William Kienzle - Body Count

So it was with these two. Dunstable, successful, fulfilled, and wealthy beyond most people’s dreams. But nothing more than a bully, a fraud. Tully, on the other hand, spoke with the quiet decisiveness that even a bully had to respect.

The other example that came to Koesler’s mind indicated that true authority recognizes true authority. As in the case of the centurion in the Gospel whose favorite servant was at the point of death. Jesus agreed to come and cure. But the centurion said he was unworthy to host Jesus; he told him just to say the word and there would be healing. “Just give the order and my servant will be cured. I too am a man who knows the meaning of an order …”

In any case, Dunstable had been deflated. Yet Tully, in making certain that Dunstable had been neutralized, let him save a portion of face.

Grumbling all the way, Dunstable poured a cup of coffee and took a seat next to Koesler on the couch.

Even though the white sling cradling Koesler’s arm had been obvious all along, only now for the first time did Dunstable express concern for Koesler’s injury. Of course he was aware of how the priest had been wounded, so there was no need to go into that. It was easy to treat Koesler with a measure of respect. After all, he was a priest-and not a hairy young thing like Mitchell.

It was easy also for Koesler to start on a friendly basis with Dunstable. It was a play on the “tough cop, nice cop” routine. Even though Koesler was by no means a cop, he and Tully had somehow created a professional relationship in this case. And if Tully had civilly but firmly told Dunstable where to get off, Koesler was the station Dunstable landed on.

Meanwhile, Mitchell had retreated out of the line of fire to one corner of the room. He’d been confused and humiliated. He would not recover, at least for the duration of his stay at St. Waldo’s.

Tully turned to Mitchell. “I suppose all that’s left is to take a look at the books.”

“Books?” Dunstable emerged warily from his protective cocoon. “What books?”

“Ledgers, financial records.”

“See here, Lieutenant,” Dunstable reverted to form, “this is something else entirely! These are sensitive records. Why, an audit hasn’t even been ordered by the archdiocese yet!”

“This is not an audit, Mr. Dunstable. We don’t even know what we’re looking for. We don’t know whether we’ve seen what we’re looking for and didn’t recognize it. We’re in the dark. Humor us.”

Again Koesler was deeply impressed with Tully’s handling of himself, the situation, and particularly Dunstable. It was the manner, the tone, the self-assurance. However he accomplished it, the lieutenant had Dunstable on a string.

“Father Mitchell,” Tully said, “where are the financial records kept, please?” By his respectful treatment, Tully attempted to restore some of the young priest’s dignity.

Mitchell hesitated, glanced at Dunstable, then back at Tully. “In the safe behind his desk.”

“Locked?”

“Not usually,” Mitchell replied.

“He had nothing to hide,” Dunstable snapped.

Mitchell crossed to the safe and tried the handle. It turned easily. He opened the door, reached in, removed several large, gray ledgers, and placed them on the desk.

Tully moved behind the desk, opened one of the books, and began paging through it almost aimlessly.

“I want to be on record that I protest your delving into the private records of this parish,” Dunstable said firmly,

“Noted.” Tully did not look up,

“I say it’s an invasion of privacy …” Dunstable had been reduced to muttering.

“You might want to take a look at these,” Tully said, as he glanced at Koesler.

Koesler walked to the desk and began looking through the ledgers. He had almost forgotten that he was indeed the prime cause of this “invasion” of St. Waldo’s. However, like Tully, Koesler was going through this without direction, hoping that something strange, indicative, or suggestive would pop up and grab his attention. He felt like praying the old Catholic rhyme: “Dear St. Anthony, please come around/Something is lost and can’t be found,” Except that he didn’t know what was lost.

“I say it’s an insult-a gratuitous insult-to impugn the integrity of a man like Father Keating.” Dunstable had risen to something more articulate than a mutter.

Neither Tully nor Koesler responded. Actually Koesler was the only one of the two paying any attention at all to Dunstable.

“You know, I’ve been over those books,” Dunstable continued his monologue. “I know what I’m looking at when I’ve got a financial statement in front of me. There’s nothing wrong with those books. All they show is that we have a generous parish, that the parish is well managed, and that we pay our bills on time. Our D and B, if we had one, would be impeccable.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Koesler said with little feeling.

“This is a waste of time. A waste of everyone’s time. A waste of my time.”

Koesler tended to agree. It was proving to be a monumental waste of time. Tully continued to page through the books. He was now practically up to date in the financial records. Koesler, losing interest in the books, turned his attention to the fuming executive on the couch. “You were close to Father Keating, weren’t you?” he said kindly.

“I am close to Father Keating.”

“Of course. You must be one of those who even vacationed with him.”

Dunstable appreciated the friendly approach Koesler was extending. By God, these old-time priests appreciated his standing! He warmed to the memory of those vacations. “Yes, we were among those privileged to have the good father with us occasionally at home and on vacations as well.”

In his imagination, Koesler had to grant that a Keating-Dunstable vacation undoubtedly was a lot more splendid than Florida with the good old boys.

“He was-uh, is — a very close friend. He has always been with me when I needed him.”

Koesler thought the man might break down and cry.

“I don’t think,” Dunstable continued, “anyone could have been more helpful, concerned, or involved than Father Jack was when we went through that annulment process.”

“You had an annulment?” Koesler was loath to go, unbidden, into anyone’s private affairs. But Dunstable had brought up the subject and apparently wanted to proclaim Keating’s solicitous care during what admittedly was a traumatic procedure.

“Yes. My first wife. Back in eighty-five.”

“Followed by a convalidation?” Koesler diplomatically steered the exchange so that Dunstable did not have to admit specifically that after divorcing his first wife he had invalidly married his second wife and only later, after the declaration of nullity, married his second wife in the Church.

“Yes.” Dunstable seemed uncomfortable that he’d brought up the subject. But in his effort to indicate what a kind pastor Keating had been, he had let the cat out of the bag. He hoped Tully had not been paying attention. In this hope he was fortunate. Mitchell may or may not have known that, for a time, Dunstable had “lived in sin” with his second wife. It was there in the records to which Mitchell had access. But Mitchell didn’t matter. And Koesler seemed a nice sort.

Koesler was pleased. He was so proud of his priesthood, he took quite personally both the good and bad reports about other priests. Besides, sometime in the future Father Keating’s body might turn up. In which case, there would be a funeral. It was at least possible that Koesler might be asked to deliver a eulogy. Learning as many good things as possible about Keating could be a practically rewarding enterprise.

Koesler did not want to delve into the reason Dunstable’s first marriage had been ruled null from its inception-which would have to have been the case or the Church would never have granted a decree of nullity.