“Father,” Tully’s tone was the soul of calm reason, “we’ve got a couple of ways to go at this point. You can step aside and let us look at whatever we need to look at … or” —he drew the word out—“I will go to the trouble of getting a warrant and come back with as many cops as I can rouse on short notice. One way or the other, we’re going to go in here. Now, which will it be?” Tully was smiling benevolently.
Mitchell returned the smile and stepped aside. “You have just made me an offer I can understand. However, I’d better call the council president and tell him what’s happening. Otherwise, I’m going to have to borrow your sling, Bob, for another part of my anatomy.”
“You do whatever you think right, Father.” Tully led the way into the rectory.
Koesler and Tully headed upstairs to Keating’s suite. The conspicuous opulence of Keating’s lifestyle still vaguely disturbed Tully. Yet the two men found no more than had been found before. Nor did any fresh insight occur to Koesler. He began to wonder if this were such a bright idea after all. With the doubt came the awareness of the dull ache in his shoulder. And with that ache came a renewed determination to get to the core of what had happened to Keating and Vespa and led to his being disabled.
Koesler looked again through drawers, closets, and files. Nothing. He shrugged, and he and Tully returned downstairs to scour Keating’s office and den and whatever else they came across. Desperation was not far off, and both of them knew it.
Meanwhile, Mitchell had placed a call to Eric Dunstable.
One did not simply call Dunstable. One placed a call. Odds were that the caller would never reach the man. At best, one might speak to a distant assistant and, if lucky, get to leave a message.
Mitchell would have been more than happy to leave a message that would get lost somewhere in the muddle of bureaucracy. As for Koesler and Tully’s searching the place, frankly, Mitchell didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t at all eager for Dunstable to get in on this and muck up something which, left alone, would probably just go away.
But as bad luck would have it, Dunstable had apparently given his staff instructions that any message coming from St. Waldo’s should be red-flagged.
Thus Mitchell’s call was expedited right through to the boss, who was not happy with the news.
Had this officer been informed of the council’s decision, Dunstable demanded to know. Mitchell assured him that the council’s vote to debar the police from parish property had been imparted.
Throughout this conversation, Mitchell continued mentally to thank God that he had handled this matter by the book. He had conducted everything strictly according to the council’s instructions. Now, if they wanted to get angry at someone, that someone would not be Fred Mitchell. It would be Lieutenant Tully.
And as it turned out, Eric Dunstable was very angry. So angry that he did what he hardly ever did: He canceled all further appointments and commitments for the day. This would place a most serious burden on the staff, including assistants and various vice presidents. Dunstable of course couldn’t have cared less. The phone calls, juggling of appointments and conferences, all were the underlings’ problems. Dunstable’s problem was to straighten out an uppity cop. He told Mitchell he was on his way. Mitchell could almost see the avenging knight galloping up Woodward Avenue on his white charger.
Since the door to Mitchell’s office had been left ajar, the parish secretary could not help but overhear Mitchell’s end of the phone conversation. That was sufficient for her to comprehend what was going on and, more to the point, what was about to happen.
Understandably, she was upset. Having no other shoulder on which to lean, she went to the kitchen and confided in the cook.
The cook reacted with alarm. What to do?
Nothing, the secretary suggested.
It was the cook’s opinion that shortly all hell was going to bust loose. The secretary concurred, but counseled that was precisely why they should do nothing: stay out of the way and hope and pray that Vesuvius would blow in another direction.
But, the cook argued, so omnivorous was the council president’s appetite when aroused, that the two women might be swallowed whole and regurgitated unemployed.
How could that be; they were no more than innocent bystanders, the secretary maintained.
They were also, countered the cook, replaceable—and the only ones in sight who were expendable. Dunstable could not fire, dismiss, or otherwise discipline a Detroit police officer—or either of the two priests. The janitor was off hiding somewhere. That, the cook concluded, “leaves you and me, dearie.”
The secretary finally came around to the cook’s evaluation of this mess. But what to do? What course of action could save them from the wrath of Dunstable?
After several moments of worried wondering, the cook thought she might have a solution. “Remember that nice reporter who was here that day that all the cops were swarming around?”
The secretary reflected. “A … DeVere? Lacy DeVere?”
“No, no, no!” the cook said irritably. “She was definitely not nice. The other one … the one I let in the back door. You remember; you and I talked with her while the cops searched.”
“Oh.” The light of recognition lit in the secretary’s eyes. “Yes. That was … uh … Pringle, Pringle McSomething.”
“Pringle McPhee!” the cook supplied. “Let’s call her and see if she’ll come over. Dunstable won’t dare do anything to us if we’ve got a reporter as a witness.”
“I don’t know about that,” said a worried secretary. “But it’s worth a try.”
“You remember me: I’m the cook at St. Waldo’s. Remember?”
Pringle McPhee motioned Pat Lennon to pick up the extension phone.
“Yes, of course. What’s up?”
“I … we … were wondering if you’d consider coming over here.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“We think Mr. Dunstable might fire us,”
“What?”
“This is the secretary. Remember me?”
“Yes …”
“I’m on the extension phone. See, the parish council passed a resolution that no policemen be admitted to the rectory until Father Keating returns.”
“They actually think—”
“Well, there’s a police officer here now. He and that Father Koesler are rummaging through Father Keating’s rooms in direct violation of the council’s order.”
Silently, for Lennon’s benefit, Pringle formed the words: This is crazy. Aloud she said, “Wait! Who’s there, and what are they doing?”
“Father Koesler and that Lieutenant Tully. It’s the lieutenant that’s got us in all this trouble. I wasn’t supposed to let in any police. So I got Father Mitchell. But then the officer just barged right in anyway-Threatened to bring a whole bunch of policemen if Father Mitchell didn’t let him in.”
“So Father Mitchell let him in?”
“I guess he didn’t have any choice.”
“Well, what’s this about Mr. Dunstable and getting fired?”
“Father Mitchell called Mr. Dunstable. And he’s on his way here right now. He’s president of the parish council. We’re afraid he might fire us. We know that’s not your concern. But we thought you might want to find out what’s going on. You could come in the back door like before.”
Pringle glanced at Pat, who winked and nodded.
“We’ll be right over,” Pringle said.
“We?”
“I’m going to bring another reporter with me.”
“Fine!” said the secretary as she hung up. “The more the merrier.”
“They’re coming?” the cook asked.
“They’re coming,” the secretary affirmed.
“Then we’re as ready as we ever will be.”
“Not quite,” the secretary said. “I’ll just take some refreshments into Father Keating’s office.”
24
On the long, chauffeured drive to St. Waldo’s, Eric
Dunstable had time to cool off. He just didn’t use it. Instead, he was more indignant than he’d been when Mitchell informed him that Waldo’s rectory had been invaded.
Father Mitchell, in turn, was taken aback when Dunstable, after storming through the front entrance, proceeded to hold the associate pastor responsible.
Mitchell figured he had played it safe, gone by the book. Sure there was a police officer here in defiance of the parish council’s order. And granted, Mitchell had admitted him. But that had been only to forestall Tully’s threat to summon loads of cops. That latter state would have been much worse than the first. Besides, Tully had said he would return with not only a bunch of cops, but also a warrant. So any way this played out, Tully was going to get into the rectory and look around, parish council or no parish council. So how could Dunstable fault what Mitchell had done?
What Father Mitchell failed to comprehend was that Eric Dunstable did not deal in failure. His only frame of reference was success. In not tolerating checkmate, he had gone through countless employees, associates, friends, and even one wife.
Mitchell was well able to deal with occasional failure, projects that became doomed. He could understand that sometimes, despite one’s best efforts and under circumstances beyond one’s control, things simply didn’t work out. And Tully’s inevitable renewed investigation within St. Waldo’s rectory was a case in point.
So there was a gap. Mitchell couldn’t understand why Dunstable couldn’t understand why blocking Tully had proved impossible. Dunstable couldn’t understand why Mitchell hadn’t carried out the council’s order.
If it had been within Dunstable’s jurisdiction, he would have dismissed the priest with extreme prejudice. As it was, Dunstable resolved to speak to the Cardinal about this undependable young man.
Having dealt with and diminished Mitchell, Dunstable turned to Tully.
The lieutenant had been studying Dunstable as he psychologically castrated the young priest. Tully judged Dunstable to be a bully—successful, but no more than a bully at the core. Tully’s experience indicated that all bullies are essentially insecure. As long as one gave them room to intimidate, as Mitchell had, they would have their way, manipulating and trampling everyone in their path. Thus when Dunstable, now in a virtual convulsion of fury, turned to the lieutenant, Tully was ready for him.
Tully stood utterly relaxed, arms hanging loosely. He fixed his eyes intently on Dunstable’s. It was a contest to match that of Ursus and the bull in Quo Vadis. Koesler found it a fascinating contest of wills.
Slowly Dunstable began to falter. He blinked nervously, and his eyes strayed from Tully’s.
It was not so much what Tully said as his manner of presentation. Everything he said was true. But it wasn’t the content that turned the tide but the calm authority with which Tully delivered the message. That was it: authority. There was a difference between genuine rooted authority and a facade built on the sands of bravado.
Two examples sprang to Koesler’s mind. There were all those enemies of Christ who held immense power of religious domination over the people. The scribes and Pharisees appeared to have an authority above that of Jesus, who was, after all, no more than one of the people. But it was the people who saw the truth. As Mark noted, “The people were spellbound by his teaching because he taught with authority, and not like the scribes.”
So it was with these two. Dunstable, successful, fulfilled, and wealthy beyond most people’s dreams. But nothing more than a bully, a fraud. Tully, on the other hand, spoke with the quiet decisiveness that even a bully had to respect.
The other example that came to Koesler’s mind indicated that true authority recognizes true authority. As in the case of the centurion in the Gospel whose favorite servant was at the point of death. Jesus agreed to come and cure. But the centurion said he was unworthy to host Jesus; he told him just to say the word and there would be healing. “Just give the order and my servant will be cured. I too am a man who knows the meaning of an order …”
In any case, Dunstable had been deflated. Yet Tully, in making certain that Dunstable had been neutralized, let him save a portion of face.
Grumbling all the way, Dunstable poured a cup of coffee and took a seat next to Koesler on the couch.
Even though the white sling cradling Koesler’s arm had been obvious all along, only now for the first time did Dunstable express concern for Koesler’s injury. Of course he was aware of how the priest had been wounded, so there was no need to go into that. It was easy to treat Koesler with a measure of respect. After all, he was a priest—and not a hairy young thing like Mitchell.
It was easy also for Koesler to start on a friendly basis with Dunstable. It was a play on the “tough cop, nice cop” routine. Even though Koesler was by no means a cop, he and Tully had somehow created a professional relationship in this case. And if Tully had civilly but firmly told Dunstable where to get off, Koesler was the station Dunstable landed on.
Meanwhile, Mitchell had retreated out of the line of fire to one corner of the room. He’d been confused and humiliated. He would not recover, at least for the duration of his stay at St. Waldo’s.
Tully turned to Mitchell. “I suppose all that’s left is to take a look at the books.”
“Books?” Dunstable emerged warily from his protective cocoon. “What books?”
“Ledgers, financial records.”
“See here, Lieutenant,” Dunstable reverted to form, “this is something else entirely! These are sensitive records. Why, an audit hasn’t even been ordered by the archdiocese yet!”
“This is not an audit, Mr. Dunstable. We don’t even know what we’re looking for. We don’t know whether we’ve seen what we’re looking for and didn’t recognize it. We’re in the dark. Humor us.”
Again Koesler was deeply impressed with Tully’s handling of himself, the situation, and particularly Dunstable. It was the manner, the tone, the self-assurance. However he accomplished it, the lieutenant had Dunstable on a string.
“Father Mitchell,” Tully said, “where are the financial records kept, please?” By his respectful treatment, Tully attempted to restore some of the young priest’s dignity.
Mitchell hesitated, glanced at Dunstable, then back at Tully. “In the safe behind his desk.”
“Locked?”
“Not usually,” Mitchell replied.
“He had nothing to hide,” Dunstable snapped.
Mitchell crossed to the safe and tried the handle. It turned easily. He opened the door, reached in, removed several large, gray ledgers, and placed them on the desk.
Tully moved behind the desk, opened one of the books, and began paging through it almost aimlessly.
“I want to be on record that I protest your delving into the private records of this parish,” Dunstable said firmly,
“Noted.” Tully did not look up,
“I say it’s an invasion of privacy …” Dunstable had been reduced to muttering.
“You might want to take a look at these,” Tully said, as he glanced at Koesler.
Koesler walked to the desk and began looking through the ledgers. He had almost forgotten that he was indeed the prime cause of this “invasion” of St. Waldo’s. However, like Tully, Koesler was going through this without direction, hoping that something strange, indicative, or suggestive would pop up and grab his attention. He felt like praying the old Catholic rhyme: “Dear St. Anthony, please come around/Something is lost and can’t be found,” Except that he didn’t know what was lost.
“I say it’s an insult—a gratuitous insult—to impugn the integrity of a man like Father Keating.” Dunstable had risen to something more articulate than a mutter.
Neither Tully nor Koesler responded. Actually Koesler was the only one of the two paying any attention at all to Dunstable.
“You know, I’ve been over those books,” Dunstable continued his monologue. “I know what I’m looking at when I’ve got a financial statement in front of me. There’s nothing wrong wit
h those books. All they show is that we have a generous parish, that the parish is well managed, and that we pay our bills on time. Our D and B, if we had one, would be impeccable.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Koesler said with little feeling.
“This is a waste of time. A waste of everyone’s time. A waste of my time.”
Koesler tended to agree. It was proving to be a monumental waste of time. Tully continued to page through the books. He was now practically up to date in the financial records. Koesler, losing interest in the books, turned his attention to the fuming executive on the couch. “You were close to Father Keating, weren’t you?” he said kindly.
“I am close to Father Keating.”
“Of course. You must be one of those who even vacationed with him.”
Dunstable appreciated the friendly approach Koesler was extending. By God, these old-time priests appreciated his standing! He warmed to the memory of those vacations. “Yes, we were among those privileged to have the good father with us occasionally at home and on vacations as well.”
In his imagination, Koesler had to grant that a Keating-Dunstable vacation undoubtedly was a lot more splendid than Florida with the good old boys.
“He was—uh, is —a very close friend. He has always been with me when I needed him.”
Koesler thought the man might break down and cry.
“I don’t think,” Dunstable continued, “anyone could have been more helpful, concerned, or involved than Father Jack was when we went through that annulment process.”
“You had an annulment?” Koesler was loath to go, unbidden, into anyone’s private affairs. But Dunstable had brought up the subject and apparently wanted to proclaim Keating’s solicitous care during what admittedly was a traumatic procedure.
“Yes. My first wife. Back in eighty-five.”
“Followed by a convalidation?” Koesler diplomatically steered the exchange so that Dunstable did not have to admit specifically that after divorcing his first wife he had invalidly married his second wife and only later, after the declaration of nullity, married his second wife in the Church.
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