Gospel reading. It was from St. Mark, the eighth chapter. Everyone stood as he read:
The congregation sat and looked expectantly for today’s message.
“That little story,” said Koesler, “is my favorite miracle. It’s so much more. . well. . human than the usual miracle. This is not a grand show of power like stilling the angry winds that are whipping up the waters of the Sea of Galilee or calling Lazarus back from the dead after three days in the tomb.
“This is a more tentative kind of cure, if you will, instead of miracle. Can’t you just see Jesus rubbing a little spittle on the blind man’s eyes and saying, ‘How’s that? Do any good?’ And the guy says, ‘I don’t think you’ve got it yet. All I see is stick people walking around like trees. Have you got anything else up your sleeve?’ And Jesus says, ‘Okay, give me one more shot at it.’ And he touches the blind man again. Then the blind man says, ‘I can see everything very clearly now. I think you’ve got it! By George, you’ve got it!’
“It puts me in mind of my favorite scene in a fine silent movie on the life of Christ, called
“The Apostles form a ring around the tree, keeping the crowd, which has followed him from the village, at a distance. Then, a little girl sneaks underneath the arm of one of the Apostles, who reaches out to grab her before she might bother Jesus. But He waves the Apostle aside and greets the child with a smile. She shows Jesus her ragdoll, which is ripped.
“You can see the wheels turning in His mind. He has just finished working wondrous miracles. He seems to be weighing what He should do about the little girl’s doll. Should He wave His hand over it and make it miraculously fixed? Finally, He extracts a straw from the doll’s innards and with it, He carefully and slowly mends the doll and returns it to the little girl.
“Now it’s just an apocryphal story thought up by some clever screenwriter. But I think it captures the spirit of Jesus. That little girl probably wouldn’t even have understood a miraculous cure for her doll. But that a very important man would take the time to mend her doll would be an act of kindness she would never forget.
“I don’t think I even need explicitly apply the lesson to our daily lives. But somewhere out there today we’re likely to encounter someone who’s got some trouble. Let’s look for that someone and mend the trouble.
“And, as they used to say on the TV show ‘Hill Street Blues,’ let’s be careful out there.”
The remainder of the Mass passed uneventfully. Except that something was troubling him. But again, he was unable to put his finger on it. Something to do with this morning’s Gospel. . but what? In his mind’s eye, he could almost see his brain cells exploding and disintegrating.
After Mass and a few prayers of thanksgiving, he returned to the rectory. St. Anselm’s secretary, Mary O’Connor, had attended his morning Mass and had preceded him to the rectory.
As usual, she offered to fix him some breakfast. As usual, he declined her offer. As usual, he sliced a banana over a bowl of Granola. As far as Koesler was concerned, there was much to be said for routine.
Reflecting on routine reminded him of Hank Hunsinger, whose life had been so compulsively riddled with routine. Koesler tried to drive the thought away. He had resolved to get back to parochial duties and let the police do the job for which they were so well trained and capable.
And he would have succeeded in expelling the thought if it hadn’t been for the puzzles that still nagged him. Last night’s story about the nuns laying out various colored vestments for him, plus this morning’s distraction that had some inscrutable connection with this morning’s Gospel. Were they connected? Were they connected with Hunsinger’s murder? If so, how?
Breakfast finished, he went to his office, where, predictably, Mary had stacked two days of mail. A couple of significant piles. Armed with his letter opener, he attacked the first pile. A good offense, he thought, is a good defense … or something.
The first letter was from a convent of contemplative Carmelite nuns. “Reverend and Dear Father:
“There is nothing more sacred to our faith than the altar breads which, upon the words of consecration, pronounced by priests such as yourself, Reverend Father, become the living presence of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
“Thus, careful attention must be paid to the preparation of these sacred wafers.
“Most purveyors of altar breads subject the process entirely to insensitive machines. From the mixing of the dough, to the baking, to the cutting.
“This is not true of the work of our convent. No, Reverend Father, none but the virginal hands of our Sisters touch the sacred altar breads. .”
Koesler could not go on. He was laughing too hard. So, it takes virginal hands to replace vulgar machines. He could envision the assembly lines of Detroit’s auto plants. First there were the blue-collar workers on the line, followed by robots, followed by the virginal hands of hitherto contemplative nuns.
Probably he would order some altar breads from the nuns. They deserved some patronage after having entertained him. Then he would file their letter with his other prized possession: the letter from the company selling altar wine, all of whose Teamster drivers were Catholics.
The next envelope bore the extremely familiar address, 1234 Washington Boulevard. It was a Chancery missive, containing the parochial help-wanted listing. This too was a fairly recent wrinkle.
In the good old days, notice of a changed assignment had come in much the same fashion as a draft notice. Except that instead of “Greetings,” the assignment letter would invariably begin, “For the care of souls, I have it in mind to assign you to. .” There would follow the name of the parish that would be the priest’s residence for the next approximately five years.
Now that priests were becoming an endangered species, it had become a seller’s market. The Chancery now regularly listed openings in parochial assignments for pastors or associate pastors accompanied by thumbnail descriptions of the type of ministry expected. One applied, or did not, depending on one’s interest. Seldom was pressure brought to bear. It may have been a better system than the previous practice. Koesler thought it was.
Suddenly, for no explicable reason, but, indeed, the way it usually happened with Koesler, everything fell into place. It was as if a curtain had suddenly lifted, revealing the stage. Suddenly the connection between the multicolored vestments, the blind man beginning to see, and the Hunsinger murder was clear.
It was a thrilling moment and Koesler savored it.
He needed to make only one phone call. If he received an affirmative response, it would be at least possible that he had found the solution to a murder.
Driving out to Dr. Glowacki’s office with Sergeant Ewing, Lieutenant Harris was trying to figure out why he so resented this trip.
The bottom line, he finally concluded, was that he disliked having amateurs mess in his profession. There were just far too many people who considered themselves competent, without benefit of any training or preparation, to do police work. His intolerance of that sort of intruder doubled when the amateur meddled in homicide cases.
Especially when the homicide got a lot of publicity, the homemade experts seemed to come out of the woodwork-psychologists, psychiatrists, soothsayers, fortunetellers, mystics.
Of course, Father Koesler did not fit any of the stereotyped categories. And, Harris had to admit, the priest had been of help in the past. But it was not, he thought, a good precedent to invite amateurs in on a case. He wished his old friend, Walt Koznicki, who was coming to Glowacki’s office in a separate vehicle, would not do it. It was about the only bone Harris had to pick with Koznicki.
They had discussed it a few times but had never reached a mutually agreeable solution. Koznicki would protest that Koesler was the sole exception to the rule banning nonprofessionals from cases. And Koznicki would explain that there were times when Koesler’s expertise in things Catholic was helpful in certain cases. Harris would argue that, religious expertise or not, the police were well able to solve homicides without outside help.
