Koznicki’s eyebrows arched in a metaphorical question mark.
“I mean the Cougars,” Koesler clarified. “What’s their schedule for Tuesday?”
“Oh. Well, as far as the players are concerned, this is, for all intents and purposes, their day off. For the coaches, quite another matter. They will be closeted throughout the day, reviewing film of next week’s opponent, which is”-Koznicki consulted his notes of the day’s schedule that he had received from Lieutenant Harris-“New York. Then, gradually, through the day, they are to devise a game plan for next Sunday’s contest. While the coaches will be busy with their game plan, we will be occupied with ours. We have teams of detectives who will be continuing the investigation and interrogating the suspects.”
“
Koznicki waved an impatient finger. “It is not fair; I know that, Father. We have only so many homicide investigators. And we must spread them too thinly on all the cases we must investigate. But every so often a case such as the murder of Mr. Hunsinger comes along, and public pressure-from the news media, the mayor’s office, the community finally-simply demands as speedy a solution as possible.
“This is not good. On the one hand, we must take detectives from cases they are developing, to spend more of their valuable time on this case. On the other hand, this demand for a solution can, if we are not very careful, cause mistakes, which, under ordinary, less pressured circumstances, we would not make.
“Every day-and frequently more than once a day-reporters are all over the fifth floor, and demands are made for newspaper and television interviews. The reporters have their job to do and are under pressure from their editors. They want, if not a solution; a constantly developing story, when oftentimes there are no developments.
“As I say, Father, it is not fair. But that is the state of a notorious case such as this.”
“You’re right. It isn’t fair. And you’re also right: it is life.”
“By the way, Father,” Koznicki signaled for the check, “I understand that the Bible discussion group is scheduled to meet this evening. What do you call yourselves? The God Squad. . is that correct?”
“Yes. I guess so. Under the circumstances, I assumed it would be canceled or at least postponed. But according to Mrs. Galloway yesterday, the meeting is on. And I was really flabbergasted when she said it would be at her house. . I mean, her husband’s house. . I mean their house. I guess I mean her house. I mean,” Koesler floundered, “what with their relationship I didn’t think the meeting could possibly take place there. In any event, I thought it better not to attend.”
“Oh, no, Father,” Koznicki appeared intent. “It is very important that you attend. Already you have contributed much to this case. Perhaps not in a quantitative sense, but surely in a qualitative degree. One never knows what may be revealed at a gathering such as the one tonight.
“And it is safe to assume that there will never be an assembly of the God Squad to equal the one to take place tonight. One of your members is dead and, with the exception of yourself and young Murray, all the other members are suspect to one degree or another. There will be a special dynamic tonight that in all probability will never be repeated. We will need eyes and ears to that dynamic and, to paraphrase a popular religious metaphor, we will have no eyes nor ears but yours. We are dependent on you, Father, to glean what could be most important information. No one but yourself can do this for us.”
“Inspector, I am reminded of an experience some young friends of mine had years ago when they were conducting a prayerful demonstration against the Vietnam War. They were young Jesuit priests who were praying on the steps of the Pentagon. There were only five of them and they didn’t even draw a crowd. People-top brass, other officers, enlisted men, civilians-just kept passing by with no more than furtive glances in their direction.
“Finally, after a few hours, they decided to call it off and go home. Besides being ineffectual, they were getting cold. Just before they were about to disband, an older Jesuit priest, one of their superiors, came up to them and specifically ordered them, under their vow of obedience, to disband. Their only thought, at that point, was that they had been the victims of administrative overkill.
“That,” Koesler concluded with affectionate emphasis, “is how I feel. All you really had to say was, ‘I wish you’d go,’ and I would have gone.”
Koznicki smiled appreciatively. “You know, Father, I knew that before I started. I knew if I asked you to go, you would. But if that were all I had said, you would not have been motivated, really motivated, to observe and listen tonight as carefully and astutely as you will now.”
“Inspector, you know me too well.”
The waiter presented the check, which Koznicki quickly grabbed, over Koesler’s protestation. “Inspector! This was my party. I’m the one who invited you to lunch. Please, let me have the check!”
“Some other time, Father.” Koznicki smiled at his friend, glanced at the check’s total, covered it with a credit card, and handed both to the waiter. “It is my pleasure. Please allow me to take care of it.”
It was useless to argue. Koesler shrugged resignedly. The waiter retreated happily. He figured he was likely to get a more realistic tip from a layman than from a priest.
In Koznicki’s case, Koesler knew the inspector was motivated by simple friendship. But the incident caused him to wonder in general. Was it that the laity considered priests to be so poorly paid that they could not afford to pay their own way, let alone someone else’s? Was it that the laity wanted to pay their priest’s freight in return or anticipation of some spiritual favor. . a sort of pious buying of votes?
It was true that a priest’s salary, with the exception of those diocesan priests who earned a side income, was technically well below a living wage. However, it increased significantly in value when one considered perks and gratuities that scarcely ever quit. Free room and board, free medical and dental expenses, and on and on.
Almost every time he considered the subject, Koesler would entertain positive thoughts about the aborted worker-priest movement of France. Particularly since he had delegated so many pastoral responsibilities that hitherto had been considered the private preserve of him whose hands had been consecrated, he wondered if he should go out and at least try to get a job.
He spent very little time on that thought. For what secular work was he qualified? Who would hire a priest? What would be the reaction of his ecclesiastical superiors? His peers? Knowing the answers to those questions, he did not generally waste time on considerations that were doomed to a dead end.
Although he didn’t much want to attend the God Squad meeting tonight, he would. For one, he would not disappoint his friend, Inspector Koznicki. Additionally, it might be instructive.
But first, this evening, he would drop in on the wake of Hank (“TheHun”) Hunsinger.
“Good evening, Father. Who is it you’re here to see?”
“Mr. Hunsinger.”
The funeral director looked disappointed. Hackett Funeral Home was not designed to act as the penultimate resting place for the Hun. It was an ancient, boxlike structure that simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate the numbers who had come to mourn or merely view the deceased athlete.
Hank Hunsinger’s was not the only body presently preserved in Hackett’s. Jose Gonzales’ remains also were on display in a very small slumber room. The funeral director had hoped Koesler had come for the Gonzales group. It was past the appointed time for Jose’s farewell rosary. Once the rosary had been recited, most of the Gonzales people would depart, leaving more room for the ever-fluctuating crowd for Hunsinger.
So it was with less than his usual peculiar mixture of accommodation, reverence, sympathy, and affability that he escorted Koesler through the crowd and into the parlor containing the Hun’s remains. From that point on, Koesler was on his own. As well he might be; he had gone through similar scenes countless times.
Standing just inside the door, the priest attentively surveyed the room. Its panels slid aside, the room was several times its original size. Still the hallways were full of people waiting for the opportunity to file past the bier and have a last glimpse of the Hun. The line of people doing just that was moving almost imperceptibly. None of this was of any practical concern to Koesler. Marked by his roman collar, he could squeeze by anyone, go anywhere in the room he wished. People would step aside and even apologize for being in his way.
As he looked around, he saw few familiar faces. Except for the multitude, it was his standard experience at a funeral home. A few, a very few, spoke to each other in whispered tones. There was the muffled shuffle of feet advancing toward or retreating from the casket. Most of the people sat statuelike on the small folding chairs staring straight ahead as if they too had died.
Here and there, Koesler recognized isolated members of what was becoming a familiar cast of characters: the God Squad. They were to meet at the Galloway house after these services. Mrs. Galloway was nowhere to be
