William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

Even with her Catholic background, Koesler believed Margie really thought she had done the right thing in killing her husband. To have everything back in her control was worth much more to her than the medal she’d mentioned as an award to whoever killed him-which award was not going to be bestowed in any case.

As for the future, Koesler was sure Margie would get all pertinent affairs back on track. On top of all that, she was now a very wealthy widow.

Then there was Moses Green.

Koesler contemplated the urn containing the ashes of the late doctor. The urn was in the direct line of the crucifix mounted on the wall in the next room.

Jesus the Jew. Jewish to the marrow of His bone. Founder of Christianity.

Moses Green. Gentile son of Gentiles. A Jew to nearly everyone. And now, all those people, many of them Catholic, who blamed Green’s sins on his Jewishness would never know that not only was he not Jewish, but he was one of their very own.

There was a lesson there somewhere. But the media would not be interested. A confusion of races would not appeal. We have given the media its daily miracle. Almost literally.

Koesler held dearly the aphorism, When you die, you will be judged by Love.

Which also might mean that no prosecuting attorney would let God sit on a jury.

Koesler wondered if even God-even Love-could forgive Moses Green all the evil he had done, all the manipulation, the backstabbing, the misuse of medicine, the conspiracy to murder-all of it.

One thing was clear: Moses stood a better chance before God than before anyone else.

Koesler was brought back to the present by the mortician’s discreet clearing of his throat. “Excuse me, Father. The next viewing is about to begin. You’re perfectly free to stay. But I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“You’re right. Thanks for breaking up my reverie.” Koesler rose and stretched; he had been sitting too long. “By the way: What’s going to happen with Dr. Green’s ashes?”

“The cremains will be buried in the family plot.”

“Now?”

“Oh, yes. It was the wish of the widow.”

“Will no one be there for the interment?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

Koesler paused. “Then I think I’ll go.”

“Fine. You can ride with me if you’d like.”

“Thank you. But I’d rather go alone. I’ve got some praying and thinking to do.”

The mortician almost clicked his heels. “It’ll be at Holy Sepulchre.” He left carrying the urn.

Holy Sepulchre. A Catholic cemetery. That sterling Catholic, Margie Green, had arranged this, too.

Well, if things had gone the way they pointed at his birth, Moses Green would undoubtedly have been buried in a Catholic ceremony. A requiem Mass. Requiem for Moses. It even sounded strange.

Requiem … rest. The word may have described just what Moses needed now. Rest. “Requiem aeternam ,” Koesler chanted in his mind, “dona ei, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat ei. ” Eternal rest give to him, Lord. And may perpetual light shine upon him.

Amen.