Chameleon (16 page)

When Irene arrived at St. Joseph’s rectory, Koesler ushered her into the spacious kitchen. It was not the most appropriate room in the house in which to entertain. But it was the warmest area in this old, old building, and it was a very cold day.

As soon as they entered the kitchen, Irene, familiar with the room from previous visits, began to make coffee. It was not so much that she yearned for coffee—although the warmth would be welcome; it was just that she felt it necessary to beat Koesler to the punch. As often as it occurred to her, she wondered why he consistently made such atrocious coffee. It wasn’t that difficult to make good coffee, but somehow he always found a way to botch it.

When they were finally settled at the kitchen table with their coffee mugs, she began filling Koesler in on what was happening backstage in the archdiocese. Little of what she told him was news to Koesler. His contacts were not identical to but were easily as good as hers. As Irene talked, he wondered again at all the confidential information this lady had. She knew where nearly all the Church skeletons were buried. But she would undoubtedly take all that juicy gossip to her grave rather than publish any of it. No wonder she had endeared herself to Cardinal Boyle.

Then she gave Koesler a blow-by-blow account of yesterday morning’s staff meeting. As she launched into the account, he offered a quiet prayer of thanksgiving that he no longer had to attend those meetings.

He was not surprised at the opinions expressed at the meeting. He could have predicted the position taken by each of the speakers.

Sister Joan was committed to the core city—enough to live there, which was a major step beyond those who expressed concern while staying so far removed they could scarcely find the city. She was sure to fear the elitism that would mark the closing of inner-city schools while the financially more secure suburban institutions stayed open.

And Clete Bash was the type who would see nothing wrong with that.

Everybody knew that Monsignor Del Young was holding on for dear life to Old Faithful. He had to be superintendent of something. Odds had it that if Del survived until retirement, he wouldn’t give a damn what happened to the system after that. Or anything else for that matter.

Koesler also could have foretold the fine public relations touch contributed by Quent Jeffrey. He probably could make his approach work. Whereas Clete would fumble it without doubt.

And what else could a money man conscientiously recommend other than cutting the losses and closing the marginal schools that had no choice but to drain the coffers of everything in sight?

The single item that did surprise Koesler was Larry Hoffer’s suggestion to close down the entire parochial school system. In all his private ruminations as well as the bull sessions with his confreres, Koesler had never given serious consideration to closing everything. He would have to think that one over.

Irene described in detail the ruckus that followed Hoffer’s proposal.

The shadow of a smile crossed Koesler’s lips when she described Cardinal Boyle’s futile attempts to mediate for moderation. Koesler could remember watching that process innumerable times. Boyle twisting his bishop’s ring, toying with his pectoral cross, inching forward in his chair, clearing his throat, gaining the floor, achieving peace for the moment, only to see all his efforts gurgle down the drain.

“I’ve seen some unruly meetings,” Irene concluded, “but nothing like this. Some of them—some of the priests even—went … berserk! That’s the only word for it!”

“Yes, but Irene, couldn’t you almost expect something like that?” Koesler countered. “I mean, that is a volatile topic. Larry Hoffer scarcely could have said anything that would ruffle feathers more than suggesting that we abandon our school system.”

“You weren’t there!”

“No, but your description was graphic. I might just as well have been there.

“Irene, I don’t know; there may come a day when the parochial school system will be a there historical oddity. And maybe that time is now—or soon—I just don’t know. I must confess I’ve never given any serious thought to what it would be like having no parish schools. But I think when it happens, or
if it
happens, that they’re all closed, the finale will be not a whimper but an explosion. So I guess I can’t get overly excited that Hoffer’s proposal was greeted as you describe it.”

“Okay. But the point is, I remember thinking at the time that the emotion that came out in that room was close to violence!”

Koesler smiled briefly in disbelief. “You mean you thought they were actually going to fight? I mean, physically?”

“A couple of times, I thought some of them were close to doing just that!”

“Irene, I don’t think—”

“And then,” she interrupted, “I had this premonition that something violent, something terrible was going to happen. I really did!”

Koesler could tell that she was on the verge of tears. “I see,” he said, “and then …?”

“And then this had to happen. Larry was … was …”

“… murdered.” Koesler could tell she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “But what about—”

“What,” she interrupted again, “what if the murder was caused, or occasioned, or triggered by something said at the meeting?”

“Irene …” Koesler touched her hand gently. “Irene, come on! You and I know these people. They’re priests and nuns and dedicated laypeople. They’re Church people. They may have their disagreements, and sometimes those disagreements may be deeply felt. But they’re not … I mean, I’ve been at these meetings too, before you, and I’ve seen how deeply they feel, how much they have invested of themselves in their work, how affected they are when their territory or interests are threatened. But they wouldn’t … not one of them would …”

“Then how do you explain it? I thought we were done with this horror when the police caught that David Reading person. After Sister Joan’s sister was murdered and Sister was almost murdered herself … that was so horrible. But it was over. It was done. They caught the killer. Now …”

“Irene, they
did
catch the man. It
is
over. Believe it. This is tragic; there’s no doubt about that. But it’s not connected. As much as we’d like it to be otherwise, living in this city has its dangerous aspect. There’s no getting around it. Larry was probably the victim of a random mugging. A mugging that went too far. It’s tragic. But it could have happened to anyone. It just happened to be Larry Hoffer.”

Irene seemed to be drawing some consolation and reassurance from Koesler’s explanation. “Then you don’t think …”

“Not for a moment. And you shouldn’t either. Of course we’re saddened by this thing. That’s natural. But we’ve got to go on.”

“I … I guess you’re right. It’s just that I witnessed … I saw how angry some of the people at that meeting were, And most of the anger was directed at Larry. And then when I heard this morning that he’d been killed …”

“I guess it was only natural. You were sort of primed to link the two, the argument and the hostility, with what happened to Larry. But, think a bit. Who? Which one of those people at the staff meeting could have done it? Can you think of a single person there who might actually be capable of murder?”

Irene gave it brief consideration. “I … suppose not. But then I never focused on any specific individual. It was just so coincidental.”

“That’s it, Irene: coincidence. An eerie coincidence. Natural.”

Mary O’Connor stepped apologetically into the kitchen. “Excuse me, there’s someone on the phone for you, Father.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Yes, a Lieutenant Tully with the police department.”

Koesler did a quick appraisal of Irene Casey. She seemed more at peace man she had been earlier. He wasn’t sure his words had completely calmed her but they had been a help. No doubt about that. He felt he could accept me call. So, thanking Mary and excusing himself to Irene, he picked up the phone near the refrigerator. Irene could not help overhearing Koesler’s side of the conversation.

“Yes, I remember Lieutenant … yes, at me funeral home.

“You want to come here? Well …

“Well, I was going to ring some doorbells. The Lafayette Towers complex … 1300 … just check in with some of the people who live in my parish. There hasn’t been much evangelization carried on in this parish in recent years and … yes, evangelization …

“Well, it’s a kind of recruitment … I guess I could postpone it for just this afternoon if you think I can be of some help, but I don’t—

“Sure. Okay. I know you’re practically next door. But could you delay just a few minutes? I’m with somebody now and …

“Okay. I’ll see you in a little while.” He hung up.

“You’re having company? Now?” Irene asked.

“Lieutenant Tully. He’s with the Homicide Department. He wanted to see me. But don’t feel you have to rush off. He won’t be here for a few minutes.”

“No, no, we’re done. It’s okay. You’ve been a big help,” Irene responded. “Actually, just being able to talk to someone, express my fears, did the trick, I think.”

Thanks a heap
, thought Koesler.
Nothing I said helped.
It was the talking cure again. Koesler had seen it work any number of times, especially in confession—or the sacrament of reconciliation as it was now called. “Well,” he said, “if you’re sure … really, there’s no hurry.”

Irene rose, left the table, and went directly to the cupboard.

Koesler smiled. “What in the world are you up to, Irene?”

“Just going to make a pot of coffee before I go.”

“No need for that, Irene. I can do it. No trouble.”

“No, you’re going to have an important visitor and you’ll want to serve him some coffee. Or at least offer it to him. I can get it done in a jiffy.”

“Well, if you insist. Thanks.”

Some day, thought Irene, the right moment will come to tell him about his coffee. Maybe even teach him how to make it. For now, she was reluctant to expose her friend’s culinary failing to a stranger.

She made the coffee and left, confident that she had saved Father Koesler from embarrassment. And the policeman from a taste worse than gall.

“Good coffee,” Tully observed.

“Thanks.” Koesler saw no reason to explain that someone else had made the coffee. The fact that Irene Casey had brewed it was irrelevant and immaterial, as the movies had them say in court.

Mary O’Connor had admitted Tully just a few minutes ago. She’d led him to the kitchen, whose comparative coziness Koesler preferred on a cold and windy day such as this.

A few initial questions from Tully elicited the fact that the kitchen, cozy as it was, was not what he would term secure. The secretary, the janitor, or any number of others might drift in at any time. So, at the officer’s insistence, the two had repaired to Koesler’s office, where the wind whistled through the closed but drafty windows.

Tully simply acclimated himself, a skill he had cultivated so assiduously he had become adept at it. As for Koesler, he hovered over his coffee for warmth.

“Father,” Tully began, “I’m going to tell you Something that hasn’t been made public just yet: The gun that killed Helen Donovan was also used to kill Lawrence Hoffer;”

“What?” Few things surprised Koesler anymore, but this certainly did. “I thought you arrested the man who killed Helen.”

“So did we. That’s what we thought. But there was a hole in that case. Not big enough to drive a truck through, but a hole anyway. The same gun was not used in the murder of Helen Donovan and in the attempt on her sister. Of course it was always possible, for lots of reasons, that he might have used different guns. But it isn’t likely he actually did.”

“But I thought the man confessed!”

Tully shrugged, “It happens. There are people out there who confess to things they didn’t do.”

“I don’t understand.” Koesler looked pained. “I thought it was all over.”

“That would have been nice. But it didn’t work that way. Now, Father, what I’ve told you so far is being released to the news media. But I’m going to tell you more of the details, facts that won’t be given to the media. I’ll have to ask you not to reveal them.”

Koesler did not reply.

“Father?” Tully pressed.

“Oh, oh, certainly.” All he could think of was that he had just assured Irene Casey that this madness was over. What would she think now? Then another thought occurred. “But why are you telling me, Lieutenant?”

“Because we could use your help on this case, and for you to help us you’ve got to know what we’re working with.”

“But why not tell the media everything? Wouldn’t that help in apprehending the man?”

Tully noted that Koesler had used the masculine noun in referring to the perpetrator. Did Koesler know something? Through the confessional? Likely it was no more than the natural tendency to link men rather than women to murder. Nonetheless it was noted. But to Koesler’s question. “The problem with that is that it encourages copycat murderers, like what probably happened with David Reading, the guy who almost got the nun.”

“Oh, very well then. Certainly. I’ll keep what you tell me in confidence.”

“Good. By the way, I checked out using you and letting you know what we’ve got with your friend Inspector Koznicki. He gave me the green light. So it’s official.”

“Certainly.”

Koesler had given up all thought of drinking his coffee. He was now clutching it for survival. If this conversation was going to go on much longer, he was going to need a coat. Maybe a hat.

Tully leaned forward. “About the only hard information we’ve got so far has to do with the weapon. We know the gun used to kill Helen Donovan was a .38 caliber. We know because we retrieved the slug. More on that in a bit. The gun we took from Reading was a nine caliber. The theory was that after Reading killed Helen, thinking she was Joan, he had no further use for the .38 so he got rid of it. Then, when he found out he’d missed his target, killed the wrong woman, he couldn’t recover the .38, for whatever reason. Unfortunately, that explanation was suggested to Reading during interrogation, and he agreed to it as part of his ‘confession.’ That’s when we thought we had everything wrapped up.