“You mean the priesthood, whatever it will be, will have changed?” Toussaint sipped from his Myers’s dark rum and soda.
“Yes, exactly. There are so very, very few seminarians! Somewhere down the line, it’s got to show. The median age of active priests keeps going up. I just don’t know where it’s going to end!”
“The exodus from the priesthood seems to have decreased. Is that not a hopeful sign?”
“In a way, I suppose. But that decreasing number will be more than made up for by a recent phenomenon that hasn’t drawn sufficient interest so far.”
“Let me guess, Bob. You must be referring to the retired priests.”
“Exactly. When I was ordained in 1954, a retired priest was most rare. And if and when retirement did take place, it was almost always caused by some sort of terminal or at least debilitating illness. Why, the pastor of my first parish had such poor blood circulation that one of his legs had been amputated. Of course, he used to claim that he had one foot in the grave. But what he most feared was that the bishop might put him on the shelf.
“No, the image then, and, as far as I know, for centuries, perhaps right back to the beginning of Christianity, was that the priest went on doing his sacerdotal work as best he could until death. Every older priest I knew, from the time I was ordained, feared most being forced to retire. The ideal was that you were to die in harness—with stole around your neck in midabsolution.
“Nowadays, retirement is taken for granted as much for priests as it is for those in secular jobs. In Detroit, they become ‘senior priest’ and move out to a rest home, or a private home—or, as pastor emeritus, they continue to live in a parish rectory and do what little they wish.
“The contrast is provocative: If, after twenty years of active priesthood, a priest opts for laicization—and possibly marriage— a certain stratum of the fraternity looks down on him; but if, after twenty years of active priesthood, he retires to Florida—with or without his housekeeper—that same stratum considers him a good ole boy.”
“To what do you attribute this phenomenon?”
“I don’t really know. I suppose one of these days the sociologists will get hold of it, spread out the statistics and enlighten us. In the meantime, I don’t blame it on Vatican II, but I think it must be attributable to the Council.
“The after-effects of the Council appeared to change much of what many of us considered to be the heart of the religion we had been preaching and teaching. Some of us grew to understand that these reforms—and many more—were needed, indeed overdue. But others never made the adjustment. Their whole attitude changed and congealed. The green pups, as they saw the younger clergy, had managed to mutate the genuine Church and create an organization without rules and regulations, without all the convenient blacks and whites of the past. Very well, then; let them have it! Some of the older guys decided to mark time until they could fully bequeath this bastard Church to what they considered its progenitors.
“So now, even before clerical retirement, some priests resign the position of pastor—an office many of them spent fifteen or twenty years longingly preparing for. They voluntarily demote themselves to assistant pastors. Why should they take the heat of being in charge? The monetary income remains the same, while the responsibility diminishes.”
“All of the bonus and none of the onus,” Toussaint commented.
“Beg pardon,” the waitress appeared beside the table, “would you like to order another drink?”
Toussaint glanced at Koesler and noted their accord. “No, thank you, miss. We will just wait for our companion, if you please.”
“It’s a good thing she stepped in,” said Koesler, “I was getting carried away on a topic that not enough people are concerned about.”
“Not at all, Bob; please go on.”
“Well, priestly retirement is just a manifestation of our times.
“I know that may be too broad a statement, but consider how assignments—at least in Detroit—are made. In the good old days, whenever the chancery bureaucrats wanted to move a priest from one parish to another, you simply got a letter—not unlike the one the government used to send to military inductees—saying, ‘For the care of souls, I have it in mind to send you to . . .’ and then you’d be told at which parish you would spend the next several years of your life.
“No wonder that back then the Church was considered second in efficiency only to General Motors.
“By contrast, now, parish openings are listed in the priests’ newsletter, and, in effect, parishes advertise for a pastor, an associate, a chaplain, or whatever. There’s no doubt about it: it used to be a buyers’ market and now it’s a sellers’ market.
“But, you see, that is pretty much the way it always was in the secular business world. Employees would apply for the jobs they wanted. And they went where they wanted to. Of course, their employers might transfer them elsewhere, in which case the employees had no choice—other than to quit and try to find another job.
“Actually,” he paused for a moment, “it’s ironic. With the current recession in the U.S., the priestly employee has met and passed the secular employee on the bridge. Now it is a buyers’ market in the business world and their employees are hard put to find an alternate job—while the priest, whose services are very much in demand, can have his pick of clerical jobs.
“But back in the good old days, for us there was no practical recourse, no alternative. Quitting the priesthood was unthinkable.
“It is no longer unthinkable. And, in addition, there is a drastic shortage of priests. So, today’s priest is free to apply or not for the parish or position of his choice. There is precious little pressure. There can’t be; it is, as I said, a sellers’ market.
“And, just as priests now apply for jobs as our secular counterparts do, so priests retire just as our secular counterparts do.
“Whatever, there is no doubt that retirement is a drain on the priesthood that hardly anyone considers. It’s just, ‘Father deserves his well-earned retirement.’ Everyone takes it as a matter of course. But it remains a contemporary phenomenon that very definitely and substantially cuts down the number of active priests that are available.
“So, where do we go from here?”
Toussaint’s fingers drummed the table top. “It would seem that an alert organization in a situation like this would take some drastic steps at recruiting. Otherwise it would be forced to face the very real possibility of self-destruction.”
“Ah, yes, Ramon. But you see, the bishops fall back on Biblical passages such as, ‘You have not called me but I have called you.’ And, ‘Behold, I will be with you unto the consummation of the world.’ So, they tend to look at this as God’s problem. They will pray about it and God will solve it.” Koesler spread his hands, palms up, as if indicating the solution had been miraculously found.
“But,” said Toussaint, “perhaps God’s solution is not theirs. Perhaps God’s solution is that others be called to the ministry. Women. Laicized priests. Married men.”
“Aha! You see, Ramon,” Koesler playfully nudged his friend’s arm, “you thought I was joking when I said you would be the first married Latin rite priest in centuries.”
Toussaint laughed. He was joined in the laughter by Koesler. Then the two became conscious of another presence. They looked up to see Inspector Koznicki, bigger than life, smiling down at them.
“May I join the conclave?”
“Inspector!” Koesler exclaimed, “we were just solving one of the major problems of the Church. On second thought,” he added ruefully, “as a matter of fact, we weren’t solving it, after all.”
“I hope you have some strength left in your fertile minds for the solution of an annoying residual problem of an attempt at murder,” Koznicki said good-naturedly.
“I thought you had that fairly well under control.”
“Thanks to the Reverend Toussaint here, we have a leg up on it, at least. But please: take your glasses and let us go
in to our dinner.” The two had been so occupied with their discussion that they had not finished their drinks.
The maître d’ led them to the rear of the relatively small, reasonably illuminated restaurant. Once again, they found themselves in a secluded booth. Koesler wondered how Koznicki could arrange such consistent seclusion in country after country.
“How do you do it, Inspector? How do you find these out-of-the-way places? And how do you get these secluded booths?”
“Experience. Asking advice. This was—would have been,” he glumly corrected himself, “our fourth trip to Europe.”
“I miss Wanda too,” said Koesler, who knew that Mrs. Koznicki, sensing the Inspector’s increasing interest and involvement in this affair, had returned to Detroit in order that her presence would not take time from or interfere with his professional plans.
“Well, in any case,” Koznicki brightened; he was involved in an investigation and that helped fill the void, “we have our own list—of favorite eating places. And this happens to be one of them.”
The waiter appeared. Koznicki ordered a glass of sherry. His companions declined another drink.
“I should tell you the specialties of the house,” said Koznicki, as he opened his menu. “There’s Taramosalata, Arnaki Melitzanes, and Moussaka a Khirokitia.”
“Order what you will, Inspector. Ramon and I have decided to stick as close to all-American food as possible.”
“Then let me suggest the tiropetes as an appetizer—they’re just cheese puffs. Then the soupa avgolemeno; the salata Athenas; as an entree, either the keftedakia—meatballs—or kotopoulo riganato tis skaras—chicken. Perhaps green beans oregano or tomato pilaf for a side dish. And maybe just baklava for dessert.”
“The meatballs and green beans sound good,” said Koesler, “but no tomato pilaf, please—and I’ll pass on the dessert.”
“I’ll have the chicken and the pilaf—but, like Bob, I shall forgo dessert,” said Toussaint.
When the waiter arrived with Koznicki’s sherry, the Inspector ordered for the three and requested a bottle of Marvo Naoussis.
Once the waiter left the table, Toussaint leaned forward. “My sources tell me it is to be tomorrow evening at the ecumenical service in Westminster Abbey. They say both the British Cardinal and Cardinal Boyle are to be the targets. So we can anticipate more than one assailant.”
Koznicki smiled broadly. “Very good! Excellent! That will work out magnificently. We have been able to persuade both Cardinals Boyle and Whealan to remain in seclusion today and tomorrow until the service. And believe me, that was not easy.”
Koesler shook his head. “And all you’re trying to do is save their lives.”
“Well, they are strong-minded men,” Koznicki stated. “After talking with the Cardinals, I spent the rest of the afternoon with two of my friends from Scotland Yard going over a scale model of Westminster Abbey to check security arrangements.”
“Your friends, Inspector . . .?” Toussaint made bold to inquire.
“Assistant Commissioner Henry Beauchamp of the Central Criminal Investigation Department, and his subordinate, Charlie Somerset, Detective Chief Superintendent of the Murder Squad.”
“Is that S-o-m-e-r-s-e-t and B-e-e-c-h-a-m?” Koesler was writing the names on a small piece of paper.
“You have Somerset correct, Father. But the Commissioner’s name is spelled B-e-a-u-c-h-a-m-p.”
Koesler smiled. “He must have a problem like mine with people mispronouncing his surname.”
“I’m afraid the Commissioner does not share your problem, Father. Beauchamp is a rather common name over here. The British are at home with its pronunciation, which is, to our ears at least, how shall I put it . . . compressed. Something akin to the treatment they give to Worcestershire . . . or Cholomondely.” The Inspector gave the names their English due, which, to Koesler’s ear resembled something akin to “Woustershirr” and “Chumley.”
The priest almost blushed. “Uh . . . I thought that perhaps somewhere down the line I might be introduced to them, and I wanted to be familiar with their names.”
“Quite so, Father. I would be most appreciative if both you and the Reverend Toussaint would join me and the London police tomorrow evening.” Koznicki had sought Koesler’s help in previous investigations, especially when a Catholic element was inextricably involved.
Koesler glanced at Toussaint and caught his look of concurrence.
“We’d be eager to be of any help possible, of course, Inspector. Would you like us to . . . uh, rehearse, or something, tomorrow? We were going to catch some of the sights of London. But that certainly can easily be put off—”
“No, no; that will not be necessary, Father. We will want the two of you at hand tomorrow evening, though. There are places reserved for you. We have planned more than adequate police protection. But it is quite possible that your eyes might pick up something ours might miss. Or pick it up more quickly. As, indeed, did occur in St. John’s just last evening.” Koznicki nodded appreciatively at Toussaint. “Meanwhile, do take in the sights of London. There is much to see and you have but one day. Make the most of it, by all means.”
“Then, Inspector, you are satisfied with the security precautions?” Toussaint persevered.
Koznicki hesitated before replying.
“Of course one can never take too many precautions, nor have too much security, Reverend. If I had my preferences, I would prefer that the Cardinals not appear publicly, particularly not together. We will apprehend these conspirators, I am sure of it. In the meantime, it would be helpful if the targeted Cardinals could be persuaded not to expose themselves to danger.”
“Is it not true, though, Inspector,” said Toussaint, “that you might apprehend the conspirators more quickly if the Cardinals do turn out and are accessible to the general public?”
“Oh, much more quickly. But in that path lies the definite possibility, however slight, that the assailants might be successful and that their prospective victims may be injured . . . or worse.”
“I suppose,” Toussaint concluded, “it is a risk that one is either willing or not to take.”
“Quite correct, Reverend. And the Cardinals, in this instance, have decided to take the risk. Which puts us on notice to do our very best to ensure that the assailants are unsuccessful.”
Koesler looked from one to the other of his friends. He liked and respected each man so very much that he wished there were some magic by which he could render them friends with each other. There was no way, of course. Relatives one inherited. Friends were freely chosen.
At least, Koznicki now accorded Toussaint the title of Reverend. Until lately, the Inspector had not called the deacon anything. Not even, “hey, you.” Koesler reckoned that as progress. He hoped that, little by little, Koznicki was beginning to invest a growing measure of trust in Toussaint. That, Koesler knew, was progress. Initially, when asked if he would collaborate with Toussaint, Koznicki’s only comment was that he would be willing to take a lead even from the devil to solve a case.
So, perhaps it was possible that the relationship between Koznicki and Toussaint might evolve from uneasy collaboration to friendship. Koesler knew only that each of them was a good and dear friend of his and that there was nothing he could do to accelerate this friendship into three-sidedness.
“I even find it strangely encouraging,” Koznicki commented, “that we ourselves are in the very place where it all began.”
“Where what began?” Koesler asked.
“The modern approach to crime prevention and detection,” Koznicki replied.
Good, thought Koesler, as he chewed on his salad contentedly, the Inspector was about to launch into a lesson. Something he did very well and with self-satisfaction.
Koesler knew Koznicki to be not merely a police officer but also a most well-informed, well-read, and shrewd student of his profession.
Koesler had learned much about police work from Koznicki. He recalled particularly the
Inspector’s impromptu lecture on evidence at the scene of a crime. Koznicki had waxed near-reverential about the silent sign that would never lie or deceive. The sign that would be present only once, from the time the crime was committed until someone disturbed it. It could be a shell casing, a fingerprint, fibers from a coat or blanket, a strand of hair, a drop of blood. Investigators might fail to discern the message of the evidence at the scene of a crime. But the evidence would never mislead the alert investigator.
“As is the case with everything else in civilization,” Koznicki continued, “police procedures developed very slowly. But it is interesting how many of these procedures, especially as we in the western world have adopted them, developed right here in England. Take, for example, the field of forensic science.”
“Like Dr. Quincy on television?” Koesler interrupted.
Koznicki smiled. “No, more as in our own Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann, Chief Medical Examiner of Wayne County and one of the world’s best forensic scientists. But, very good, Father, that you draw our attention from the abstract to the concrete.
“Think of the expertise of a Dr. Moellmann and the exquisite tools of science he has to work with, and reflect that just little more than a century ago, the average physician’s participation in police work consisted of advising the authorities as to how much torture the accused could absorb, and, ultimately, when the accused or convicted person was dead.
“With that in mind, consider that in just one year in the late 1970s, the seven British regional forensic science laboratories dealt with more than 50,000 major criminal cases, the majority of them successfully.
“Why, it was just at the turn of this century that one Professor Locord formed the principle behind all forensic science. That is, that ‘every contact leaves a trace.’ Which means that a criminal always leaves something at the scene of the crime and, on the other hand, always takes something away. He may, for instance, leave a dead body, but take away some of his victim’s blood. Or leave a body and a hammer while taking away some tissue and hair.
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