Deadline for a Critic

In those days, priests usually ate breakfast—their first nourishment of the day—immediately following the funeral Mass. Then the priest and his altar boys were chauffeured to the cemetery by the mortician. Mourners usually were kept waiting in their cars until the priest finally arrived. All in all, the process consumed considerable time.

Like everything else, these things had changed. Now it was permissible as well as sensible to eat before Mass. Nor did the priest usually take altar boys with him to the cemetery.

Thus, Koesler arrived at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery alone and well in advance of the cortege. None of the visiting priests who had attended the Mass would be at the cemetery. The cemetery, Koesler thought sardonically, was for diehards. Only the most committed mourners accompanied the body to the grave. And literally no one this day would go all the way to the grave. In winter the final rites were held in the mausoleum. That was as close to the frozen ground as the funeral party could get.

There was no point in staying in his car and running the motor to keep warm. So Koesler entered the mausoleum as soon as he arrived. He was greeted by the cemetery’s manager. Over the years and through hundreds of burials, priests and cemetery personnel became acquaintances, if not friends.

“Cold enough for you, Father?”

“Plenty. And we’ve still got all of winter to go.”

“Got the burial permit with you, Father?” The manager carried a pad of permit certificates just in case a priest forgot It happened.

“Sure, here.”

“Ridley C. Groendal. Must have been kind of famous. Got a big obit in the paper.” The manager studied the certificate.

“Yeah, he was kind of famous.” Koesler had long since ceased to be surprised when a celebrity in an artistic field was not generally known. About the only ones widely famous were motion picture and television personalities.

“Really peculiar middle name, eh, Father?”

“Huh? Peculiar?” Koesler tried to recall Ridley’s middle name. At one time he’d known it but, never having a use for it he’d forgotten it. “It’s . . . it’s . . . oh . . . Charles, isn’t it?”

“Maybe according to the baptismal certificate, but not according to the birth or death certificate. Got it right off the county records. It’s Caligula.”

“Caligula! Are you sure?”

“Yep. Never seen that one before. I mean outside a history book.”

Caligula! Koesler had no reason to disbelieve the man. Rid had managed to keep it a secret all these years, if, indeed, he had ever known what his real name was. What kind of parent would give a name like that to a child? Thinking back on Ridley’s parents, Koesler could only guess it must have been Rid’s father. Some sort of ultimate joke played on a child the father never wanted. The name, now revealed, spoke volumes on what Ridley’s early life must have been.

Well, no more time for speculation. The cortege had arrived and was being organized by the funeral directors.

The metal casket was carried carefully up the few steps and set on the wheeled cart. A mortician guided it into the mausoleum. The mourners filed in and were directed to stand near either side wall. The crowd had thinned drastically. Only a few of those who had attended the Mass had come to the cemetery.

Once again, and for the final time, Koesler stood at the foot of Ridley Groendal’s casket. Although the entire cemetery had been consecrated, and although they were not standing at the open grave, it was customary to read the prayer:

“Lord God, through your mercy those who have lived in faith find eternal peace. Bless this grave and send your angel to watch over it. Forgive the sins of our brother whose body we bury here. Welcome him into your presence, and with your saints let him rejoice in you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Koesler sprinkled the casket with holy water again. As he continued the familiar prayers, he scanned the little group. Peter Harison, present by the grace of the prosecutor’s office. Dave, Mitch, Charlie, and Valerie were not there. Evidently, they were satisfied that Ridley would no longer be around to foul their lives. They trusted Koesler and the few remaining faithful to plant Ridley.

Peter Harison felt the tension ease. Why, he did not know. Perhaps because the burial service was near its conclusion. Perhaps because so few of those in the church had come to the cemetery. That was it, probably. Especially with the four—Palmer, Mitchell, Hogan, and Walsh—gone. Truthfully, they made him at least slightly uneasy. It was like being confined in a room with one’s own murder weapon—a club, a knife, a gun. And yet, the four were not really his weapons; he had merely orchestrated their assault of Ridley. The determination to kill Ridley had been theirs.

Harison—familiar as he was with his friend’s private life—knew well their animosity toward Ridley. Even though found out last night, it had been a damned clever plan—as uncomplicated as uncapping an active volcano. All he’d had to do was write them—posing as a fellow victim of Ridley’s venom—assuring them the time was ripe, and urging them to an act of revenge. In actuality, the time was more ripe than any of them could have suspected.

After that, it had been easy. So intent was Rid on killing himself that almost any occasion would have served. All Harison had to do was wait—and he was reasonably sure they all would write—until all the letters had been delivered; then, at an appropriate moment set them up for Rid.

The way Rid was abusing his health, Harison knew that almost any moment would be appropriate. And so it had been. That evening had been a classic. Rid had perfectly set himself up with his gluttony, guzzling, and attitude. All Harison needed to do was to stack the letters with their predictable contents and let nature take its course.

Soon, he felt sure, he would have to pay the price for what he had done. But, at most, it would be an earthly penalty. Before God, he’d done nothing wrong. Of that he was certain. They—Rid’s enemies—had killed him. Harison, at most, had let them do so. And, in any case, he had saved his friend from suicide and the eternal fires of hell. Let civil law do its damnedest. He was ready. He would not whimper.

As he neared the end of the Prayers at Graveside, Koesler noticed an additional person enter the mausoleum and take a place at the rear. It was Sergeant Ewing. He wore the same somber expression as the others. If one did not know he was a police officer, there would be no way of telling he was not one with the other mourners.

Koesler concluded the rite:

“We command our brother, Ridley, to you, Lord. Now that he has passed from this life, may he live on in your presence. In your mercy and love, forgive whatever sins he may have committed through human weakness. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Koesler intoned, “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”

And all responded, “And may perpetual light shine upon him.”

“May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

The funeral director spoke briefly, thanking all for attending, and directing them back to their cars. After many funerals, at least those who had taken the trouble of going to the cemetery were invited to return to some location where a luncheon would be served. Not at this funeral. Everything ended at this point.

In silence, those present began to depart.

Peter Harison seemed at a loss. He appeared uncertain as to whether to go or stay. He moved as if to approach Father Koesler, then thought better of it and turned to leave.

When he was stopped by Ewing at the door, Harison seemed startled. The officer spoke earnestly to him for several minutes. From time to time, Harison nodded. Finally, when Ewing had finished, Harison made an abortive gesture, half turned as if to return to Koesler, decided against it, and hurriedly left the mausoleum.

Only Ewing and Koesler remained. The priest inclined his head slightly and looked inquiringly at the officer.