler was the only one at the table whom Blair knew.

  “How’s everything, Fathers?”

  “Fine,” Koesler said.

  But Tracy was still engrossed in Koesler’s dream. “Can you imagine that? What in God’s green world would a prosecuting attorney do with one hundred priests accused of conspiracy to murder!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Blair was nonplussed.

  “It’s nothing, Moe. Just a dream I was telling my friends about.” Koesler realized how bizarre Tracy’s statement must sound to anyone coming upon the conversation at just that point. He immediately made the introductions.

  “Enjoying yourselves?” Blair was still concerned that the food be satisfactory, even though since his arrival at their table the priests had proceeded to eat with evident appreciation.

  “Excellent,” said Tracy. The others nodded agreement.

  “One thing, though,” O’Day said. “We haven’t got any water.”

  Koesler looked embarrassed. “Darin, why do you suppose this place is called the Wine Barrel!”

  “Oh,” Blair smiled, “we’ll get you some water. Sorry about that. As a rule, we don’t serve water unless someone requests it.”

  “No, no,” O’Day said. “Wine sounds great, now that you mention it. Much better than water. What would you recommend?”

  Blair quickly evaluated their meals. “ I think a nice cabernet sauvignon . . . compliments of the house.”

  O’Day flashed his most engaging Irish smile. “Thank you very much, Moe.”

  Amazing, thought Koesler, how quickly a priest can make himself comfortable on a first-name basis with someone he has just met, while the new acquaintance feels compelled to continue using the priest’s title of “Father.” Amazing, too, how priestly perks never quit. Had this table been occupied by four laymen, Moe Blair surely would have seen that they were served water. Or, if they had decided to go with the restaurant’s motif and order wine, the proprietor might merely have taken the order. Or called the waiter to take the order. Under no circumstances would he have offered a complimentary bottle. But, because they were priests . . .

  As it happened, Blair asked their waiter to bring the wine.

  Koesler looked about. “Where’s Betsy?” The reference was to Mrs. Blair.

  A worried look flitted across Moe’s face. “She’s not feeling just right.”

  “Oh,” Koesler said, “I’m sorry. Not serious, I pray.”

  “I don’t think so.” But his worried look returned. “It’s just that whatever it is doesn’t seem to want to go away.”

  “Whatever it is” sounded odd to Koesler. “Doesn’t the doctor know what it is?”

  “Hasn’t been able to pin it down. I’m sure he will, though . . . just a matter of time.” Blair laughed nervously. “She’s even considering going to see Father Robert.”

  “Father Robert?”

  “Yes, you know: the faith healer. He’s been in the papers . . .”

  “Oh, sure. I should’ve known. I guess I just haven’t paid much attention to that.”

  There was an intensity in Blair’s eyes. This matter of a faith healer bothered him more than he was willing to admit. “Then you don’t think it would do any good?”

  Koesler stopped himself from giving a typically flip response. “Frankly, Moe, I don’t know enough about Father Robert to have an informed opinion. I don’t suppose it would do any harm though. If you’d like, I’ll ask around and get back to you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” Blair seemed relieved that he had tossed the theological ball to a professional. With the expressed hope that the priests would enjoy the remainder of their dinner, he left to circulate among the other customers.

  “What’s this about a Father Robert?” O’Day asked.

  “You haven’t read about him?” McNiff responded.

  “I’ve got more important things to do than read every item in the papers.”

  “He’s been getting a bit of coverage, Darin,” said Tracy.

  “So, what about him?” O’Day tasted and approved the wine the waiter presented.

  There was a moment’s hesitation. Evidently none of the others knew anything appreciable about the subject.

  “I don’t know where he came from. And,” Tracy held up his palm toward O’Day, “before you say anything, I know how important it is to know something about his background. But in what little I’ve read about him so far, there’s been no reference to that.”

  McNiff gulped down a mouthful of food prematurely in order to get in the next word. “Isn’t that typical! Nobody from the news media knows how important that is. They just tell you what’s going on. They don’t give you any perspective.”

  “So, what does he do?” O’Day was growing impatient.

  “Well, apparently his prayers have been pretty effective . . .” Koesler appeared hesitant.

  “Effective prayers!” O’Day stopped eating. “You mean cures? Like Lourdes?”

  “Maybe,” Tracy said, “maybe not miracles.” He made a vacillating gesture with his hand, indicating uncertainty. “Certainly not like Lourdes.”

  “More like Father Solanus,” Koesler contributed.

  O’Day looked from one to the other. “ ‘Not like Lourdes’? ‘Like Father Solanus’? What in hell does that mean?”

  “For one thing,” said Tracy, “Lourdes is big, and popular, and public. Almost everybody has heard of Lourdes. Nearly everyone has seen the pictures of the grotto where the Blessed Mother appeared to Bernadette Soubirous with the miraculous spring water and all the crutches and canes hanging from the walls of the cave.”

  “Yes,” O’Day readily agreed, “there was even a book and a movie . . . Song of Bernadette. So?”

  “So,” Koesler responded, “what’s going on in Detroit at the moment is not like Lourdes. There’s no grotto and there aren’t any implements of the lame and the halt hanging from any walls. And there’s no claim of any kind of miraculous water or anything like that.”

  “So it’s not like Lourdes,” O’Day said. “That much I’ve got. It’s like Solanus Casey?”

  Koesler, having dropped the name, almost blushed. “Well, not exactly. It’s something like Casey. You remember him?”

  “Not intimately.”

  Koesler grinned. “Okay, Casey was a little before our time. At least, we were kids when he was operating. But we’ve surely heard enough about him to know what he did ... or what he was supposed to have done.”

  “Okay,” O’Day admitted. “Bernie Casey had a lot of careers before he became a priest. He was a lumberman, a streetcar conductor, a jail guard, and a farm worker.”

  “I didn’t know that!” Koesler said.

  “See!” O’Day crowed. “But then he finally got what he wanted: to be a Franciscan. Right?”

  “Right,” Tracy affirmed. “Or pretty close to right. He was an ofm Cap
. . . a member of the Order of Friars Minor Capuchin.”

  “Or, as we know and love them, the Caps,” McNiff added.

  “But he was that really odd number, a ‘simple priest,’“ Koesler said. “He was a priest, okay, but about all he could do was say Mass. He couldn’t preach or hear confessions.”

  “I heard it was because the poor guy was sort of slow,” McNiff offered.

  “Maybe,” said Tracy, “but more likely it was just because he never learned Latin. Oh, he knew enough to get through Mass, because that was pretty much the same day after day. But he wouldn’t know enough to get through the Latin texts we had to wade through in Theology.”

  “Well, that’s history,” O’Day said. “And I’m familiar with it . . . or most of it. A lot of people claimed to be cured by him. And he’s on his way to being named a saint. Now, what’s that got to do with this Father Robert?”

  “Just that it’s what some people are saying about him,” Koesler said. “According to the papers—and this really hasn’t gotten that much play just yet, but a few accounts have appeared, mostly on the Saturday ‘religious’ pages—there are a few people who claim that they’ve gotten the answer to their prayers through him. Something like the way Solanus used to function, mostly through prayer.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” a belligerent McNiff challenged.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, Pat,” said Tracy.

  “Well,” Koesler hedged, “there might be something wrong with it.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with prayer. But suppose someone needs chemotherapy for cancer. And instead of getting medical treatment, that person is just told to pray.”

  “What is this, Koesler: You don’t believe in the power of prayer anymore?” McNiff was definitely becoming combative.

  “Of course I do, Pat. But I also believe there’s a time and a purpose for prayer and a very definite and vital importance for medicine.”

  “ Do you believe in miracles or not?” McNiff demanded.

  “Yeah, I believe in miracles. But I also think—and this, as a matter of fact, if you’ll recall, is what we learned in Theology—that God does not multiply miracles.”

  “Well, I think we oughta be open-minded about it.” McNiff exuded conviction. “I think, as priests, we ought to tip the balance in favor of the miraculous.”

  “McNiff,” said O’Day, “how in hell does that figure to be open-minded? Open-minded is ‘maybe it is, maybe it ain’t.’ Open-minded is 50 percent says there’s miracles going on; 50 percent says it’s all in the mind.”

  “There’s such a thing as presumptions, O’Day,” McNiff insisted. “The accused is presumed innocent until proven guilty. Well enough for the laity to toss the conclusion up for grabs; priests have to presume that God involves Himself in our lives.”

  “She does?”

  “Koesler!”

  “I couldn’t resist.”

  “Just the same,” Tracy said, “I’d like to know where this guy comes from.”

  “He’s not a Detroiter, is he?” O’Day asked.

  “That much seems certain.” Koesler was thoughtful. “He’s not one of us. As far as I’ve read, the papers have not been clear about just what he is.”

  “That’s right,” Tracy added, “it’s some kind of religious order. But which one . . . apparently not one of the mainliners. Not Dominican, not Redemptorist, not even Franciscan . . .”

  “Not Jesuit.” O’Day was grinning.

  “Are you kidding?” McNiff said.

  He was.

  “Well, if we don’t know who he is, do we know where he is?” O’Day asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Koesler said. “He’s set up shop in a former bank building on the southwest side, near St. Hedwig’s. And, while we’re at it, he’s not alone. There are four or five with him.”

  “Monks?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well,” O’Day said, “they can’t just walk in here and start operating as a Catholic religious community, can they?”

  “I don’t think so,” Koesler said.

  “Not on your life!” Tracy echoed. “There’d be no accountability. The Catholic Church hates no accountability like nature abhors a vacuum.”

  “You’re right,” Koesler said. “But do any of you know the rigmarole for that?”

  There was a unanimous shaking of heads.

  “I mean,” Koesler continued, “there’s got to be some kind of protocol for this sort of thing. Remember when some years back the Little Brothers of Jesus came into town and set themselves up in a rundown apartment in Cass Corridor? Now, they’ve been here for ages. But they have to have had some dealings with the archdiocese, with the Chancery.”

  “Right,” Tracy agreed. “If they had gotten into any kind of trouble, the archdiocese would have had to take the heat. And certainly the Chancery knows they’re here. There had to have been some contact between the Brothers and the Chancery. They’d never let these guys function without knowing something about them and, I suppose, exercising some form of control . . . would they?”

  “I’d have to agree,” said Koesler.

  “Didn’t I hear you tell the owner here that you were going to find out about Father Robert for him?” McNiff said.

  Koesler reflected a moment. He had forgotten. “I guess I did. I’ll have to ask around.”

  “Okay,” Tracy said as he finished dessert, “now let’s get back to your dream. A bishop gets killed in Hart Plaza and 100 of his finest priests have paid for the contract on him. Fantastic! Let’s develop that theme.”

  “You’re joking,” McNiff said, “. . . aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Joe Cox was pedaling diligently, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He was aboard the Schwinn Air-Dyne. It had only one wheel and that was set off the floor. Intended for exercise and nothing more, it measured the speed and distance one would travel if riding an actual bicycle.

  He had a choice of views. He could gaze through the window-wall of the twenty-fourth floor apartment in the downtown Lafayette Towers. That provided a breathtaking vista of Detroit’s northeast as far as the eye could see, including the Detroit River and a fair view of Windsor as well. The scene drew exclamations from visitors, while even residents rarely tired of it.

  Cox’s alternative was to study Patricia Lennon, his paramour, significant other, or roomie, depending on one’s vintage.

  Pat, seated on the couch, legs crossed, was wearing white shorts and a halter. She was, without qualification, the most beautiful woman Cox had ever encountered. And Cox was—or at least had been, prior to the advent of Pat—a dedicated connoisseur of beautiful women. During their decade-long relationship, he had strayed on occasion, but on the whole he had been—for him—as faithful as a bird dog.

  He had even surprised himself several years back by actually proposing marriage. Both had been previously married and divorced. But Pat was a Catholic, who, while not a regular churchgoer, felt that any marriage ceremony for her must be Catholic or forget it. After a disastrous attempt to secure a Church annulment from the Tribunal of the Archdiocese of Detroit, she had vowed never to try that again. As a result, she and Joe were now quite content merely to live together.

  Professionally, the two were competitors. Cox was a reporter for the Detroit Free Press. Lennon had worked at the Freep, as it was popularly known, but several years ago she had moved to the Detroit News. Each had the reputation of being among the very best journalists in town. Word was that they shared everything but their bylines.

  Faced with a choice between these views—a panorama of Detroit and environs or the smashing Lennon—Cox had to conclude he might just have the best of all possible worlds. His actual problem: an announcement he had to make sooner or later. He had concluded that his news should be postponed as long as possible. He did not know how Pat would react to it. Or, rather, he was fairly certain of her reaction and was loath to expe
rience it.

  At the moment he was midway through his half-hour on the exercise bike and perspiring profusely. Fortunately, it was a rather pleasant evening easily survivable without air conditioning.

  “Anyway,” Lennon was saying brightly, “I think it will make a neat story. I should be able to clean it up in a day or so and be ready for our trip.”

  Cox moaned inwardly. Might this be the right time? No; it would have to be brought up eventually, but not now. Instead, he said, “How did you ever come up with that assignment? The Freep considers it a dead-ender. About on a par with Jesus’s head on the side of an oil-storage tank, or a weeping statue of Mary in some church, or my all-time favorite, the face of Jesus in a fried tortilla.”

  Lennon chuckled. “A story is what you make it, Joe. I convinced the assistant editor it would make an interesting feature. And, by God, it’s going to be an interesting feature for a total of two days. At which time I will solve the mystery and we’ll be off to a terrific month in Vancouver and points north.”

  Now? No, not yet. Instead, Cox said, “It never fails to amaze me, with all the blockbuster stories in this town, how they waste somebody like you on a fluff piece.”

  “That’s because you never worked at the News, Sweets.”

  “Never worked there! With all that security, I can’t even get in the place.”

  “More horses, Honey; the News has lots more horses. I can remember the Freep: when you got there in the morning, you hit the ground running. You’d be surprised what you can do with more than a skeleton staff. For one thing, you can afford to work on a story and develop it. And this will be a good one—at least for a couple of days.”

  Cox had no doubt Pat could put some meat on this thin story line. She had the knack of making even an obituary interesting.

  Lennon was leafing through some notes she had taken earlier in the day. “Besides, it’s about time this town had a new wonder-worker. It’s been—what?—about forty years since Solanus Casey was operating out of St. Bonaventure Monastery—check that,” she corrected herself from her notes, “St. Bonaventure Friary on Mt. Elliott. And before him . . . who? Nobody from a first-run church like the Catholics or Lutherans.