William Kienzle - Body Count

“Oh, I forgot,” Dunn said, “you didn’t see him.” He tapped his finger on a figure in the photo. “Him! He’s the one-the one who went to confession to you yesterday. I’m sure of it!”

Koesler looked more closely at the picture. It hadn’t reproduced all that clearly. But, upon scrutiny, there was little doubt: It was he. Once again, Koesler reminded himself that Dunn didn’t know that he had seen the man who had mistakenly walked into the open confessional.

The photo ran with a companion story under the heading: “Sons of Italy Honored at Charity Fete.” The caption read: “Salvatorean Father Mario Gattari, S.O.S., presents commemorative plaques to brothers Remo and Guido Vespa in appreciation of their outstanding service to the Salvatorean Mission Society.”

There was definitely a resemblance between the two, but Koesler was sure Guido was the one who had blundered into the wrong confessional yesterday and eventually confessed killing Father John Keating. If corroboration were needed, Father Dunn’s nimble index finger was tapping precisely on Guido’s pictured head.

“What I can’t figure out, ” Dunn said, “is why he’s getting a plaque. I know Detroit is big on murders, but I didn’t know that killers were given prizes! And by a Catholic missionary outfit? Who in hell are the Salvatorean Fathers, anyway?”

“They’re … they’re a … uh … an … Italian missionary group …” Koesler spoke in a half-mesmerized state. If anything, he was more surprised and puzzled by this picture than Dunn was. “I think they work in Africa. They’ve got an office here … mostly to solicit vocations.”

“But why would they be giving an award to this guy? He’s a hit man, isn’t he?”

“Donations, funding drives, contributions. If you haven’t been exposed to this yet, you will be. There are some Catholic awards-like this one-that are given to the big spenders, or big collectors, that type of VIP. It doesn’t matter that the. …. uh …” — Koeslerglanced again at the paper in search of the name-“the Vespas aren’t very practicing Catholics. Shoot, it doesn’t matter that Guido Vespa hasn’t darkened a church door more than a couple of times in his entire life. The thing is the Vespas must have given a pile of money to the Salvatoreans. Or the Salvatoreans hope this award will prime the pump, as it were, and that the Vespas will give a bundle. It’s got very little to do with saints and sinners.”

“But” — Dunn was grinning from ear to ear-“we know the whole story! We know the priest has been killed! We know who did it! We even know where the body is buried, for God’s sake!”

Koesler regarded the other priest intently for a few moments. “And what do you suggest we do with all this knowledge?”

Dunn thought seriously. “Well, ” he said finally, “I don’t suppose we can just tell anybody-the police … the media.” He looked at Koesler as if the statement were a question.

Koesler slowly shook his head.

Dunn continued to think. Then, “Wait a minute. You can do something about this even if I can’t.”

“I can?” Koesler’s tone was skeptical.

“Sure. For one thing, I’ll bet the cops are going to ask you for help again. Just like you said yesterday, they come up with a case that has a peculiarly Catholic background, they need help with the Catholic angle, and they call on you-tried and true. Except this time you already know which closet the skeletons are in. So you just sort of steer them to the answer. They will be amazed. You will never have been better!”

Koesler shook his head with deliberateness. “You must, you really must have studied the seal of confession in the seminary. And since you’re out only three years, it wasn’t all that long ago.”

“So?”

“So you must know that the confidentiality of information learned through the confessional is inviolable. There are no exceptions.”

Dunn shook his head. “What I do know is that there aren’t any rules that don’t have exceptions. All those absolutes of the pre-Vatican II Church are gone.”

Koesler well remembered the long string of absolute rules that he had grown up with, that he’d learned, that he had pretty well observed, for not to observe them was to sin. He remembered them far better than Dunn possibly could. Dunn had heard of the absolutes. Koesler had lived them.

“Yes, I’ve watched the absolutes crumble …” Koesler almost sighed. “It was a cultural shock for most of us old geezers. I doubt you’ll ever know what it was like living in those days that stretched back for centuries. I think it was McAfee Brown who wrote that if the Catholic Church ever changed a doctrine radically-say, that birth control was good instead of bad-the official statement would have to begin, ‘As the Church has always taught …’ Simply because we have no way to say ‘oops.’”

Dunn chuckled.

“Not being able to say ‘sorry’ means for one thing that you’re dealing with a bunch of absolutes. However” — Koesler’s voice took on an uncompromising tone-“the absolute protection of secrecy in the confessional is one of the absolutes that stuck around.”

“Come on” — Dunn’s tone was cynical-“no exceptions?”

“Okay, ” Koesler responded after quick reflection, “one exception: If the penitent comes to the confessor afterward-if the penitent takes the initiative-the two of them may discuss what was confessed. No-one more exception: If the penitent releases the priest from the confidentiality. But that, Father Dunn, is that!”

Dunn recognized the implication of Koesler’s use of his title, especially since it was Koesler who had suggested they operate on a firstname basis. It took him back to when he was a misbehaving boy and his mother would address him as “Nicholas!”

“To be perfectly frank, ” Dunn said, “I don’t see it. I don’t agree. Look, that guy yesterday-what’s his name? — Guido Vespa-I heard him use the word ‘contract.’ This was a contract murder. Now I know I don’t have as much experience in this stuff as you do, but I’ve seen my share of Godfather movies. And contract killings are committed by hit men. Men who kill for money, or just because they are employed to kill people.

“Look at the opportunity you’ve got! You can single-handedly put a hit man out of business, help send him to prison. You’ll be saving lives, all the lives that guy would have taken if you hadn’t put him away. I think that’s ample reason to at least … fudge … the seal of confession.

“Besides, you wouldn’t have to just come out and tell the cops that you heard this in confession. You wouldn’t have to even mention the confessional. If they ask you for help … you help them. Just sort of steer them in the right direction.” He turned his hands palms upward on the table. “Simple?”

Koesler regarded the young man in a moment’s silence, then glanced at the still nearly full coffee mug. “Your coffee’s cold. Let me get rid of that and pour you a fresh cup-“

“No!” The force of Dunn’s reply was enough to halt Koesler’s move from his chair. “No, ” Dunn repeated more composedly. “Don’t trouble yourself. I just remembered, I was going to cut back on the stuff.” Dunn leaned forward. “Well, what do you think: Doesn’t my idea sound great?”

“Your idea …” Koesler decided to try a different approach. “There are various kinds of secrets, Nick,”

“I know that.”

“Just a quick review to make sure we’re talking about the same thing, okay?”

Dunn nodded. He did want coffee. But not the hemlock in the pot on the counter.

“Okay.” Koesler proceeded: “There is information that by its very nature is confidential. As, for instance, an individual’s sexual orientation. Somebody you know is gay but you also know he doesn’t want that revealed. Or there’s the secret that someone tells you and asks you not to tell. He’s depending on you to keep his secret; otherwise he wouldn’t reveal it to you.