William Kienzle - Chameleon

“Is it that time already?” Foley glanced at his watch, then struggled stiffly out of his chair. “Appreciate the time you gave me, Mark.” He clasped the Cardinal’s extended hand in both of his. “And appreciate being associated with you.”

“Not at all, old friend. It is our privilege to have the benefit of your experience and wisdom.”

Foley nodded, smiled gratefully, and shuffled out of the Cardinal’s office. As he slowly made his way through the vestibule, the two female secretaries smiled at him. For them it was an unaffected reaction. Some in the archdiocese thought Lawrence Foley an anachronism. Others had discovered the richness of his wisdom and spirituality. Almost everyone liked him to some degree or another.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor where he and the auxiliary bishops had their offices. As announced, Father Koesler was waiting.

“Excellency.” Koesler rose to his feet as the archbishop entered the office.

“Oh, you don’t need to go to all that trouble.…” Foley’s waving hand motioned Koesler to be seated. “I’m not the Pope, just an old man on the shelf.”

Koesler waited for Foley to be seated behind his desk before lowering himself into his chair. “I knew you weren’t the Pope,” he said. “But you’re certainly much more than a casualty on the shelf.”

Koesler had to admit the older man in some ways did resemble a drifter, albeit a clerical one. Foley’s black suit always had a rumpled look, trousers that couldn’t remember a crease, food stains here and there on the jacket. He wore a black shirt with a white tab insert at the collar to mark his clerical status. Only his bishops’ ring and the small segment of gold chain showing beneath his jacket identified his rank.

“Well, Father Koesler, good of you to come in on such short notice.”

“No problem, Excellency. I live downtown now … or at least on the fringe of downtown.”

Foley nodded. “We’ve never met, have we, in the little more man a year that I’ve been here?”

“Not formally, Excellency. We’ve attended many of the same functions, where you’d have no reason to recognize me. But I’d have every reason to identify you. Mostly because usually you were presiding.”

“And even if I weren’t presiding, there’s that funny hat I wear and that strange stick I carry.”

Koesler chuckled. He was most appreciative of Foley’s selfeffacing humor. He’d heard it often enough in homilies and talks the archbishop had given.

“I asked you to come in, Father,” Foley said, “because of something Cardinal Boyle said about you.”

“I’m making a quick examination of conscience. And for the life of me, I can’t think of anything I’ve done wrong-that he would know about.”

Two could play at that self-deprecating game, thought Koesler.

“No, no, no.” Foley smiled and shook his head “Nothing you’ve done wrong. Something you’ve been doing above and beyond the call of your clerical duties.”

“Oh?”

“I have reference to your helping the police solve murders.”

“Hold on a minute, Bishop; I’m sure the Cardinal didn’t say that. You’re exaggerating?”

“A litde. But you have collaborated with the police on occasion … no?”

“Well, y … e … es, a little bit. But mostly my contacts with the police have been a matter of chance. Bad luck or good luck. Being at the wrong place at the right time. Or vice-versa.”

“Whatever the cause, you have had occasion to contribute to police investigations.” Foley gazed at the priest intently. “Specifically regarding homicide … no?”

“Well, yes. But I fear that you have the notion that I play policeman from time to time. And I assure you, I don’t. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of murders in Detroit annually. Once in a great while, there is a distinctly Catholic cast to one of these killings. A missing monsignor, say, or churches being desecrated by murder-Something like that. Sometimes I have simply happened to be at the scene when something like that occurred. Sometimes, since I have had contact with a few homicide detectives, sometimes I’m asked to provide an explanation of things Catholic that seem relevant to the investigation.”

“Relax, Father. I have no intention of accusing you of playing policeman. It’s just that Cardinal Boyle mentioned, just as you have, some of the circumstances that got you involved in these investigations. Which set me to wondering whether you had been called upon to assist in the matter of Larry Hoffer and Helen Donovan. It seemed to me that these cases qualified as the type you get involved in.”

Koesler was not inclined to discuss his involvement in these cases, any more than he had been interested in being asked by Lieutenant Tully to get involved. But he recognized the position Foley held in the Church and this archdiocese. Koesler respected Foley’s rank and, without knowing him well, nonetheless liked the man.

“Lieutenant Tully-he’s a Detroit homicide detective I’ve been associated with in the past-called on me a couple of days ago. The current police investigation is based on the hypothesis that the murders of Helen Donovan and Larry Hoffer are linked in that Ms. Donovan was mistaken for her sister Joan. And that this is the work of a serial killer who has some peculiar reason to target leaders of diocesan departments. Because, of course, that’s what Sister Joan is and Larry Hoffer was.

“The point is, Excellency, that this hypothesis was formulated by Lieutenant Tully. And he feels, understandably, at a loss in the archdiocesan structure-Church bureaucracy. That’s why he came to see me. He wanted me to interpret things. Well, I’d guess you would agree that’s easier said than done. The deeper you get into the administration of a large diocese like this, let alone the Curia in Rome, the more you’re apt to feel you’re in the middle of a maze. Unless it’s a part of your life, like me.”

“Or unless you’re part of the bureaucracy and the maze, like me.

Koesler smiled. “I suppose you would understand it better than most. Anyway, I tried to draw him a road map, as it were.”

“I’m sure you did. Tell me, did this lieutenant say anything to you about how the investigation was going?”

“No, Bishop. It was pretty much a one-way conversation. I did most of the talking and explaining.”

“There aren’t any suspects, then.” Foley made it a statement, not a question. And it was said with a trace of sadness.

“Well …”

“There are?” A touch of hope crept into Foley’s tone.

“I didn’t get this from Lieutenant Tully.” Mentally, Koesler evaluated the source of his information. Cletus Bash claimed that the identities of the two prime suspects were given him as a matter of police security and secrecy. But the secrecy was aimed at the media.

“Frankly, Bishop,” Koesler said, “my source is Father Cletus Bash. He got his information from press relations people with the city and the police. The information is, I believe, protected by neither a professional and certainly not a confessional seal. It would be a shame if it were leaked, primarily because of the damage it probably would do to a couple of men who have not even been charged with a crime.”

“I fully understand, Father, I’d be obliged if you would tell me what you know. It will go no further.”

Koesler shrugged. He was not at all happy with this dilemma that was not of his doing. If Tully had not sought his help, if Bash had kept his mouth shut, if Archbishop Foley had not asked for the information with such sincerity; if none of this had happened, Koesler could now be ringing doorbells in high rises, trying to augment his tiny flock.

“All right, First, I should make it clear that this information is second or third hand and that I have no idea, even if this information is correct, how seriously the police regard these men as suspects. But the two are Arnold Carson and Fred Stapleton.” Koesler allowed the names to sink in while Foley tried to put faces on those names.