Ah, thought Koesler, here it comes. Valerie waited a moment. But when Koesler did not ask, she went on. “About the time Red pulled me away from Groendal, I was shouting that I would kill him. I shouted it over and over.”
“Hmmm.”
“Well, isn’t that a sin? Murder certainly is a sin. And we were taught that a thought about committing something like murder could be a sin too . . . Father?”
“Maybe. It depends. Thoughts are kind of tricky.”
“Tricky?”
“We’re capable of thinking anything. A thought all by itself probably doesn’t have any morality to it at all. Nor do words, if they have no real intent. Remember the story Jesus told about a father who sent his two sons into the fields to work? Son number one says, ‘Sure I’ll go, Pop’—or words to that effect. Son number two says, ‘Not on your life.’
“But son one ends up going fishing while son two rethinks the whole thing and gets down to work.
“The point Jesus was making is that some of our thoughts and words are effective and some are empty and meaningless. Part of the proof, at least sometimes, is what a person will actually do about what she thinks or says.
“Make any sense?”
“Well, I haven’t killed him—yet. But I don’t know if that’s only because of what’s happened since.
“Very shortly after my encounter with Groendal, Red and I got married. Of course we moved back to Detroit. Red’s been with the Pistons ever since he broke into the league and, as a result, his best business connections, endorsements, commercials are here. And there wasn’t any point to my remaining in New York. Groendal had effectively shot down my stage career—and he was still on guard in case I continued to try. Red makes good money . . . real good money.”
Koesler nodded. “I know.”
“So, I’ve been able to do a little community and semipro theater here in Michigan. We enjoy our kids. And thank God there are no more cattle calls or hanging myself out on a line like a piece of meat.
“So, what I mean is, I haven’t killed him. But to be honest, I don’t know why I haven’t. I guess maybe because I’ve got ‘the good life.’ I certainly wouldn’t want to go to jail . . . not with a good and loving husband and a fulfilled life.
“But . . . what if I could get away with it? Just between you and me. Father, I honestly don’t know whether I’d do it. After what he’s done to me and my poor mother . . . I just don’t know. I’ve got a lot of getting even to do before we’re quits.”
“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’” Koesler threw the Biblical quote out reflexively. It fit. But he had never known it to be effective in the face of a genuine, deep desire for revenge.
“Well, if it’s His, He’d better get cracking. No. I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry, God. That’s flip.”
“Would you feel better about it if you went to confession? If you confessed it—sin or not—as it is in the sight of God?”
“I don’t think I can do that, Father.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I’m not sorry. I don’t know whether it’s a sin or not. But I know I’m not sorry. And you gotta be sorry to go to confession . . . don’t you?”
“That’s true.”
“It helped. It really helped. Father. Just saying it out loud. I feel better just having told you about it. Honest, it helped. But I’ve still got to wrestle with this. Do I really want to kill him? Do I have to get revenge?” She sighed, then smiled tiredly. “I guess I’ll see you again. But thanks for taking all this time with me, Father.”
Koesler showed her out of the rectory. He poured a light Scotch and water, turned on the classical music station, and thought.
The “talking cure”—it never failed to amaze him. There comes a time in most people’s lives that some secret and/or shameful thought or deed demands verbalization. And if it doesn’t get aired, it may drive the person mad. But saying it, speaking it, telling it to someone, acts as a release valve. That’s where Catholics have traditionally had an advantage—in confession. Not only do they have the opportunity of telling the secret either in the anonymity that the confessional provides—or, lately, face to face—but they can walk away feeling that they have been forgiven.
And this pretty well wrapped up the strange case of Ridley C. Groendal. During his relatively brief life he had managed to make many enemies and very few friends. Of the enemies, four were literally mortal enemies in that each had stated in Koesler’s presence the intention of killing Rid.
And now he was dead. Nature and Rid’s abuse of nature had contributed. Diabetes, high blood pressure, and heart problems were exacerbated by high living, thoughtless consumption of food and alcohol, and—finally—AIDS. Rid’s was a condition programmed to explode. It had been detonated by four letters—one from each antagonist. After an evening of particularly heedless gastric abandon, Ridley had read the letters. All was in readiness for the explosion, and the letters had done it. Groendal read them and became apoplectic. His blood pressure shot up to the ceiling. He went into a convulsion and died.
Each of the letter writers had threatened to kill him. Which of them had succeeded—or was it a collaborative effort?
Shortly after leading the recitation of the rosary for Groendal, Father Koesler thought he knew the answer to that question. Of all the people in this drama, his position was unique in that he knew each of the dramatis personae and their interrelationships.
He needed to ask only one question and, depending on the answer, his solution would prove to be either right or wrong.
In Paradisum
21
The Gregorian Chant was so reassuring and beautiful. Ridley would have wanted the choir to offer this final commendation of his soul to heaven. Father Koesler wanted to think that he would have suggested it even if Peter Harison had not requested it. But why quibble over credit for so inspired a thought?
Koesler stood at the foot of the casket to conduct the final church rites before leaving for the cemetery. He let his mind wander through the familiar Latin.
The police had been most cooperative last night. Of course, things might not have gone so smoothly had it not been for Inspector Walter Koznicki.
Koznicki and Koesler had been friends for many years. The Inspector was head of Detroit’s busy homicide department. It happened that Father Koesler had been of some help, by contributing his religious expertise, in solving some police investigations that had Catholic overtones. While their relationship had begun on a completely professional basis, over the years it had grown into a close and abiding friendship.
It was Koznicki who, after being contacted at home by Father Koesler, had gotten the ball rolling. David Palmer, Carroll Mitchell, Charles Hogan, Valerie Walsh, and Peter Harison were summoned to police headquarters at 1300 Beaubien.
While they waited for the principals to arrive, Koznicki showed Koesler the letters that Ridley Groendal had read just prior to expiring.
Koesler was quite sure he knew essentially what each letter would contain, but he read them nonetheless. There was nothing better to do while awaiting the others.
