Shadow of Death

undoubtedly would be elected. But one who soon would become a Cardinal had been mentioned with some frequency: Detroit’s Archbishop Mark Boyle, now seated among the bishops and archbishops in attendance.

An American Pope! Koesler tried to recall the whimsical tale he had heard when in high school about the first American Pope. The story had been part of a fictional French Cardinal’s nightmare. In this prelate’s dream, the American who was elected Pope took the name Buster I. His first infallible pronouncement had concerned extramarital sex. Pope Buster had declared it to be good, not evil. In response, the entire French navy had sailed across the Mediterranean, firing salvos in honor of the new doctrine.

Koesler chuckled. Several of his neighbors glanced at him.

“The Church in Toronto has lost a universally respected leader and I have lost a very dear and beloved friend,” Archbishop Tito Fulmo began his eulogy.

Archbishop Fulmo was renowned throughout Canada for speaking publicly at the drop of a hat or at any occasion whatsoever.

Which brought to mind Detroit’s late Edward Cardinal Mooney, now gone more than a quarter of a century. He, too, had let no public occasion pass without a few words. Even when someone else had already delivered the principal address, Mooney would speak. Invariably, he would invoke the formula, “I don’t wish to add anything to what Father has already said, but . . .”

The specific occasion Koesler now recalled was the funeral Mass of an Orchard Lake Seminary professor. Orchard Lake was the only national Polish Seminary in the U.S. Not unexpectedly, the sermon was delivered entirely in Polish. At the conclusion of the Mass, to everyone’s consternation, and without the slightest notion of what the preacher had said, Mooney stood and declared, “I don’t wish to add anything to what Father has already said, but . . .”

Koesler smiled. Covertly, he tried to detect whether anyone had noticed his silent levity in the midst of a serious homily. Apparently, none had. He’d have to be careful about this sort of thing.

“Pray, brethren,” Cardinal Audette proposed, “that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father.”

“May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands for the praise and glory of His name, for our good, and the good of all His Church,” the congregation responded.

Here we are at the Canon of the Mass, thought Koesler, and nothing’s happened yet.

He caught himself: What did he expect to happen?

Maybe it was a foreboding. Perhaps it was the incongruity of the setting. In this cathedral, less than a week ago, a man—a priest, a Cardinal—had been murdered. Now, in that same cathedral, a lot of nice, very civilized people had gathered to eulogize the old gentleman. Not an angry, protesting word had been uttered.

The police were investigating the crime, but, according to all accounts, had made precious little progress. The consensus seemed to be that one of the street crazies, with nothing better to do, had dropped into the cathedral, seen a defenseless victim, stabbed him, and fled. It could have been anyone. With that kind of distinct possibility, there was every chance that Cardinal Claret’s murder would end in the unsolved crimes file.

This liturgy was moving along so smoothly, indeed, that Koesler’s mind was free to wander to more cluttered liturgical experiences.

There was the master of ceremonies at a solemn pontifical Mass years ago, who, after the bishop was seated facing the congregation, had stepped forward and placed the miter on the bishop’s head. Except that the miter was backward. As the priest released the miter and stepped back, the lappets, the two tails that ordinarily fall from the miter along the bishop’s nape, fell in front of the bishop’s face, covering his eyes. The priest gulped and moved to immediately set things right, but was halted by the bishop’s upraised hand. “Leave it the way it is,” the bishop snapped, “and let everyone see what a fool you are!”

That had been one interesting liturgy.

Another, although Koesler had not been an eyewitness, had occurred regularly at each pontifical Mass presided over by one particularly cantankerous bishop. As the ceremonies proceeded, the bishop would suspend, or dismiss, one priest after another. A priest would sing the epistle, come before the bishop for a blessing, the bishop would tell the unfortunate priest he had done a rotten job, and would dismiss him. Each discharged priest would repair to the sacristy and smoke a cigarette, not bothering to divest. When a sufficient number of suspended priests were absent from the altar so that it became impossible to continue the pontifical ceremonies, the bishop would be forced to reinstate them all. This maneuver took place so often that pontifical liturgies in that diocese became known as liturgia reser?ata.

Communion time. Koesler chided himself for not having paid better attention to the Mass. Routine had a way of dulling concentration.

When his turn came, Koesler shuffled down the aisle toward the center communion station.

“The body of Christ,” proclaimed Cardinal Audette, holding the communion wafer aloft.

“Amen,” Koesler responded.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was standing at the very spot that had been occupied by the assailant. And that Audette was standing where Cardinal Claret had stood when he was murdered. A shudder passed through the priest.

As he turned to return to his place, Koesler roughly computed the distance between where he now stood and the door through which the assailant had escaped. It was a considerable distance. If the killing had been deliberately planned, it would have to have been a suicide mission. No one could have relied on the utter confusion that had actually followed the stabbing as a cover for a getaway. Koesler was growing more and more convinced that it had been a spur-of-the-moment attack.

“The Mass is ended,” Cardinal Audette intoned, “let us go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God,” all responded.

The final recessional in the pamphlet that had been specially prepared for this Mass of Resurrection was “Let Hymns of Joy.” Koesler joined in the singing:

Let hymns of joy to grief succeed,

We know that Christ is ris’n indeed:

Alleluia, alleluia!

We hear his white-robed angel’s voice.

And in our risen Lord rejoice.

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Then Koesler noticed it. At the very bottom of the final page of the pamphlet was the imprint of a black fist. It appeared as if it had been, perhaps, stamped on the paper. Hastily, he looked at the pamphlets being held by the priests on either side of him. The identical mark at the identical place. Suddenly, he recalled the black fist on the historical marker outside the cathedral. As far as he could tell, it was the same symbol.

Strange. Very, very odd. All the way out to St. Augustine Seminary, where the mortal remains of Cardinal Claret would be consigned to the earth, Father Koesler kept thinking about the black fist.

DETROIT

“I might have known. I should have known,” Free Press theater critic Larry Delaney edited himself. “When Joe Cox offers to buy lunch, it’s not going to be at the London Chop House.”

“That’s right,” Free Press travel writer George Singer agreed. “It’s going to be at the old faithful Econ.”

“And we are obliged to bring our own press kits for show-and-tell.” Delaney riffled through a disarray of newspaper clippings on the cluttered restaurant table.

“Gentlemen,” said Free Press staff writer Joe Cox, munching his Dandy Don, “there is no such thing as a free lunch.”

“There he goes, coining another phrase.” Delaney fingered a rigid fry.

The three were dining in an eatery located appropriately on the ground floor of the Free Press building. The location was appropriate in that the eatery was, from any vantage point,