William Kienzle: Body Count

“Who bought it? You mean who got killed? Well, it’s not absolutely necessary for your confession. But, yes, of course, I’d like very much to know the name.”

“Keating.”

“Keating? John Keating? The pastor of St. Waldo’s?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But why? Why would you want to kill Father Keating? No, wait: You don’t have to answer that. I just got a bit carried away.”

“That’s okay. Like I told you, he had a contract on him. He had too many markers he couldn’t buy back.”

“Markers …?”

“Debts. Gambling debts. Everything. Horses, football, basketball, baseball, hockey, numbers … you name it, he had a piece of it. Only he wasn’t too savvy. He ran up some steep bills. He couldn’t make good-so, the contract.”

The penitent couldn’t see Koesler shaking his head. “This is hard to take, ” the priest whispered. “Poor Jake …”

“There’s something else, ” the penitent said.

Koesler shook himself as if to clear his head. “More?”

“I dunno. Maybe it’s a sin the way we stashed him. I dunno. I don’t think so. But maybe. I was gonna ask …”

“The way you stashed him?”

“I had him buried with Father Kern.”

“Kern? Monsignor Clem Kern?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, he was a whatchamacallit-a monsignor.”

“You had Father Keating buried with Clem Kern? I don’t understand. Why? How?”

“How? We just went to the cemetery last night, slipped the guard a mickey, dug up Father Kern, opened the coffin, put Keating in with him-Father Kern wasn’t all that big, there was room-and planted the box again. It was very smooth. No one would tumble.”

“My God! Why would you do a thing like that?”

“Why? Well, see, we’re usedta sending messages when we hit somebody. You know, you musta read about ’em. Like when we dump a body in the drink we send the family a dead fish. It tells ’em the guy is sleepin’ with the fishes. It’s a message. Sometimes a warning … you know.”

“But why would you bury the poor man with somebody else?”

“Hey! You wouldn’t want us to return the body with its hands cut off and stuffed in the guy’s mouth. I mean the guy was a priest, for God’s sake. We had to treat him with some kinda respec’, you know.”

Koesler was beginning to wonder if any of this made any kind of sense. “Well, then, why Clem Kern? Why did you bury him with Monsignor Kern?”

“It made sense. I mean Father Kern was the kinda priest the guy shoulda been. Besides, Father Kern always took care-a people who were down on their luck, even priests. And there ain’t no doubt about it, this guy Keating had definitely run outta luck. Anyway, I was wonderin’ if that might be a sin too … I mean buryin’ the guy with somebody else? I never did that before. So I never thought about it until after we did it.”

Koesler ran his index finger across his brow. Even though the church was pleasantly cool, he was perspiring. “I don’t think so. We’ve got enough to deal with here without spending much time on your cock-amamy burial detail.”

“My what?”

“Never mind. Let’s see … you murdered Father Keating. And you mentioned there were others. How many people have you killed, anyway?”

“Oh … I dunno. Right off the top I couldn’t come up with a figure.”

“That many!”

“Not many. But I’d have to think about it a while.”

“Well … good heavens … are you sorry for all these murders?”

“Not really. They were stric’ly business. Hey, that’s what I do for a living. You know. It’s not natural to be sorry for your job. I mean, a man’s gotta have some pride, you know.”

“Good Lord! Well, what about other sins?”

“I didn’t do nothin.’”

“Do you go to Mass on Sundays? Did you ever go to Mass?”

“No. Like I said, I didn’t do nothin’.”

“I give up. I don’t know where you fit in the theology manuals, but you must be confined to the fine print. Well, let’s see, you came here to confess killing Father Keating …”

“… and planting him with Father Kern.”

“Yes, and burying him with Father Kern … that about it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Then I guess I’d better give you absolution, though I can’t guarantee that it’ll take.”

“Do your best, Father. That’s good enough for me.”

“And for your penance … wow! I don’t suppose you know any prayers?”

“I think I knew the ‘Our Father’ once. But I ain’t sure. Tell you what: How about I go home? I got a record of Sinatra singin’ the ‘Our Father.’ How about if I listen to the record?”

Inspired. “Okay. I’ll give you absolution now, but I’m not exactly sure why. Except that’s why you came here, and you very definitely are a sinner.”

“Ain’t I supposed to do somethin’? Seems to me when I went to confession the last time I had to say somethin’ while the priest blessed me.”

“What a memory! Okay, repeat after me: ‘Oh, my God …’”

“Oh, my God …”

Maybe that’s as far as we ought to go, thought Koesler. But he continued. “ ‘I am heartily sorry …’”

“I am heartily sorry …”

Truth in advertising, thought Koesler. But he continued to lead the man through the traditional Act of Contrition, and then gave him absolution.

The man got up, grunted, then stumbled his way out-leaving the priest somewhat the worse for wear.

Did I do the right thing ? Koesler asked himself over and over again. What would somebody else have done in my shoes ? Undoubtedly some other priest-maybe most priests-would have just told the guy to hit the road. Should the man have been denied absolution? Who could say for sure?

Koesler had been hearing confessions for thirty-eight years. The majority were familiar, repetitious, routine, dull. Once in a great while a confession could be a small miracle in removing an oppressive burden of guilt or as a vehicle for transforming a life. Some few confessions proved unnerving. But this confession-the one he’d just heard-was the oddest ever.

Ostensibly, the man had come for absolution. Was his case so far removed from that of neurotics and psychotics Koesler had absolved in the past-sometimes entire hospital wards of the pitiful people one by one?

In the final analysis-the bottom line, as current culture would have it-this remained a matter between the sinner and God. Koesler believed, firmly, that Jesus gave His disciples the power to forgive sin and that the disciples, in turn, passed on this power to their successors. Koesler could see the wisdom of it. The talking cure. Long before psychotherapy stumbled upon it, God would have known what would comfort and relieve His children. But no matter what power the priest might have as an intermediary, or how important it was that people should forgive each other, God forgave sin.

So it did not much matter whether the murderer was sincere or not in his expressed repentance, his contrition for what he’d done; God would not be tricked. Should a sinner try to fool God, it would be the sinner who played the fool.

Abruptly, Koesler became aware that it had been quite a while since the penitent-the murderer-had left the confessional. He glanced at his ever-present watch: 7:30. He’d been sitting there half an hour overtime, with no penitents on deck. He had fallen behind in his Saturday evening routine. He had to lock the church and return to the rectory.

Hurriedly, he blew out the candle, turned out the light, and stepped from the confessional.

He was pulled up short by the sight of a figure seated in a nearby pew.

The very first thing Koesler noticed was the young man’s clerical garb: black suit, black vest, and at the top the roman collar-not the fairly modern and more comfortable narrow white plastic insert, but the full white collar that encircled the neck. Koesler also noticed French cuffs peeking out of the jacket sleeves.