Man Who Loved God (17 page)

Now, everything had eased up into normal time passage. His breath came at a much more relaxed rate.

Out of the blue Koznicki chuckled. “These past few days have been a rather intense welcome to Detroit, have they not, Father? This is not the manner in which we welcome all our guests, especially clergymen.”

“I know that, Inspector. This was supposed to be a sort of vacation for me. Somewhat different from the more traditional vacation your friend Father Koesler is enjoying—or enduring, as the case maybe.

“I was sent here by my religious superior to present an award and, also, to meet my family for the first time. That was all I was looking forward to. There was so much catching up to do I thought there’d be no time for anything else. I wasn’t counting on the freeway shooting of a police officer. And I certainly had no thought that I’d witness a barricaded gunman actually get killed.”

Koznicki grew solemn. “No one wanted to see that confrontation end the way it did. Our officers are very carefully trained and selected for the chief virtue they must exhibit in such situations.”

“Patience?”

“Exactly. The temptation when dealing with desperate and frightened people is to run out of that precise virtue. Our patience must Outlast their impatience.

“Today’s experience was a good example of that dynamic in reality. Mr. Burt was the one who broke the line of communication. That young man started down the road to a fatality when he hung up the phone. Tragic!” Koznicki’s tone softened. “But tell me, Father, did you really absolve the young man?”

“Yes. It was almost a reflex response. I recall well the priest who taught us moral theology. He was a Navy chaplain in World War II. He was stationed on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. He told us that once, during the last phase of the war, a kamikaze dove for his ship. And—in my teacher’s own well-chosen words—I gave conditional absolution to the sonuvabitch before he hit the deck.’”

Koznicki laughed aloud.

“I’ve got to say,” the priest continued, “I’ve never heard a more generous act of forgiveness. I mean, when someone is trying to sink your ship and kill you … to pick that time to pray for forgiveness for him … well, I thought that was darn near heroic.

“But I did gain some insight today. That response of forgiveness does become a bit of a reflex action. He wasn’t as focused as a kamikaze pilot, but that young man could have killed someone in his wild shooting. I guess a priest’s training as well as his daily experience places the soul over the body in importance. That’s just the way it goes.”

The inspector entered the parish parking lot and stopped at the side door of the rectory. The priest was about to leave when he sensed that Koznicki had something more to say.

“Father, I have no idea what your previous experience with the police has been. And I certainly do not wish to give you the impression that everyday police work is as demanding as today’s episode with a, barricaded gunman.”

“I know that, Inspector.”

“The point I want to make, Father, is that even if such bizarre behavior is blessedly unusual and comparatively infrequent, still, a policeman’s time is not his own. Engagements and appointments are made to be broken.”

The priest looked puzzled. The inspector was preaching to the converted. Long before he’d come to Detroit, Father Tully had had plenty of contact with police departments in many U.S. cities. These departments differed from one another in sometimes subtle, sometimes evident ways. But in general, cops were busy people. Father Tully was more than willing to concede the inspector’s point.

“Even though police work literally never ends, some are more dedicated to it than others.” The inspector paused, seeming to weigh his next words. “Father, I do not know how much you know about your brother’s divorce. But I assume, as a priest, you must wonder—”

“Inspector …” Father Tully reclosed the car door and turned to face the officer. “I didn’t have the vaguest idea what I’d find in Detroit. All I knew was that my brother was here and that he was on the police force. I didn’t know where he lived, whether he was married, if he had children—or even what he looked like.

“Since I’ve come, Anne Marie sort of brought me up to date on things, including his first marriage and this present one as well. My brother shared a bit of history with me. So I think I know. But I’m grateful to you for volunteering to clue me in.”

“Yet,” Koznicki persisted, “there is one condition that you may not know of, but is very pertinent.”

The priest leaned back with an encouraging smile.

“While it is true that police work is never-ending, not all individuals are equally dedicated. I, perhaps, know that better than Anne Marie and even than Alonzo. He does his work in what, to him, is a very ordinary, run-of-the-mill fashion. He expects his fellow officers to equal his dedication. In that expectation he is almost always disappointed. His dedication is more complete and more compelling than that of any other officer I have ever known.

“I may be wrong, but I think that people who enter his life in special ways—in everything from police work to marriage—cannot comprehend what it is they are getting into.

“Let me repeat: he expects his fellow officers to be as single-minded as he. That seldom happens. But it does explain why his squad completes more investigations and has a higher conviction rate than any of the other six squads in homicide. He expects anyone who wants to share his life, in marriage or not, to grasp how total, how complete, is his dedication.

“No one, yet, has been able to do that. So far, Anne Marie is coping marvelously.

“In this regard—Alonzo’s intense fidelity to his work—I know him better even than a wife could.

“And you must know this also: if you are going to stand close to him as the brother you are, you must realize, as his wife must, that his work comes first in his life—even ahead of his wife and children.” He looked at the priest meaningfully. “Even ahead of you.”

They sat in silence. Finally the priest spoke. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Inspector. And it’s something I must think through. I thank you most sincerely.”

Koznicki smiled as he nodded. He watched as the priest left the car and entered the rectory. When he was safely inside, the inspector drove away.

Maybe tomorrow there would be brunch.

Maybe.

Father Tully checked the answering service. Four calls for Father Koesler, none of them urgent. A few calls regarding the time of weekend services. No emergencies, thank God.

He dug out the sacramentary wherein he found the Scripture readings for this weekend’s Mass. With a notepad and pen and readings, he was sure to come up with some thoughts for a homily. He always did.

Settling into a comfortable chair, he reflected on Inspector Koznicki’s parting words—the part about the total involvement of a police officer in his work … being constantly on call.

Earlier, when his brother had made practically the same statement, Father Tully had compared police work to the priesthood. Now, on second thought, he saw differences.

Back in Father Koesler’s heyday, there had been a similar totality of time and service.

It was a different world then—at least a different Catholic world. Pre-Vatican II priests were the deputed “holy men” of parochial life In addition to administering sacraments, which priests of Tully’s time continued to do, Koesler’s priests heard endless confessions, forgave countless sins.

Today, few people die at home. They tend to expire in nursing homes, hospices, and hospitals. Places where institutional chaplains: have anointed them—at the first sign of illness—not with the dreaded extreme unction, but with the more encouraging sacrament of the sick. Offering one answer to the question: what’s in a name?

No longer was there the sense of urgency that had accompanied a 3
A.M.
call to the rectory, and the dash of the race with death.

Those two sacraments alone, confessions that would not quit, plus the summons of unschedulable death, had yesterday’s priests on a par with police and with an open-ended call to service at any time, day or night.

Additionally, pre-Vatican II priests had had all the answers to all the obvious questions. Which kept parishioners calling on the phone or in person. Most parishes could guarantee the presence and availability of a priest anytime one was needed for anything.

Today’s shrinking numbers made the rectory priest an endangered species.

But not Father Zachary Tully. The parishes he served were so poor that no one was standing in line to take a departing pastor’s place.

Strange what problems most of today’s Catholics could solve on their own. And strange what poverty can create in terms of dependency.

But this was not getting the required homily thought out. He would have to get some serious work done. One never knew what might interrupt—and brunch would be served in just a few more hours.

Fifteen

Barbara Ulrich, a bit numb from all that had happened today, sat in her living room. The blinds were closed. She wore only a half slip and a bra.

Frequently she wore nothing at home. It was part of a peculiar game she and her late husband had played. She would try to tempt him and he would resist temptation.

God! Now that she looked back on it, how sick they had been. The more Al lived in and for the bank, the more she had pulled their relationship apart.

Was he really gone? She had to keep reminding herself that he would not be coming home—ever again. The games were over.

The sound of the phone seemed unreal. Who would call her at a time like this? Telemarketing, probably. She reached over the arm of the couch and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said absently.

“Barbara, this is Marilyn … Marilyn Fradet.”

For a second, it didn’t register. “Oh … yes, Marilyn. What is it?”

“Did you hear the news? Do you have your radio or TV on?”

“No. What news?”

“They got Al’s killer!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Turn on your TV. Channel Four. No, wait; it was a bulletin. It’s over now.”

“I can’t focus, Marilyn. What is this all about?”

Marilyn forced herself to speak calmly. “Babs, evidently the police got some leads and followed them. They led to a young man—I didn’t get the name—I was so surprised.

“Anyway, he was barricaded in a house on the east side. I guess he decided to shoot it out. It was more like suicide. The police had their sharpshooters there. They killed him. They think he must’ve been on drugs.”

Barbara made not a sound.

After a few moments of silence, Marilyn said, “I’m sorry if I bothered you with this call. I just thought you’d want to—that you ought to—know.”

Slowly, Barbara comprehended what Marilyn had said. The facts settled in her consciousness. “No. No, I’m not putting reality together very well just now. Was there anything else? I mean, was anyone else involved? Just one kid? No idea that he might’ve been hired to kill Al?”

The question puzzled Marilyn. “No, Babs … not that I heard. And I think I caught the entire bulletin.”

“Can you remember anything else at all? Anything more than you’ve told me?”

A hesitation. “Well … the pictures. They had film showing the guy charging out of this house. He looked crazy … wild. He had guns in both hands. He was firing, firing. And then he was shot, killed—dead. It was godawful. They shouldn’t show things like that. It was more violent than some of the movies. You’d think—”

“That was it? Nothing more?”

“Well, um … the news reporter—Mike Wendlahd, I think—was interviewing a policeman. The name was familiar. I couldn’t place ever meeting him. But he was the only one I saw being interviewed. He seemed to know everything that had gone on.”

“You can’t remember his name?”

“He was a lieutenant. A homicide detective. He was black. His name … his name was … Tully, I think. Yes, I’m sure that was it: Lieutenant Tully.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I can think of, Babs. I’m sure they’ll repeat the news at eleven.”

“Yes. Well, thanks, Marilyn. It was good of you to call. I really appreciate it.”

“You sound so tired, dear. I think you ought to unplug the phone. Everybody and his brother will be calling you.”

“Good idea.”

As soon as they hung up, Barbara followed Marilyn’s advice and pulled the plug.

But she did not rest.

This was not playing out the way she had expected. Her version of Al’s death was that one of the VPs had contracted for the killing to keep Al from replacing him in the bank’s hierarchy. The only question was which VP.

The information that Marilyn had reported simply made no sense. Some punk kid? Acting on his own? Stoned senseless? That was what had ended Al’s life? A bank robbery that had no hope of success? One shot at point-blank range?

That was not the way anyone, especially Al, should exit this life.

She had to have more information! But where could it come from? Not from the police. They would be polite once they knew they were talking to the widow, but they wouldn’t open up. And you couldn’t trust the media; they would have little more than she herself could glean.

That name … the one that Marilyn had finally remembered.
Lieutenant Tully.
It had a familiar ring. Why? Why would the name be familiar?

Tully. Tully. Tull—of course! The priest she’d met at the award dinner. The one who Fred Margan had told her would be presiding at Al’s wake.

Yes, that was it: Father Tully!

Was this a coincidence? Could they be related? In either case, definitely a coincidence.

She plugged the phone back in. A few calls, several blind alleys, and then bull’s-eye. St. Joseph’s parish, downtown. Taking some other priest’s place for a week or two. Lots of other interesting things to tell, but no time. She had to place another call immediately.

Father Tully was in the final phase of developing an idea for his homily. For a moment, he considered letting the answering device take the call.

Then he asked himself, “Would good old Father Koesler answer his phone?” Tully didn’t even know Father Koesler well enough to give an educated guess at the answer. But from the brief time they’d spent together, plus all that he’d heard, he knew what his absentee pastor would do. Slowly he lifted the receiver. “St. Joseph’s.”