William Kienzle - Sudden Death

As best as Koesler could recall, Dave Whitman had accused Hoffer, Galloway, and Galloway’s wife. Jay Galloway, in turn, had accused Whitman. Jack Brown had accused Bobby Cobb, who had returned the favor.

He was careful to relate the new motives for Whitman supplied by Galloway, and for Cobb as supplied by Brown.

“Very good, Father. . excellent.” Koznicki congratulated the priest on his reportage and added, “Our detectives have been busy today and are formulating some very definite opinions. I shall make sure they learn of your contribution first thing in the morning. We are hopeful of wrapping up this case tomorrow.”

“That soon!”

“It has been two full days since the murder, Father. And, as you well know, the longer a case continues, the less likely we are to reach a solution.”

“You’re right, Inspector, of course. I was speaking as the amateur I am. Just because I haven’t the slightest idea who did it is no reason to assume that the experts are not close to solving the case.”

He could hear Koznicki’s soft chuckle.

“Will you be attending the funeral tomorrow, Inspector?”

“Yes, indeed. It is at-” Koznicki tried to locate the obituary in the afternoon paper.

“At 9:00 a.m.,” Koesler supplied, “at Holy Redeemer.”

“Of course. Will I be seeing you there, Father?”

“Yes. I plan on concelebrating. I got to know Hank fairly well during the discussion meetings. And I must confess I’ve gotten to know him even better during the investigation of his murder.”

“Yes. I think you might say, Father, that he can use all the prayers he can get.”

“I quite agree. Well, I’ll. . see you in church,” Koesler concluded lightly.

Before retiring, the priest poured himself a glass of sherry. He sipped it slowly as he let the events of the past couple of days drift through his mind.

It was fortunate for the wheels of justice, he concluded, that society did not have to wait for him to solve a crime. But he was glad that the police seemed close to a solution. For his part, Koesler was forced to agree with Marj Galloway. There was no smoking gun. . as least none that he could detect. Just lots of opportunities and lots of motives.

The smoking gun everyone seemed to be looking for apparently was the knowledge of Hunsinger’s colorblindness. So far, the only ones who had admitted such knowledge were Niall Murray and Hunsinger’s mother. Neither seemed to have a motive for the crime and both had daylong alibis.

Somebody else had to be holding the smoking gun, but Koesler could think of no way to figure out who.

Well, then, he concluded as he downed the last of the sherry, here’s to the police.

Hackett’s funeral home was, especially for this early in the day, unusually packed.

Seated next to each other in front of the wall near the still open casket were Niall Murray and Kit Hoffer. Each wore a black suit, with white shirt and black tie. They were two of the six pallbearers.

They were waiting while Father Peter Forbes completed the wake prayers. When he had finished, the ceremony would move to the church. Murray and Hoffer conversed sporadically in whispers.

“I don’t fancy tryin’ to lug that casket up all them steps of the church,” said Murray.

“Me neither,” Hoffer replied. “That coffin plus the Hun must weigh a ton.”

“You’re a poet as well.”

Both successfully smothered snickers.

“Beats practice,” Murray commented after a period of silence.

“Beats practice?”

“Just sitting here.”

“We’ll pay for it later this morning. You can bet on that altogether.”

“You know, I was kind of surprised the coach let us off to come to the funeral. After all, this is Wednesday. Should be a full day of work. Especially with New York coming up. I mean, like, we are really going to be behind.”

“Put your trust in Coach Bradford, will ya now, man? Even as we speak, he is probably sittin’ in this very funeral parlor plannin’ on how he is goin’ to sweat our asses off this afternoon. Besides, we are here for one reason and one reason alone. It would look very bad indeed in the papers and on TV if we hadn’t shown up for the Hun’s funeral.”

“Like, so much for respect for the dead.”

Once again, they successfully stifled a laugh.

Father Forbes finished the prayers and left immediately for the church to prepare for the funeral Mass, known since Vatican II as the Mass of Resurrection.

Mrs. Hunsinger’s brothers and sisters and Mrs. Quinn gathered about her and assisted her into the waiting limousine for the extremely short trip to the church.

Father Forbes found himself pressed for time. He had to hurry back to the church, vest for Mass, and be ready to greet the cortege as it reached the church doors. Ordinarily, it was not his custom to visit the funeral home just before the funeral. He’d done so this morning as a special courtesy to Mrs. Hunsinger.

He was surprised when he entered the huge sacristy to find Father Koesler waiting and completely vested for Mass. It was just a couple of minutes before nine and the funeral bell was tolling. “Bob! What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to concelebrate the Mass with you.” It was Koesler’s turn to be surprised. He had taken it for granted that Forbes would assume he would come to concelebrate. Before the Second Vatican Council, for priests to concelebrate a Mass was most rare. It would be difficult to think of any occasion besides a priest’s ordination Mass when there was a concelebration. But after Vatican II, concelebration became extremely widespread. Nearly every time more than one priest was present for a Mass, it became a concelebrated Mass.

“But you can’t,” said Forbes.

“I can’t?” Koesler’s mind went through a quick computer check looking for a reason why he could not concelebrate. He found none.

“While granting permission for Church burial for Hunsinger, the Chancery specifically forbade that there be a concelebration.”

“What! They can’t do that!”

Forbes smiled. “They can do just about anything they want.”

“But they gave permission for Church burial. And that’s that. They can’t tack on any other conditions.”

“It was a quid pro quo. I had to plead with them for permission to bury. They were most reluctant. I hunted all over the place to find someone, anyone, who would testify that Hunsinger had gone to Mass in recent memory. Or that he had even tipped his hat while passing a church. Nobody. I’m afraid that Hunsinger just gave up on the Church. So now, of course, the Church, in the form of the Chancery, has the opportunity to give up on Hunsinger. So, initially, they denied him Church burial.

“I guess when they finally gave in, they felt they had to get something in return. So they imposed the condition that it not be concelebrated. I don’t even know whether they thought there was a chance that another priest would show up. I know it didn’t cross my mind until I saw you vested and ready to go.”

“Okay, okay. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” Koesler began to divest.

“But there’s nothing in the Chancery’s regulation says you can’t assist at the Mass.” Forbes quickly began to put on the vestments that had been set out for him on the vestment case. “Would you take care of the first two readings?”

“Sure.” Koesler left his cassock on and slipped a white linen surplice over his shoulders.

Forbes indicated the selected readings in the lectionary.

The procession started down the aisle toward the front doors of the church where the cortege was awaiting the clergy’s greeting. Forbes and Koesler were preceded by four small altar boys, two carrying lighted candles, one carrying a processional crucifix, and the fourth carrying an aspersorium-popularly referred to by the priests as a bucket-in which rested the aspersorium and the holy water.