William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

“And know, Father, that my office is open to you. We must do our very best to reach a final judgment in this matter as quickly as possible.”

Boyle rose. The meeting was over.

Koesler left the Cardinal’s office in a distracted state. What if this case were designated an attempted murder? Was it blind fate that had steered the crime’s climax to St. Joseph’s Church? Was it merely an accident that at least five people had revealed to him individual circumstances that easily could have led to murder? Accident or kismet?

In any case, particularly in light of the final commission the Cardinal had just given him, Father Koesler would have to be ready to get involved in-or even initiate-a police investigation.

Father Koesler did not have to wait long before he saw the Detroit Police out in force.

It was only with police aid that he was able to drive into his own parking lot and his own garage. Orleans and Jay, the corner where Old St. Joe’s was situated, was packed with what seemed to be hundreds of people.

Also, because he had received no other directive, Bennie, the janitor, had unlocked the church doors. So all these people now jamming the street were merely the overflow who had been unable to squeeze into the church.

It appeared as if the entire downtown contingent of police had been assigned to keep some sort of order in, at, and around the church.

Two officers escorted Koesler from his garage to the rectory door. Reporters shouted questions at him as he made his way through the crowd. The police escort, expediting his passage, relieved him of any need or opportunity to respond.

Inside, the rectory was a fortress-a fortress under siege.

Bennie blamed himself for the present chaos. He had not looked outside before opening the doors. So the mob had been a distinct and bewildering surprise.

However, even if he had been aware of the size of the crowd waiting to enter, he probably still would have unlocked the doors. That was what he was supposed to do.

It was all Koesler could do to try to keep Bennie from blaming him self for the sack of Rome. Antoinette, whom Koesler privately referred to as Mrs. Bennie, tried to console her husband, with only minimal success.

Mary O’Connor, secretary and general factotum of the parish, was undone. Koesler had never seen his longtime friend so flustered. When he entered her office, she was on the phone. As she wordlessly handed him a stack of call-back messages, she lifted her eyes toward heaven. Several strands of her always-neat, snow-white hair were out of place.

He leafed quickly through the messages. Many were from individuals he could not place. Some were from reporters and columnists whose names alone were familiar. The rest did not seem to be genuinely pressing … particularly measured by his present state of total harassment.

He made his way through the sacristy into the church-the identical trail he had taken last night en route to the infamous wake. At least none of the crowd had invaded the sacristy.

The body of the church was another matter. It was Babel. Nearly everyone was speaking English, but due to the numbers shouting to each other over the increasing din, it was Babel.

The center of attention was the spot where last night the “corpse” had lain. Oddly, the empty casket had been neither moved nor removed. It was where it had been when last he’d seen it-still lying on its side, sort of cockeyed. To the onlookers, it must have suggested the open tomb of Lazarus-or Jesus.

Whatever, people were circling it, and pointing at it, each giving any who would listen one person’s opinion of what this was all about.

Daily Mass at St. Joseph’s was scheduled to begin in about twenty minutes. It was obvious that the normally quiet, meditative service could not possibly be held here. It would be impossible to clear the church of these sightseers. It would be impossible to get them to a state remotely approaching silence. It was impossible for Koesler to even get their attention.

After a moment’s thought, he elbowed his way through the crowd to the steps leading to the choir loft. Once in the balcony, he turned on the venerable pipe organ, gave it enough time to warm up, and played a single G-major chord sforzando.

Sudden silence. The crowd, as one, turned and looked to the choir loft whence a smiling Father Koesler gazed down at them. “Folks,” he announced, “there’s supposed to be a Mass here in a few minutes. How ever, due to circumstances known only to God, this doesn’t seem like a practical thought today. So, those among you who have come for Mass, please go to the rectory basement where we will celebrate Mass.

“Those among you who have come to see the site where it all happened last night, please remember that you are in God’s house, so, try to keep it down, if you please.”

He turned off the organ and headed for the rectory. As he left the church, he was aware of a small, present miracle. The crowd had become almost reverential. It was much more subdued than just a few minutes ago, though by no means silent.

There was plenty of space in the meeting room in the rectory basement for the small, faithful congregation that regularly attended daily Mass. This morning, however, was not a propitious time for reflective prayer. On everyone’s mind-those swarming the church floor, the Mass attendants, as well as the priest-was “the miracle.”

At the conclusion of Mass, most of the congregation returned to the church, where they found an augmented crowd. Curiosity over what had happened last night was escalating.

For Father Koesler, who best functioned in a cocoon of routine, it was lunchtime.

Mrs. Bennie alternated between reassuring her husband and preparing a light lunch. With a long, deep sigh, Koesler seated himself at the dining table. He eyed the stack of phone messages. After lunch , he told himself.

Both of Detroit’s major dailies, the News and the Free Press , were on the table. As one result of an almost universally despised joint operating agreement, the Freep remained the morning paper, while the News could be a morning pickup at newsstands. The front page and local news section of both papers heavily covered the miracle.

Those parts of the paper Koesler had already scanned. He wondered desperately what was happening in For Better or for Worse, Overboard, and Mister Boffo. Just as he was about to find out, Mary O’Connor entered the room. She handed Koesler a single phone message. “This one I thought you’d want to take care of right away.”

The call was from Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department.

Koesler and Koznicki had met many years before during an investigation of the serial killings of some Detroit priests and nuns. Building on that chance association, the two men had become fast friends.

This message was succinct if deferential. Inspector Koznicki requested Father Koesler’s presence at headquarters, immediately, if possible. A uniformed officer would be waiting to drive Father.

Even though only a few long blocks separated St. Joseph’s and Police Headquarters, in view of the crowd, as well as the urgency of the meeting, driving was the way to go.

Koesler apologized to Bennie, and particularly to Mrs. Bennie, for not being able to take lunch. He did not give any detail; this morning’s events spoke for themselves.

He shed his cassock and donned a black jacket and a topcoat. He and his driver were on their way to one of the most well-known addresses in the city: 1300 Beaubien.

Koesler was ushered into a Homicide squad room that had been vacated for this meeting. In addition to Koznicki and Koesler, present were Lieutenant Alonzo Tully and a woman Koesler had never met.