William Kienzle - Body Count

“Why?”

“Yes: Why the University of Detroit? And why St. Joseph’s? I mean, to begin with, I’m sure the University of Minnesota offers some pretty good psych courses.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Then …?”

“Well, at this stage I suppose I could say something about the value of a Catholic college, especially for one who’s going to function in a parochial setting. I could even fall back on the special considerations a priest can expect at a Catholic university. But if I did, you would observe …” Dunn’s explanation trailed off, opening an opportunity for Koesler to complete the thought.

Which, after a moment, he did. “I would observe that you’ve got more than one Catholic college in the Twin Cities area.”

“Exactly.”

Koesler wondered why the other priest continued to avoid a direct answer.

But Father Koesler had lots to learn about Father Dunn. “Then, ” he probed, “why U of D and why Old St. Joe’s?”

“Actually, the order is reversed.”

“Oh?” Koesler was tiring of the game.

“I wanted to spend time with you. The University of Detroit was a convenience. I did want some postgrad work in psychology. But, as you suggest, I could easily have gotten that at the University of Minnesota. Or, failing that, at Macalester or Collegeville or the College of St. Thomas, and so forth. Obviously, there is no dearth of Catholic educational opportunities in and around the Twin Cities.”

“So?”

“Why St. Joe’s? Why you?” Dunn rose and filled his glass once more. “Do you mind?” It was a rhetorical question. “Your reputation, Father-uh … Bob.”

“My reputation? As … what?”

“As a sleuth … detective.”

Koesler rarely laughed aloud, but he did so now. “My reputation as a … detective ?” He shook his head. “Where in the world did you ever get that idea? You must be reading too much Father Brown!”

“Father Who? Brown? Who’s he, another local?”

Koesler was surprised. And a little disappointed. Apparently, the young man had never read or even heard of G. K. Chesterton’s fictional priest-detective. “Never mind Father Brown. What gives you the idea that I’m some kind of sleuth?”

“Word gets around. I’ve read about some of your exploits, mostly through the Catholic News Services in the Catholic Bulletin. Even the editor, Bernie Casserly, has written about you. At clerical gatherings, I’ve heard some priests talk about your … what-a vocation? I guess I’m surprised that you’re surprised.”

“Well, I am. But you must be exaggerating. I don’t have that reputation even here in my home diocese.”

“You’re saying you’ve never worked with the police on a homicide case?”

Koesler shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, no. But I’m sure you’ll learn that that sort of thing is not at all uncommon. As priests, we are, after all, in a helping position. As the years go by, you’ll find that you’re called upon to aid people in almost every conceivable way. Look what you’re doing here: going to a university to pick up some additional skill in counseling. And you’re doing it just so you’ll be able to help people better.”

“But …”

“Someday, in all probability, you may very well be called upon to assist the police in some capacity. And when that happens, they’re not going to be coming to you because you’re a clerical Dick Tracy. It’ll more likely be because there’s something distinctly Catholic involved. Don’t you see? There are times when an investigation involves the medical sphere. In that case, it simply makes sense for the police to get insight from a doctor or a nurse. Or maybe it involves bank fraud. In which case it makes sense to talk to a banker. Or maybe a crime has a very definite Catholic cast. So the police may want some background information from a priest.

“And that, Nick Dunn, is what has happened to me-more than once, I must confess.”

Father Dunn thought that over for a few moments. “For the sake of argument, let us grant your premise. Then what do you say to the fact that, by your own admission, you’ve been called upon ‘more than once’?”

“Partly coincidence. But I can see that that explanation is not going to satisfy you. So okay, I have proven of some help to the police in the past-merely to furnish information and insights that almost any priest could have given them. So it is quite natural that they might call on me again-if only because they have become familiar with me. I guess they’d rather deal with someone they’ve come to know than start all over getting to know some other source. But I assure you, Nick, I am a parish priest of the archdiocese of Detroit. And I have no ambitions to be anything else-any small publicity to the contrary notwithstanding.”

Dunn drained his glass and set it on the end table with a gesture of finality. Something else Koesler learned about Father Dunn: a nightcap was not an invitation to empty a bottle; a nightcap was a nightcap.

Dunn regarded Koesler thoughtfully. “You make a convincing case, Bob. And I would be inclined to take you at your word-though, I must confess, I would find that rather disappointing-but for one thing.” He paused dramatically. “The confession!”

“The confession?” Koesler feigned ignorance. He suspected he knew where Dunn was headed.

“I overheard that confession this afternoon-the one made by the killer. I couldn’t help hearing it; the guy talked so loud.”

Koesler set his glass on the table. He was finished even though he had not drained the glass. At this stage, he did not want to risk fuzzyheadedness. He leaned forward,

“Was there anyone else in the church during that confession?”

“Uh-uh.Just me.”

“Why are you talking to me about it? You are as bound by the seal of confession as I am.”

“I know that. But it goes to offset your argument. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not calling you a liar. Not by any means. I’m willing to grant that you don’t go looking for homicide cases to work on. Granted, you just want to be a modest, unassuming parish priest. But isn’t it funny how these interesting cases come looking for you? And-witness this afternoon-they find you.”

“Nick, that wasn’t an invitation by the police department. That was the sacrament of reconciliation, the sacrament of penance-confession! And, as such, it is protected by the seal.”

Dunn spread his hands, palms upward. “Can either of us doubt that a call from the police is just around the corner?”

“I can doubt it. Besides, what difference could it make? My lips are sealed! Anyone- anyone -who overhears a confession is bound by the same seal of confession. You know that.”

“You don’t understand, Bob. Together, we-both of us-know exactly who murdered a Detroit priest,”

“What’s that?”

“You heard his entire confession. I just came in while he was in the middle of confessing. You got the entire story. But I–I! — saw him, I could identify him!”

So Dunn had not been in church when the man had entered what was, for him, the wrong side of the confessional. Thus Dunn didn’t know that Koesler had seen the man too.

“This is nonsense, Nick. What difference does it make that I heard his confession in its entirety and you saw him leave the box? Our lips are sealed!”

Dunn pondered that, then smiled broadly. “What a delicious secret! The police maybe don’t even know the crime’s been committed yet, and we know who did it! I feel tingly inside.” Indeed, Dunn’s eyes were glowing. “Let’s check it out.”

“What!?”

“I don’t know, I just want to make sure.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“What was that guy’s name-Keating, wasn’t it? And what parish was that?”