believe the evidence was compelling enough to prohibit setting a bond.”
Meehan grinned. “I bet then they wished they’d trotted out all their ‘evidence.’”
“Probably. But there really wasn’t anything more they could do at that point. So the bond was set at . . .” Koesler paused as if unwilling to pronounce the figure. “. . . at one hundred thousand dollars.”
Meehan dropped his cane. “One hundred thousand dollars!”
“That means coming up with 10 percent of that total—ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand? Cold cash? Who’s got that kind of money?”
“Nobody I know. The priests have started a collection with the idea that if the total never gets to ten thousand, whatever has been donated will be returned. There’s not a lot of hope. At least not in the immediate future. And the chancery does not involve itself in such matters.”
“Meanwhile, poor Father Kramer rots in jail for no good reason.” Meehan shook his head. Then, as if forcing himself, he brightened. “Well, anyway, Bobby, we’ve got you on our side.”
Koesler tilted his head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“I did a little callin’ around myself. And I talked to Sister Therese.”
“Oh.”
“She told me you were going to help Dick.”
“I’m praying for him.”
“That and more. She said you were going to get involved.”
“Getting involved doesn’t mean any miracles are going to happen.”
“You’ve done it before, Bobby.”
“Miracles!”
“Maybe not. But you’ve helped the police before. It’s common knowledge.”
“I don’t know how common the knowledge is. But you’ve got the right verb. I’ve helped a few times. And I’m only involving myself in this case because the murderer had the gall to wear our uniform when he was committing his crimes. You and I—and all priests, for that matter—know that no one knows what it’s like to be a priest except another priest. So if this murderer wants to pretend to be a priest, like as not he’s going to make some mistakes that a real priest will be able to recognize.
“I guess my advantage over any other priest who might get actively involved in helping Dick is that I already have a bit of an entree to the police department through Inspector Koznicki. But please, Monsignor: no miracles.”
Meehan chuckled. “All right then, Bobby: no miracles. But we’re counting on you all the same.”
Koesler grew more serious. “I just wish I had more confidence. I feel that I’m limping.”
“Oh?” Meehan matched Koesler’s somber demeanor. “What is it then?”
“I don’t know exactly. It’s . . . it’s like the real killer knows Dick better than I do.”
“How can that be?”
“Well, quite obviously, the real murderer has been stalking Father Kramer for some time—and very painstakingly. He knows Dick’s routine better than almost anyone else.” Koesler would not mention Kramer’s drinking problem and his consequent lost Sundays. He did not consider Kramer’s confidence protected by the seal of confession, or even as a professional secret. But there was no point in mentioning it to others. Time enough to address that problem after Kramer was cleared of these charges.
“He knows,” Koesler continued, “what kind of car Dick drives, that he habitually carries a knife, what his schedule is. Even what size belt he wears.”
“He knows that much! He knows all that!”
“Yes. And I know so little. Outside of that visit I paid him—after you mentioned it would be a good idea—I rarely see him. We don’t travel in the same circles. Matter of fact, he doesn’t travel in any circles. A loner, now and even in the seminary.
“Dick was only a couple of years behind me in the seminary. But I—we—hardly ever saw him. Always working—studying, reading, busy in the boiler room, the machine shop, with the carpenter— always working.
“And it hasn’t changed since ordination. None of us ever sees him. Why, when I visited him this latest time, he was busy in his workshop. And if he hadn’t been there, he would have been out in his parish ringing doorbells or in the school or repairing the church or something like that.
“The problem, Monsignor, is that the real killer knows him and I don’t. That’s why I feel as if I’m limping. If I’m going to be able to find out where the killer made his mistake, the one that will trip him up and expose him, I’ve got to know Dick at least as well as the killer does.” He shook his head. “But I don’t.”
The two were silent for several moments.
“I see,” said Meehan finally. “Well, I suppose I was about as close to Dick Kramer as anyone in the archdiocese. What is it you need to know? Maybe I could be of some help.”
“Maybe you could.” Koesler brightened. “Maybe you could.
“Well, then, the obvious question is: What makes Dick Kramer run? His most overriding characteristic is that he’s a workaholic, and has been for as long as I’ve known him. Which goes back to our earliest days in the seminary. From the very beginning, he’s been wrapped up in busy-ness. Why? Any ideas?”
Meehan hesitated as if he knew the answer but was unsure whether to reveal the information.
“I think I can shed some light on that question,” he said at length. “It’s not for certain. But I’ve had a pet theory for a long, long time. Maybe I’m dabblin’ in pop psychology without a license, but I’m pretty sure it all fits together.”
“Anything is better than what I’ve got, which is no clue at all. What have you got on it, Monsignor?”
“Well, see, Bobby, it all began when Dick Kramer applied for entrance to Sacred Heart Seminary in the ninth grade. He applied and took the entrance exam, just as all of you did, in July, a couple of months before school began in September. That was in ’44 or ’45, I forget which. The thing of it is, he was turned down.”
“Oh, no. I’m afraid you’re mistaken there, Monsignor. Dick was admitted. I remember him as a freshman. He was admitted.”
“So everyone thinks. But they’re not quite correct. Oh, he passed the entrance exam okay. A bright lad. But there was a complication.”
Meehan’s hesitation suggested he might not continue.
“A complication?” Koesler prompted.
“He . . . Dick was illegitimate.”
“He was!”
“Oh, not in civil law. His parents were married. But by a judge, not by a priest. His father had been married previously. One of those cases canon law couldn’t touch. His father, a Catholic, had married a Catholic—before a priest, two witnesses, the whole thing. There weren’t any impediments to the marriage. It just didn’t work out. So they were divorced in civil law.
“Later Dick’s father met the girl who would become Dick’s mother. They fell in love, deeply in love.” He looked at Koesler almost challengingly. “By God, they lived together very happily for some thirty years. But because of that previous marriage, they couldn’t get married in the Church. So when Dick was born, as far as Church law was concerned, he was illegitimate.
“There was only one way that this technicality would have any effect at all on Dick and that was if he were to try to become a priest. Church law prohibited illegitimates from the priesthood. As you know, that particular law was not common knowledge as far as the laity in general was concerned. Ordinarily, they learned about it only if they bumped into it headfirst.”
“Not only was it not popularly known,” Koesler interjected, “It was not universally enforced. You could get a dispensation from it.”
“I’m coming to that,” Meehan said. “You may remember, back in those days, that along with taking an entrance exam, you also had to bring copies of your baptismal and confirmation certificates as well as a copy of your parents’ marriage certificate.
“Well, Richard came with the whole package and presented it to the rector of the seminary. Of course the marriage certificate was of the civil ceremony, since they hadn’t had a religious ceremony. And on the copy of his baptismal certificate was the notation,
