William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

“How’s his back?”

“He isn’t moving around much yet. It’s hard to tell. So far, he hasn’t made life too hectic. But I guess it’s early.”

“You must be closer to him than anyone else. What do you think happened?”

“You mean miracle or coma? I would put my next-to-last dollar on a coma. The only thing that would make me hesitate is that I found him. And I observed and checked really thoroughly. He sure seemed to be dead. That I could understand and accept. But why would God-or whoever-bring him back?”

“Another priest has an answer for that. It involves footnotes in traditional theology. What it comes down to is that miracles like this are granted to increase the faith of believers and unbelievers alike. Nothing is promised or guaranteed to the individual who receives the miracle.”

“Yeah?”

“So they say. And I think there’s some truth to it. But I’m thinking more of an inexplicable recovery from some illness or injury, not a return from the dead. Maybe I’ve got a gap in my faith.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Still … I did look. Actually, I feel major league foolish for causing all this from the beginning.”

“You didn’t cause it.”

“I should have insisted that the doctor come over. If not Fox, some doctor-”

“And what if his condition had fooled the doctor? Or, what if he really was dead? We don’t know those answers yet.”

“More coffee, Father?”

It was too good to refuse.

As she poured more for both of them, Koesler said, “The night of the wake … remember, you were going to brief me on some things I might use to speak about your husband?”

“Oh, God, yes. And I didn’t. There was just an unending line of people. They took up all my time. I guess I maybe apologized then, I don’t know. It all got so confusing. If I didn’t apologize then, I do now.”

“I understand-and I understood then. But while you were occupied with visitors, I had some visitors myself.”

“I remember: Jake Cameron, Claire McNern and a Stan Lacki-I didn’t know him at all. But their names have been in the news since all this happened. Then there were Judy and David. But if there’s a common denominator with all five, it’s got to be that they’re all victims of Moe.”

Koesler was somewhat startled that she so readily classified them all as victims. Not all that many children would be matter-of-factly considered victims of a parent. And this was not a trendy case of pedophilia; this was the crassest form of manipulation and exploitation.

Margie’s perception only confirmed what Koesler had concluded concerning Green’s relationship with these five-if not everyone-with whom he’d had contact.

“I think you’re right,” Koesler said. “All five of these people had horrendous tales to tell. I’m not positive why they picked me to unload on. Maybe because I’m a priest … although I don’t see that that would motivate Jake Cameron. The others at least are Catholic.”

“Don’t count on that with my kids. They were brought up Catholic because I was. But with me it’s more superstition than anything else. And how could I expect them to continue when I don’t go to church regularly? And Moe-hell, Moe isn’t even an atheist! One would have to think about the concept of God to deny His existence. I doubt the idea of God ever crossed Moe’s mind.”

Koesler sat back on the couch. It was firm yet comfortable. “Maybe it wasn’t because I was a priest that they confided in me. Maybe they were warning me not to say too many nice-if generic-things about Dr. Green. If so, maybe I should be grateful to them. The tendency at a funeral is to find some good in the deceased. Because of the priest shortage, priests today have far more funerals than in the recent past. Frequently we may know the person only very slightly-or not at all. In this case, without knowing your husband, I would surely have looked the fool if I had said anything particularly laudable about him.”

“What you say makes sense, Father. But my guess is they just wanted to get a load off their chest. That would be my guess about my kids, anyway.”

“Whatever the reason, each and every one of them was positive your husband was dead. I got the feeling that they would never have chanced expressing their feelings about him had he been alive.”

“You’re right about that. But of course they all thought he was dead. All of us, then and there, knew he was dead.”

“What I’m getting to is that after each person told me of Dr. Green’s treatment-or, rather, mistreatment-of them, each time I had the same feeling: that it was lucky your husband had died of natural causes. If he had been murdered, every one of those people would have been excellent suspects.”

Margie opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. “But he wasn’t murdered. He’s alive,” she said after a moment.

“Supposing someone tried to murder your husband-one of the five we’ve been talking about, or someone else. Supposing someone gave your husband an overdose of some drug that could cause death. And, suppose there was a mistake and the dose brought on a coma instead of death. In that case it would be attempted murder.”

Margie thought about that. “That must be,” she said finally, “why that cop was here earlier today. He asked a lot of questions. Until now, I thought he was just trying to cover the department’s ass-if you’ll excuse my French.”

“Do you recall his name?”

“Uh … it was … Italian, I think. He was a sergeant, I think … a big guy.”

“Mangiapane?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Did he speak with your husband?”

Margie raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Moe is not receiving.”

“He wouldn’t see the officer?”

“Nobody! No, check that: He did see the doctor-Dr. Fox.”

“Did the doctor say what transpired? Was there any kind of diagnosis?”

Margie shook her head. “Nothing happened. There wasn’t any diagnosis. Moe wouldn’t let Fox examine him.”

Why? Why? Why? The question stuck in Koesler’s mind. “Do you have any security or burglar-proof system?” he asked, in a seeming non-sequitur.

“The cop, uh … Sergeant Mangiapane, asked that too. In a word, no. We decided long ago that we wouldn’t be like prisoners in our own home. So, no, nothing like that at all.”

“Surely you have dead bolts on the door!”

“No.”

Koesler looked incredulous.

“The cop was surprised too. But, no, no extra security.”

“Then anybody could come in here anytime.”

“Well, hardly. We do keep the door locked.”

“Mrs. Green, if I can believe anything I’ve seen in the movies, on TV or read in the papers, it doesn’t take much to enter a place that has standard locks.”

“Moe was kind of fatalistic when it came to this ….” Margie leaned forward as if imparting a solemn observation. “He agreed with John Kennedy’s outlook: If someone wanted badly enough to get him, they’d probably do it. And that was the president of the United States talking. A president who got about as much protection as anyone could imagine. And, of course, they got Kennedy. He did say that the assassin would probably pay with his own life. And that happened too … that is, if Oswald really was the assassin.

“Anyway, that’s Moe’s opinion. He was very firm about it. No use leaving the door open or unlocked. But no use putting floor-to-ceiling locks on it.”

“But what about you?” Koesler demanded. “You live here too.”

She thought for a moment. “I’d feel better with a chain and dead bolt. But the lack of them doesn’t bother me that much. Over the years I’ve come to know when to fight Moe and when to let him have his way. If I fought him over every disagreement, we’d be at each other’s throats all the time. That wouldn’t bother him. But it would bother me. So, on the security of our home, it’s just not that important to me. If somebody wants to get in here badly enough, a lock ain’t gonna stop him.”