William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

“Did she leave the church then?”

“Sort of. She got to the altar. Then she sort of fell over.”

“Prostrate?”

“You could say that. Then this couple-I guess they brought her-they picked up the chair and put her in it. Then they went like crazy towards the outside door.”

“Do you know her name? Or if anybody got her name? Or the names of the couple she was with? Any identification?”

“It happened so fast! And we were so surprised by the miracle! She was cured. Then she was gone.” Malloy made one more grab for the mike. But Mountney, skilled at this sort of jousting, was too quick for him.

Dan Mountney was about to turn the telecast back to the station when he tipped his head to one side listening to a message through his earpiece. “Mort, I’m told that we’ve located someone who, indeed, did speak to the woman in the wheelchair just as she was getting into the car.”

The camera swung wide again to include a man, obviously stunned, in the black suit and roman collar of a priest. “And you are …?” Mountney asked.

“Father Daniel Reichert.”

“A Catholic priest?”

Reichert didn’t reply; he just looked offended.

Koesler’s eyes widened again. Tully, Moore, and Mangiapane glanced at him.

This telecast was drawing to a close. The reporter had no time for games with this eyewitness. “You know the woman? The woman in the wheelchair?”

“I’ve never seen her before. I was able to speak with her for only a few moments. Her escorts were very determined to get her out of here. I think they let me speak to her because I’m a priest.”

“Did you get her name, Father?”

Reichert nodded. “Theresa Waleski.”

“When she entered the car, the car that drove her away, was she assisted, or did she get in under her own power?”

Reichert reflected momentarily. “She was helped in. But I don’t think she wanted to be. Everything was very chaotic. So I can’t be sure whether she wanted to stand on her own … but that’s the impression I got.”

“I see. Father, we have only a few seconds left. A miracle or not?”

Reichert hesitated only a fraction of a second. “They have eyes, yet they see not. They have ears, yet they hear not.”

Mountney shook his head ever so slightly. “Well, Mort, on that rather cryptic note, we’ll pass this back to you.” Mort Crim, back in the studio on Lafayette, kitty-cornered from the Detroit News , began a summation of the story. Tully switched off the set.

“Well,” Moore said after several moments’ silence, “at least he didn’t claim it was a miracle.”

“All but,” Koesler said. “If, or when, the Cardinal sees that, I think St. Joseph’s parish will be off limits for Father Reichert.”

“First time I ever heard of a priest who couldn’t go to church,” Mangiapane commented.

“It’s happened,” Koesler said. “But that’s historical.”

“We’ll get going on these names you gave us,” Tully said. “I’ll have one of the guys give you a ride home, Father.”

“No need; it’s only a few blocks.”

“Let me guarantee,” Tully said, “that the closer you get to your church, the harder it’s gonna be to move. Especially when they find out you’re the pastor.”

Koesler nodded. “Thanks, Lieutenant.” Upon consideration, he accepted the ride with gratitude.

Even the marked blue-and-white Detroit police car would not have made it all the way through to the rectory had not the police detail on duty opened a path for it.

The officers who got Koesler up the stairs and into the rectory asked if they could do anything further.

“Yes, if you would,” he said. “I would like to lock the church. That really should have been done before this. And I anticipate some difficulty getting everyone to leave.”

“Sure thing, Father.”

Some twenty minutes later, the officers returned. They suggested that Koesler, who was more familiar with the church, check all the spots where anyone could possibly hide. The search actually turned up one man who had hidden under a drop cloth in a no-longer-used confessional.

With the church now emptied and locked, Koesler felt more secure. Now that the pressure was off, muscles and tissues that had been under subconscious stress began to ache.

He reentered the rectory to find an unusually harried Mary O’Connor about to leave. “I left the phone messages on your desk, Father. And, I hate to tell you, but you have a visitor in the office.”

“A visitor! I thought the police were going to help keep visitors out. Is this a special case?”

“I think you could say so.” Mary brushed a stray hair into place. “She came in with a policeman.”

He dropped his topcoat over the banister and entered his office as Mary let herself out.

Pat Lennon, reporter for the News, was seated, legs crossed, in his office.

Koesler shook his head and smiled as he sat down behind his desk. “This is strange. Just a little while ago, a Detroit police officer asked the same question about you that is on my mind right now.”

Lennon returned the smile. “And that is …?”

“How does she do it?”

“What?”

“At Police Headquarters, the reference was to your presence at the wake last night-your being, as far as we could tell, the only member of the news media present for what became a major story. And now, your being escorted by an officer into my rectory when no one, except for emergencies, was to be admitted.

“Well, now that you’re here and I have a chance to ask: How did you manage to do it-both of them?”

Lennon shrugged a shoulder, indicating neither occurrence had been all that difficult. “Last night was a hunch, pure and simple. I got a call from an acquaintance, a gentleman who regularly travels in the fast lane with the likes of Judy and David Green. I’m sure I wasn’t the only newsperson who was informed about the wake.

“To put it in a nutshell, it didn’t fit. I was pretty familiar with Dr. Green. He wasn’t exactly someone you’d expect to chance upon in church or synagogue. But he was dead-or, so we were led to believe. I figured that it would take some very kind rabbi to handle the funeral. So when the wake was scheduled in a Catholic church, there was the beginning of a story. It might not have developed-not all hunches do. This one paid off big. A super scoop-including a ride home with the exwidow and her resurrected husband.

“As far as getting in here on the arm of a cop … well, we do favors for people. And when, from time to time, we need a favor …” No elaboration was needed.

While she was responding to his questions, Koesler had been studying her. In what she was and in what she wasn’t, she epitomized somehow the essence of femininity.

She was not fragile, yet she did not project masculine strength. She was not overly made up; she used cosmetics sparingly. There was no heavy perfume in the air. There was the scent of-what? — woman.

She seemed relaxed and comfortable. Her skirt came just to the edge of her crossed knee, exposing a shapely calf. Her attire was that of a successful businesswoman.

She did not bristle and react as a superfeminist might. She was secure in herself.

And she had completed her response to his questions.

“So …” Koesler massaged his temples. “… now that you’re here, welcome. What can I do for you?”

“Background, mostly. Last night when you came into the church, you appeared to be trying to get over to Mrs. Green, but she pretty much stayed busy. That correct?”

“Yes.”

“But some people came to you. There was Jake Cameron and Judy and David and a couple whose names I don’t have. Can you give them to me?”