Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries:

Meehan’s concern for his former associate.

Koesler negotiated the maze of locked and unlocked doors without incident, though it was fortunate that he was familiar with Mother of Sorrows church. Otherwise, he might have become hopelessly lost and lucky to find his way back to Sister Therese for a guided tour.

As he passed through the final door leading from the boiler room to Kramer’s carefully outfitted and unexpectedly complete workshop, Koesler felt a foreboding. There was nothing specific; it was just so dark and chill and deserted. He was reminded of the smokehouse where Jud Fry holed up in the musical Oklahoma!. Koesler shrugged; to each his own. It was not his cup of tea, but evidently it suited Dick Kramer.

Koesler would not have been able to see into this workroom had his eyes not already become accustomed to the dark. He knocked, and cleared his throat. Kramer, bent over his workbench at the opposite side of the room, whirled, clearly startled.

“Oh, sorry, Dick. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like this. There wasn’t any other way of doing it.”

“You startled me!” Kramer didn’t seem angry, merely nettled. “What are you doing here, anyway? Where’s Therese?”

“Therese is at the rectory. She gave me directions on how to find you. As to what I’m doing here: I came to visit. I expected you to be at the rectory.” Koesler was aware that Kramer was tucking something into one of the workbench drawers. It appeared to be an object he had been working on, but, apparently, something he didn’t want Koesler to see.

Kramer seemed to unbend. “Sorry to be so abrupt. I just wasn’t expecting company. I guess I was kind of wrapped up in what I was doing. You gave me a start. What brings you here . . . I mean besides the visit?” Kramer did not get casual visitors. And he knew that everyone knew that.

“No strings, Dick . . . well, maybe one. I was visiting with Monsignor Meehan and he mentioned you. We both got to wondering how you are.” Koesler paused. “So how are you?”

“Okay, I guess.” Kramer fumbled in his pants pocket and extracted a crumpled half-full pack of cigarettes. He fished one out, straightened and smoothed it, then lit it from the stub that was about to expire in a nearby overflowing ashtray. “Want to go back to the rectory? We could have a drink.”

Koesler waved a hand. “No ... no; thanks just the same, but I’ve got enough left to do today without a midafternoon libation.”

Kramer studied the other priest with a measure of abstract interest. He honestly could not fathom why one person would pay a strictly social call on another person—especially when both were busy priests—in the middle of the afternoon. “Oh. Okay, then, we can visit here, I guess. What did you want to talk about?”

Koesler didn’t “want” to talk about anything in particular. When one paid a social call, especially when both parties were priests, it really wasn’t necessary to announce a subject matter for conversation. One simply chewed some innocent fat for a while. Now that Kramer had suggested the need for a topic, Koesler found himself hard- pressed to come up with one. But, after a little thought, “How’s Sister Therese working out?”

“Therese? Good. Fine. I really don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Koesler had not expected such enthusiasm, particularly from Kramer. “That’s quite a testimonial! What’ve you got her doing to elicit all that praise?”

“Oh, Therese does a little bit of everything. She takes a special interest in the old folks . . . the ones in nursing homes and the ones shuttered up in their homes, afraid to come out even in broad daylight. Folks with bars on their doors and windows. They really need help, someone to take an interest in them . . . and Therese does.”

“Nice.”

“But that’s not all. She takes care of the kids. Takes them out for projects, picnics, whatever. They love her. I think when they grow up, if they think kindly of the Catholic Church, it’ll be Therese they’re thinking of. On top of that, for all practical purposes she’s the director of Religious Ed—youth and adult.”

“Impressive. Everything but hearing confessions and saying Mass.”

Koesler’s obvious exaggeration was not lost on Kramer. “Actually, Bob,” he returned the joke, “I think maybe she does hear confessions once in a while.”

“Better not let the Vatican hear about that. As far as Rome is concerned, females are lucky to be allowed into church.”

“Huh?”

“Well, all right, they can come in. But they’d better not get too close to the altar.”

“Are you serious?”

Koesler began to wonder whether Kramer was still joking . . . or did he actually not know about the exclusion of girls from serving at the altar?

“Are you serious?” Koesler returned. “You do know that girls are banned from serving Mass, don’t you?”

“Is that still going on?”

“You bet your sweet bippy it’s still going on. You mean you’re not involved in the war against altar girls?” While this was not of major concern, especially in the Detroit archdiocese, it was a fairly popular topic of conversation in clerical groups. But then, Koesler reminded himself, Kramer was seldom to be found in informal clerical gatherings.

Kramer shook his head. “I had no idea anyone was still concerned about that. I’m afraid we solved that question a good long while ago in this parish. Our Mass servers are coed, at best.”

“Then you’d better pray you don’t pull Bishop Malone for confirmations.”

“What happens then?”

“Probably what happened the other week at St. Valentine’s. They were all ready to go out in procession when Malone spotted some girls in the line—cassocks and surplices.”

“And then?”

“And then Malone handed the pastor an ultimatum: Get rid of the girls or cancel confirmations.”

Kramer whistled. “He plays hard ball, eh?”

“So it seems. You’d think a guy who grew up in Mississippi would be familiar with the evils of discrimination —but this guy doesn’t appear to have learned a damn thing.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t come to Mother of Sorrows. I might be able to live with him, but Therese—never.”

Ordinarily, Koesler would not have bothered counting. But he could not help noticing that, in this short visit, Kramer was already on his third cigarette. Well, to each his own poison.

“Speaking of altar servers,” Koesler said, “I see by the paper you lost one of your altar boys—what was the name? . . . Rudy . . . uh . . .”

“Taylor. Yeah. Nice kid. Fate is a funny thing. His mother sent him to the store for some groceries. He went, but he stopped to talk to one of his buddies. And that was it. The guys in the car were cruising the neighborhood looking for the youngster who had stung them on a drug sale. The lads were stoned out of their skulls anyhow. Plus Rudy did look a little like the guy they were after. So they shot him dead. Just like that.

“Since then, almost everybody in the parish, especially his mother, has been speculating on what if . . . what if . . . what if. What if he hadn’t met his friends? What if he had just gone on to the store? He might be alive. Hell, he would be alive.”

“Tough funeral.”

“You said it.”

“I had a tough one about a week ago.”

Kramer’s expression changed. Koesler noted it but only momentarily.

“That prostitute who was murdered,” Koesler said. “You must have read about it . . . named Bonner. To this day I still can’t quite figure out how I got that funeral.” He shook his head. “I took a lot of heat before, but mostly after.”

“The chancery?”

“No, not downtown, thank God. Some parishioners . . . some of those ‘concerned Catholics.’”

“I saw some of that funeral on TV. How did you get it?”

“Funny thing: The officer who’s investigating the case asked me to take it . . . and he’s not even a Catholic.”