Traditionally, the neighborhood is quiet, elegant. But with the market value of these homes, one could expect little else.
It was quiet on this beautiful winter evening. Clear skies, lots of stars; only a quarter moon that shed little light. The drowsy dark was pierced only occasionally by a streetlight.
The streets were empty, except for the occasional car that would creep over the slippery pavement and turn in at a driveway to be tucked into its garage for the night.
One such vehicle, a late model black four-door Taurus, inched along the street, but did not turn in at any driveway. Instead, it circled the neighborhood as if the driver were on a sightseeing tour of the mansions. It drew no attention; one would have to have been watching the streets for some time and with concentration to note that the same car had passed not once but several times. And no one was paying that sort of attention.
Finally, the Taurus pulled to a stop on Balmoral. The driver got out of the car and opened the rear door. Out popped a Heinz 57 mutt with a stubby, furiously wagging tail; The man attached a lead to the pup’s collar, which was devoid of any identifying tags or license.
He set off at a normal pace, pausing only when the dog investigated a tree or a fire hydrant. To anyone who might have paid him any mind in the dim light, he was a neighborhood resident, home from a day of wheeling and dealing, walking his dog after dinner. The dog was a perfect pretext for strolling through the neighborhood.
Man and dog turned onto Wellesley Drive. Still no one on the streets. No cars going home anymore. Lights on in most of the houses, but recessed into the interior, perhaps the dining area.
There it was: the mansion by which its neighbors were measured.
The man did not break his pace, but proceeded until he was enveloped in shadow. There he stopped and unhooked the lead from the dog’s collar, stuffing the lead into his coat pocket.
Freed, the little dog pranced along happily, hoping to find a warm place to spend the night.
The man cautiously approached the mansion, careful to stay in the shadows. His black garb helped conceal him. He headed along the side of the huge house toward a room that showed a light from inside. He knew the room was a study.
Slowly he approached the lighted room. As far as he could tell, it was the only light on in the entire mansion. That was fitting. The occupant resided with no companion; the help lived in the distant interior. The occupant undoubtedly had finished dinner and was commencing an evening of reading and study before an early retirement.
The man studied the ground. There were no footprints. The sidewalk, as well as the walkways leading to and around the house, were totally cleared of snow. He had expected no less.
He drew nearer. The room lay behind lace-curtained French doors.
He stood looking into the room. He could not see clearly because of the filmy curtains, but he could make out the tall, slender, cassocked figure. This was the man he would kill. This was the man he had to kill.
His face was almost pressed against the door’s glass. Still he was unable to discern details clearly. The lighting was indirect-and there were those damned curtains.
From an inside coat pocket he drew a many-bladed knife. One of the blades was a glass cutter. He would effect entry through an adjoining room. But first, just on the off chance …
He tried the doorknob. It turned. Very, very careless. It certainly simplified his objective. But, very, very careless.
He opened the door quietly, just enough to step into the room. He closed the door behind him, again quietly, never taking his eyes off his target. Even in the dim light, no one could mistake the distinctive Cardinal-red of the wide cummerbund and zucchetto. The cassocked figure was standing at a table, his back to the intruder.
As the man took a cautious step, a board creaked.
“Hello, Quent. I’ve been expecting you.” The cassocked figure turned slowly.
The Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey gasped. His gasp was followed by another small sound of surprise. “Bob? Bob Koesler?” Jeffrey stepped in front of a large chair and lowered himself into it, burying his hands in his coat pockets as he sank into the upholstery.
His mouth hung ajar as he fought to conquer his astonishment. Koesler’s expression was both inquisitive and kindly as he Stood facing Jeffrey. The two men remained motionless, as if caught in one of television’s freeze-frames for several moments.
“How … how did you know?” Jeffrey stammered finally. “Was it the clue I gave you? Did you catch my hint?”
“Not right away, Quent.” Koesler sat back against the table. “It began at Archbishop Foley’s wake. A couple of the guys were talking about a lot of things: vacations, the Cardinal … and a party they were going to after the wake. They were going to play cards-poker. One of them complained that, with the out-of-towners who would be playing, the poker would be deadly serious and professional-no wild card games.”
Jeffrey nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
“That was the seed,” Koesler said. “Later, I thought about the game I sat in on the other night. Young and Bash and you and I.
“Now, nobody in the diocese is more famed as a serious and professional poker player than you. And yet, one of the times it was your deal, you called one-eyed jacks wild.”
Jeffrey could not suppress a broad grin. Not unlike a teacher encouraging a pupil who was on the right track.
In fact, Jeffrey’s reaction was encouraging Koesler as he continued. “That also was the night you remarked that Church law held all the cards.
“Then I thought about how I tried to explain the administration of the Detroit archdiocese to a policeman, and I remembered the part the-at that time three-murder victims played in it.
“Larry Hoffer: the money man; in charge of most of the financial transactions in the diocese-in charge of ten departments with offices in the chancery.
“A ten.
“Sister Joan Donovan: Holding the highest rank of any woman in the diocese.
“Like … a queen.
“Archbishop Foley: Retired. The title of Cardinal being largely honorary, there is no one more powerful, outside of the Pope himself, than an archbishop. But this one had retired; was responsible for nothing, save himself. Once extremely powerful, now but a figurehead, powerless. Very much like the present function of most … kings.
“But I doubt anyone could have figured the connection without Father Bash. It wasn’t his title, job, or responsibilities. It was what the Korean War did to him. It took the vision in one of his eyes. Not only that, but Father Bash was thought by many-rightly or wrongly-to be a selfish, tricky person. In bygone days, he might well have been known as a knave. And knave is another name for the jack in playing cards. So, one could think of Cletus Bash as a one-eyed jack.
“So there we have it: a ten, a jack, a queen, and a king. Drawing to the only unbeatable hand in all of poker. Even if Church law does hold all the cards, nothing can beat a royal flush. Ten, jack, queen, king. All you lacked was the ace. The top card in the diocese, the Cardinal Archbishop that’s it, isn’t it, Quent?”
Jeffrey’s only response was a nod.
“Did you,” Koesler asked, “set up the two suspects-Carson and Stapleton?”
Jeffrey shook his head. “I didn’t know apout them at all until Bash started running off at the mouth during the poker game. I was, of course, delighted. Made contact with them immediately and encouraged them in their plans. Warned each of them that it was vital to keep their projects a deep dark secret.”
“What were they trying to do”
Jeffrey shrugged. “A million miles from killing anybody. Though, as I say, it worked to my advantage that the police thought they were. It was all innocent enough. Stapleton, along with a few other CORPUS members, is making preliminary plans for duplication of sorts of the Vatican Council, to be held, like the earlier ones, in Rome. Only this one will be by and for all those who want to function as priests and can’t, Resigned priests, mar
ried men; women; homosexuals. Their hope? That the Church will not be able to withstand all the publicity and diat the bishops who agree with their objectives will come out of the closets.
“Fred, by the way, couldn’t understand why the cops got so excited about his aunt’s bequest. He’s known about the dotty old gal all the while, He also knew all along diat the Donovans were distant cousins. When it comes, he won’t turn the money down. But he doesn’t need it.”
“And Carson?”
Jeffrey snorted. “He’s the flip side of Stapleton. They’re opposites. I’m surprised they don’t attract each other. Carson is trying to organize the extreme Cadiolic right wing into vigilante groups-first locally, then nationwide, finally global.” Jeffrey chuckled. “They’re going to infiltrate every parish. Gather evidence-photos, recordings, testimony-of abuse of liturgy, abuse of everydiing. He ‘knows the Pope will act.’ And he’s probably right on that.
“If,” Jeffrey continued, “they hadn’t been so secretive about what they wanted to accomplish, they probably wouldn’t have ended up as suspects. But, as I said, it worked to my advantage. I even encouraged them to go ahead and, above all, to be quiet about it. If anyone, outside of their comrades, learned what they were doing, I assured them, their plans would be sabotaged.”
Koesler considered what he’d just been told. He pushed away.from the table and stood looking down at Jeffrey. “Quent, why did you drop that hint during the poker game?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The way the game was being played, I guess I thought it was unfair. I suppose I wanted to even up the odds a bit.”
“A ‘game’? ‘Even up the odds’? Quent, how can you talk like that!? This wasn’t a game! Human life is what we’re talking about. Innocent human lives! Quent, you committed murder! How can you call it a game?”
Jeffrey’s expression changed instantly, radically. “You’re right. How can we call it a game!” He appeared furious and deadly serious. “How can anyone call what the Church did to me a game!”
“‘What the Church …’ ” Koesler did not understand.
Jeffrey grasped Koesler’s unstated question. “Made me a goddam eunuch!”
“A ‘eunuch,’ ” Koesler repeated. “You mean because as a widower you can’t marry again? But Quent, you knew that from the beginning. Those were the rules of the game from the start. You knew that if you became a widower, without extenuating circumstances you couldn’t marry again.”
Jeffrey snorted. “See? Back to the idea of a game. Can you still wonder why I chose to take them on in a game of my own? My deal! Certainly I knew the rules of their game. What I did not know was how much their game was going to cost.”
“But-”
“Let me finish, Bob. Maryanne was younger than I-ten years younger. When we married, I didn’t think about either of us dying. But if I had, I would have figured I’d go first, of course. Women, on the average, live longer than men, and Maryanne was ten years my junior.
“Another thought I would have had, had I asked myself, was that if my wife somehow would precede me in death, I probably would marry again. But I didn’t give either possibility any conscious thought.
“Not until I got involved in this deacon program. Then, as you say, they stated the rules of the game. Then I was forced to consider what I’d never consciously figured on before: the prospect of becoming a widower. Having considered it briefly, I dismissed it out of hand. Maryanne was not only much younger than I and likely to outlive me, but she was in excellent health.
“Then it happened. Cancer.”
“I remember.”
“I was devastated. But I had no idea when she died that it was going to get worse over the months … over the years. It was never going to get better. I was not made for a celibate life.”
“People can accommodate-”
Jeffrey continued as if Koesler had not interrupted. “I thought dating might help. It made it worse. I was like a clumsy teenager fumbling with the problems of necking and petting, for God’s sake, when I should have been able to live the quiet, fulfilled life I had with Maryanne.” Jeffrey stopped. He seemed to have completed that line of thought.
“You could have gotten out,” Koesler said. “You could have applied for laicization. You could have been dispensed from your obligations as a deacon.”
“Been ‘reduced to the lay state’?” Jeffrey almost spat the words “I’ve never backed away from anything in my life!”
Suddenly it was clear to Koesler. Quentin Jeffrey had been locked in a vise, part of it his making. But a vise, nonetheless, that he’d found inescapable. He was trapped, and, in effect, by refusing to escape through, for instance, laicization, he trapped himself. It must have been an enormous, overwhelming pressure. How could he possibly have withstood it? Maybe that was it: Maybe he couldn’t withstand it. Maybe he cracked. But if he had “cracked,” could he be as rational as he seemingly was?
Something was happening. Koesler was aware something Was happening, but what? Jeffrey shifted in the chair. But not as if he were going to rise.
Jeffrey looked at Koesler for what seemed to the priest a long while. His expression seemed serene. He appeared far more tranquil than he’d been actually only moments before. “Well, Bobby,” he said, “you figured the whole thing out, didn’t you? More power to you. You also figured out that since I was drawing to a royal flush, I would not harm you. You are a lovely man, Robert, but you are no ace.
“Nevertheless, Robert, I doubt that you-that we-are alone. There must be police all over the place. Am I right?”
Koesler nodded. “Yes. This room has been wired to record our conversation and the police are here …” He inclined his head toward the inner doors and the side windows, in turn. “I’m sorry,” he said, “there was nothing else to do. But you can get help, Quent. We can see to that.”
“And how will we do that, Bob? Bring Maryanne back from the dead? Change the laws of the Church? No, Bob …” He shook his head. “There are no answers for me. I’ve played my hand and lost.”
His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. Only Koesler could have caught his words. “It’s time to go, Bob,” Jeffrey murmured. “Not you. Me.” With that, his right hand emerged from his coat pocket, holding a gun. The hand had barely started to move toward Koesler when a volley of gunfire erupted with a deafening roar. Simultaneously, Koesler raised his hand as a shouted “No!” was torn from his throat. Jeffrey’s body lurched every which way as it was buried more deeply in the chair.
Koesler instinctively made the sign of the cross over the dying man and whispered the words of absolution, not knowing whether they were needed, not knowing whether they did any good.
He would never be able to erase from memory the sight of Jeffrey’s face the instant before his body was riddled with bullets. It was an expression of completely incongruous tranquility. As if he were being relieved of an intolerable burden.
It was no consolation to Lieutenant Tully that an autopsy revealed that his had been the fatal bullet. Quentin Jeffrey was only the second person Tully had killed. Both deaths had been in the line of duty Both deaths sickened him to the core. Though he stayed on the job, it took a long while before he came to terms with what his duty compelled him to do.
The case was closed. The mayor, the police brass, the city’s movers and shakers, the Catholic community-all were relieved. The bad press, for some; the ordeal, for others, was over.
A priest and a police lieutenant were devastated by the tragic and unnecessary loss of life-of both the victims and their killer. But there was nothing the priest or the police lieutenant could do about it.
30
Two weeks had passed since Quentin Jeffrey, having received a very controversial Catholic Church funeral, had been buried. Many had argued for, many had argued against, the granting of Christian burial. Some said he was no better than a cold-blooded murderer and a notorious sinner. Others contended he was clearly insane and thus not responsible for the devastation he
had caused.
In the end, it was Cardinal Boyle who decided. Since one of Jeffrey’s victims had been Boyle’s best friend, and since the Cardinal himself had been Jeffrey’s designated final victim, few could argue that Cardinal Boyle was motivated by anything other than a generous and forgiving heart.
As it turned out, Cardinal Boyle had not left for a well-deserved vacation; Father Koesler, at the Cardinal’s insistence, was the one who traveled down to Florida.
Koesler visited with friends, cautiously absorbed some sun, rested, read a lot, and tried to relax. The one thing he hoped to do-forget-he failed to do.
Now he was back at St. Joseph’s parish. All the snow was gone. Detroit’s weather had been true to form; a bitterly cold December was being followed by an unexpectedly warm January. God, and God alone, knew what the dreaded February would bring.
Koesler had returned to Detroit quite late the previous night. This morning was his first weekday Mass after vacation. He had been surprised at the unexpectedly large turnout. He estimated a crowd of at least fifty. While that number hardly filled the cavern’ ous ornate church, it was something more than the five or six he was used to.
Among the congregation had been Mary O’Connor, who was now fixing breakfast for the two of them. Neither of them had much of a morning appetite. It was cold cereal, fruit, toast, and coffee.
“Good to have you back, Father.” Mary’s back was to him as she prepared the coffee.
“Good to be back, Mary. It really is.” He sat at the kitchen, table and started in on the cereal. “Anything important or outrageous happen while I was gone?”
“Not really… at least nothing an exciting person like yourself would consider important.” She was grinning. He couldn’t see her face but he knew the smile was there.
“Well, thank God for the Jesuits. We’re running out of parish-sitters. If it weren’t for the Jebbies at Sts. Peter and Paul, I don’t think I would have been able to get away. Father Untener must have done a masterful job judging from this morning’s crowd.”
Chameleon fk-13 Page 30
