“Yes.” If she wasn’t sure whether he was a priest, she was not from his past. So she was in his present and perhaps his future.
“One can’t tell these days. But you looked like you were a priest.”
“And you are . . ?”
“Agnes Blondell.
“How do you do, Ms. Blondell. I was just about to—” He never got the opportunity to explain that he had a very busy schedule. Much to Koesler’s surprise, the woman took his elbow quite firmly and began leading him downstairs toward the autopsy area.
It was the element of surprise that worked for her. Before he knew what hit him, Koesler was down the stairs and into an area that reminded him of a many-celled dungeon. Out of the corner of one eye, he caught sight of the large metal trays on which bodies were undoubtedly placed for dissection and autopsy. Fortunately for him, none of the trays was occupied. The crew was nearing lunch break.
All the while, the woman kept chattering. As best as he could grasp, Ms. Blondell was concerned about the eternal welfare of one of her fellow workers who claimed to be Catholic but she wasn’t so sure about that. His behavior vis-a-vis women—apparently unless they were dead—fell considerably short of white knights of old. The man needed to consult a priest. Maybe go to confession or whatever it is Catholics do when they need a priest.
Koesler was embarrassed and growing more so by the moment. At the outset, he had not actively resisted her highhanded tactics because he had mistakenly assumed there was a medical emergency that required the spiritual ministrations of a priest. Now it seemed nothing more than a marital spat without benefit of marriage.
“This,” Ms. Blondell announced in a righteous tone, “is Arnold Bush. He’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”
The man reminded Koesler of a creature who was dangerous only because he had been forced into an inescapable corner. Bush looked at Koesler. Bush obviously was annoyed. Bush looked at Agnes. Clearly he was furious.
Koesler glanced around the room. The rest of the attendants and technicians seemed amused, although not in any overt way. And they were decidedly keeping their distance. Koesler surmised that the others had some reason to fear Bush. But, at least at this moment, that fear was not shared by Agnes Blondell.
This scene that Koesler found himself a part of was by no means unique. However, it had been a long while since he’d been in a like situation.
Usually it happened on those infrequent occasions when a wife would bring her husband to the rectory so that the priest could impose “the pledge” on the man, who, at that point, was usually close to delirium tremens. Thus coerced, the victim would pledge to abstain from booze forever. In a lifetime, some men took the pledge dozens of times. It is said you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. In Koesler’s experience, you could lead a man to sobriety, but you couldn’t guarantee he’d be sober next week.
Such, obviously, was the case here. Ms. Blondell seemed determined that Father Koesler effect some sort of reformation. Mr. Bush did not appear to share her conviction of the need for reform. Thus, if anything was going to happen here—and Koesler had no clue as to what Agnes intended to happen—it would depend entirely on Bush’s undergoing a massive change in attitude.
Whatever might ensue, this was the antithesis of Koesler’s method of operation. And he deeply resented the woman’s forcing this situation on him. “Ms. . . .” Koesler had forgotten her name.
“Blondell.”
“Ms. Blondell, would you mind very much leaving me alone with Mr. . . .”
“Bush.”
“. . . with Mr. Bush here?”
Her expression said she was not all that eager to leave, but if the priest insisted . . . “Well, all right. I suppose you need privacy to do whatever it is you Catholics do.” She left and joined some of the female onlookers waiting to learn the outcome of this scene. Conspiratorially, they left together to conjecture on Bush’s fate now that he’d been turned over to his priest.
Bush and Koesler regarded each other silently for a few moments. Finally, Bush tossed his head in the direction of the departed Agnes Blondell. “She’s a bitch.”
Koesler could not debate the point.
On reflection, Bush concluded that this priest had nothing to do with the present humiliation. It was entirely Blondell’s fault. No use blaming the priest. “I don’t know your name.”
“Koesler. Father Koesler.”
“Is that K-E-S-S-L-E-R?”
“No; K-O-E-S-L-E-R.”
“German?”
“Yes.” Though he was half Irish, Koesler rarely acknowledged that fact. To a casual acquaintance, the explanation was not worth the time it took.
“I’m sorry you got mixed up in this. It’s none of your affair. But then, it’s none of her business either.”
“Granted.”
Bush looked at his watch. “We got a break now. You want to go to lunch? We could get a salad in one of the Greek places.”
Koesler briefly considered the invitation. “Okay.” He felt too sorry for Bush to refuse him.
As usual around midday in Greektown, auto traffic was perilously close to gridlock and the sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians. Partly because he wanted to get this engagement over with as quickly as possible and partly because it was so cold, Koesler walked rapidly. With his longer stride, the much taller Koesler unconsciously forced Bush to almost run just to keep up. When they reached the Laikon Cafe, Koesler felt invigorated. Bush was panting.
“Do you always walk this fast?” Bush gasped.
“Only when it’s cold,” Koesler answered as he looked over the early luncheon crowd, found a space, and headed for a table for two not far from a window.
They each ordered salad. The coffee was poured immediately.
Their conversation had barely begun when Koesler sensed lunch would be destroyed if Bush were allowed to explain his work. Without doubt someone had to assist in autopsies, but Koesler knew he would be happier if he never heard a graphic description of the work. So he steered the talk in this and that direction until they chanced on Bush’s avocation of handiwork and his fascination with machines, both human and constructed.
So pleased was Koesler to have stumbled on this neutral subject, it did not occur to him that Arnold Bush and Father Kramer had identical hobbies.
By the time their salads were delivered, the subject of Bush’s pastime was pretty well exhausted. Through the salad course and more coffee, Koesler coaxed Bush into giving an account, albeit abbreviated, of his life. It was a knack Koesler had, springing from his genuine interest in people, that caused others, oftentimes even strangers like Bush, to open up.
Bush, however, was not about to reveal all. He had been wounded too often to bare himself completely. His carefully edited personal narrative skipped over such items as the time he had spent living in a bordello. But, testing the waters, he did throw in a few controversial facts such as his on-again/off-again practice of Catholicism.
When Koesler rejected the bait, neither greeting the news with widened eyes nor berating him for his backsliding, Bush found himself warming to the priest somewhat. He was indeed sorry to have the lunch end. But the priest, though gracious enough, appeared to be in a hurry. So, too soon for Bush, the luncheon was over. And, wonder of wonders, the priest picked up the tab. If Bush needed another reason to trust this priest, the fact that he would pay for lunch was it. For one used to having the flow of money go from the laity to the clergy, this was a unique experience.
Koesler left the restaurant and leaned into the cold damp gale that gusted in from the Detroit River and twisted through the canyons of downtown. Fortunately, his car was parked only a few blocks away. He hurried into the vehicle, shivering, but grateful to be protected from the biting wind-chill.
Before starting the car, he cleaned the mist from his glasses and thought about this unexpectedly busy, if not as productive as he had wished, morning.
He had been disheartened by Inspector Koznicki’s loss of faith in Father Kramer. And yet, it had not been a
