Deadline for a Critic

In contrast, it was a joy to watch priests gather. Like fish returning to water, church was home for priests. They entered casually, genuflected fully, knelt naturally, and had no problem whatsoever with their hands. Not infrequently, priests carried something. With some of the older priests, that might well be a breviary, the almost extinct special monastic prayer book. If they carried nothing, their hands hung quite naturally. They were, after all, home.

Most gratifying was the way priests greeted each other. Almost every priest knew almost all the others. As they gathered, there were smiles of recognition, nods, nudges, a few words, but mostly the nonverbal communication that marks a uniquely shared life and experience.

Koesler glanced at the wall clock. One minute past ten. Not unusual. Funerals had a habit of tardiness. So did weddings. Weddings were much worse.

Activity in the vestibule. The outside doors propped open, letting out a healthy chunk of heat. It was all so familiar. Ridley C. Groendal was arriving for his last visit to church, a little late and literally breathless.

Koesler nodded to the Mass servers, altar boys and girls, and in silence the small altar procession moved through the sanctuary, down the middle aisle, to the rear of the church.

The burnished metal casket containing the mortal remains of Ridley Groendal was placed on its carrier. The morticians in attendance stood impassively at the head and foot of the casket. Six pallbearers stamped snow from their shoes. Breath was exhaled in visible vapors as cold air invaded the church. Only the first few mourners stood in the church. The others would have to wait until the procession moved forward. Peter Harison, of course, was first among the mourners.

Koesler opened the ritual and read, “The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

“And also with you.” Everyone was supposed to respond. Only the servers and Peter Harison did.

Koesler sprinkled the casket with holy water as he read, “I bless the body of Ridley with holy water that recalls his baptism of which St Paul writes: All of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death. By baptism into His death we were buried together with Him, so that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live a new life. For if we have been united with Him by likeness to His death, so shall we be united with Him by likeness to His resurrection.”

As a white ornamented cloth was spread over the coffin, Koesler read aloud, “On the day of his baptism, Ridley put on Christ In the day of Christ’s coming, may he be clothed with glory.”

He continued, “Let us pray. Lord, hear our prayers and be merciful to your son, Ridley, whom you have called from this life. Welcome him into the company of your saints, in the kingdom of light and peace. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Koesler nodded to the server carrying the processional cross and the group began retracing its path through the church. As they slowly walked up the aisle, the organist and choir—the choir because a Very Important Catholic was being buried—began the hymn, “I Will Raise Him Up.” Most of the priests joined in the refrain. In all, this was a much grander greeting of the body than in a common garden variety Mass of Resurrection.

While processing down the middle aisle and managing to maintain custody of the eyes, Koesler did glance from side to side occasionally.

He was very surprised to see one of them. He was astonished to see the second. At that point, he decided to put the remainder of his amazement on hold until he checked out the rest of the congregation. Sure enough, he spied the third and then the fourth. All four of the original suspects in the investigation of the death of Ridley C. Groendal were present. Five, if one counted Peter Harison among the original suspects. That all were able to attend this funeral was due entirely to a decision of the Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division of the Wayne County Prosecutor’s Office.

For the past couple of days there had been considerable speculation in the media over Groendal’s death. All that was certain was that there was an ongoing investigation. The police had been extremely secretive. Left with little detail, the press had been constrained to come up with some fairly wild conjecture.

The case had been solved last night, although the media were just now being briefed, so it would be surprising if anyone here but the principals would know that. It was almost miraculous what could be accomplished between the 7:30 P.M. recitation of a rosary for the deceased and bedtime.

Father Koesler would be the last to claim that he had solved the mystery. And, in strict truth, he probably had not. But he certainly had brought the puzzle to such a point that the solution needed only a finishing touch by the authorities.

This was by no means the first time Koesler had been involved in a Detroit homicide investigation. It had happened several times. But generally he had been dragged into these situations quite beyond his will. Sometimes he had simply happened to be on the scene when the murder was perpetrated or when the investigation had begun. Almost always there was something “religious,” or specifically “Catholic” involved.

In any case, the police had been able to utilize his expertise in the solution.

However, in the matter of Ridley C. Groendal, Koesler for the first time had come aboard neither reluctantly nor out of the blue. He had, indeed, volunteered his assistance. He did so because he was in the singular position of having known not only the deceased but also each and every one of those suspected of involvement in his death. Koesler not only knew them all; he was privy to the personal conflicts that marked and scarred their lives.

It would not cross Koesler’s mind that he had come on like a white knight or a fictional detective and singlehandedly solved this case. Far from it. He was no more than a simple parish priest. And happy and fulfilled in being that. The homicide department had done its usual thorough and painstaking job of building the case. In all probability, they would have closed the matter unaided by any outside agency. But Koesler had been able to contribute some information that proved helpful. Well, perhaps something more than that. Koesler’s information, when presented, proved to be the crowning touch of the brief investigation. Koesler had been able to provide the elusive ingredient needed to tie up all the loose ends.

But the presence of all the suspects at the victim’s funeral struck Koesler as peculiar, to say the least. He wondered if it might be unique. So few things were.

Well, time enough after the funeral for the law to exact punishment. For now, there was a liturgy to celebrate.

What an odd word to describe this function, thought Koesler. Nevertheless, he resolved to do his best with the celebration of a Mass of Resurrection. The main block—Koesler knew himself well—would be that ever-present stream of consciousness that was sure to provide him with one distraction after another.

All had entered and been shown to their places. The church was almost filled. The undertaker placed the lighted Paschal candle at the head of the casket. The congregation was attentive. All was ready.

Koesler intoned: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.” Most of the congregation responded.

“The grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

“And also with you,” was the response.

Koesler continued. “My friends, to prepare ourselves to celebrate these sacred mysteries, let us call to mind our sins.”

In the silence that followed, Koesler’s gaze fell on David Palmer. David Palmer, the musician. Unbidden, memories flooded back.

The vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors of Holy Redeemer grade school.

Boards creaking as children walked, rapidly perhaps but never running lest one of the nuns was sure to whack you. Silence, as simultaneously throughout the building, classes began. Then the only sound, Sister raising her voice at a slow, lazy, or disobedient student. Or, as nuns glided down a hallway, the rattle of the fifteen-decade rosary wound through their belts.

These were the 1930s and all was as it had been for a century or more. Catholic children attended Catholic schools or the breadwinner heard about it after he confessed his sin of omission to the priest of a Saturday evening.

Nuns, without whom a parochial school system never could have been attempted, were swathed from head to toe in distinctive religious habit. The garb of the Sisters Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, the teachers