Gently, he eased the check back in her direction. It was, he thought, like playing checkers or chess-or a Ouija board. “I can’t take it … for a great number of reasons. If you feel some compulsion to donate, send whatever you wish to the parish. Or, better yet”-his face broke into a grin-“drop it into the collection at Sunday Mass.”
She shrugged and picked up the check. “You’ve got a point.” She smiled. “I should start going to church again.”
He broke another cookie, carefully. “I came here primarily because you asked for me. I would never have imposed on you. But, now that I’m here, I have been wondering: How is your husband? At the news conference, some of the reporters wondered if he was really alive.”
She made a face. “Oh, he’s alive all right.”
“I don’t hear anyone stirring.”
“The only time he makes any noise-lately, at least-is when he wants something.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Green-”
“Oh, please: Call me Margie.”
“Margie. But I thought you would be much more impressed than you seem to be with what’s happened to your husband.”
“Oh, I was impressed all right. Monday night I was impressed as all hell. And I was pretty overwhelmed Tuesday morning. Then I had to admit that what was holding most of my interest was whether he would be much changed by what had happened. It was sort of like watching a cocoon to see what kind of butterfly will develop and emerge.”
“You don’t seem terribly pleased by what came out.”
She sighed. “He hasn’t completely recovered yet. But the signs are that it’s going to be the same old Moe.”
“How’s his back?”
“He isn’t moving around much yet. It’s hard to tell. So far, he hasn’t made life too hectic. But I guess it’s early.”
“You must be closer to him than anyone else. What do you think happened?”
“You mean miracle or coma? I would put my next-to-last dollar on a coma. The only thing that would make me hesitate is that I found him. And I observed and checked really thoroughly. He sure seemed to be dead. That I could understand and accept. But why would God-or whoever-bring him back?”
“Another priest has an answer for that. It involves footnotes in traditional theology. What it comes down to is that miracles like this are granted to increase the faith of believers and unbelievers alike. Nothing is promised or guaranteed to the individual who receives the miracle.”
“Yeah?”
“So they say. And I think there’s some truth to it. But I’m thinking more of an inexplicable recovery from some illness or injury, not a return from the dead. Maybe I’ve got a gap in my faith.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Still … I did look. Actually, I feel major league foolish for causing all this from the beginning.”
“You didn’t cause it.”
“I should have insisted that the doctor come over. If not Fox, some doctor-”
“And what if his condition had fooled the doctor? Or, what if he really was dead? We don’t know those answers yet.”
“More coffee, Father?”
It was too good to refuse.
As she poured more for both of them, Koesler said, “The night of the wake … remember, you were going to brief me on some things I might use to speak about your husband?”
“Oh, God, yes. And I didn’t. There was just an unending line of people. They took up all my time. I guess I maybe apologized then, I don’t know. It all got so confusing. If I didn’t apologize then, I do now.”
“I understand-and I understood then. But while you were occupied with visitors, I had some visitors myself.”
“I remember: Jake Cameron, Claire McNern and a Stan Lacki-I didn’t know him at all. But their names have been in the news since all this happened. Then there were Judy and David. But if there’s a common denominator with all five, it’s got to be that they’re all victims of Moe.”
Koesler was somewhat startled that she so readily classified them all as victims. Not all that many children would be matter-of-factly considered victims of a parent. And this was not a trendy case of pedophilia; this was the crassest form of manipulation and exploitation.
Margie’s perception only confirmed what Koesler had concluded concerning Green’s relationship with these five-if not everyone-with whom he’d had contact.
“I think you’re right,” Koesler said. “All five of these people had horrendous tales to tell. I’m not positive why they picked me to unload on. Maybe because I’m a priest … although I don’t see that that would motivate Jake Cameron. The others at least are Catholic.”
“Don’t count on that with my kids. They were brought up Catholic because I was. But with me it’s more superstition than anything else. And how could I expect them to continue when I don’t go to church regularly? And Moe-hell, Moe isn’t even an atheist! One would have to think about the concept of God to deny His existence. I doubt the idea of God ever crossed Moe’s mind.”
Koesler sat back on the couch. It was firm yet comfortable. “Maybe it wasn’t because I was a priest that they confided in me. Maybe they were warning me not to say too many nice-if generic-things about Dr. Green. If so, maybe I should be grateful to them. The tendency at a funeral is to find some good in the deceased. Because of the priest shortage, priests today have far more funerals than in the recent past. Frequently we may know the person only very slightly-or not at all. In this case, without knowing your husband, I would surely have looked the fool if I had said anything particularly laudable about him.”
“What you say makes sense, Father. But my guess is they just wanted to get a load off their chest. That would be my guess about my kids, anyway.”
“Whatever the reason, each and every one of them was positive your husband was dead. I got the feeling that they would never have chanced expressing their feelings about him had he been alive.”
“You’re right about that. But of course they all thought he was dead. All of us, then and there,
“What I’m getting to is that after each person told me of Dr. Green’s treatment-or, rather, mistreatment-of them, each time I had the same feeling: that it was lucky your husband had died of natural causes. If he had been murdered, every one of those people would have been excellent suspects.”
Margie opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. “But he wasn’t murdered. He’s alive,” she said after a moment.
“Supposing someone tried to murder your husband-one of the five we’ve been talking about, or someone else. Supposing someone gave your husband an overdose of some drug that could cause death. And, suppose there was a mistake and the dose brought on a coma instead of death. In that case it would be attempted murder.”
Margie thought about that. “That must be,” she said finally, “why that cop was here earlier today. He asked a lot of questions. Until now, I thought he was just trying to cover the department’s ass-if you’ll excuse my French.”
“Do you recall his name?”
“Uh … it was … Italian, I think. He was a sergeant, I think … a big guy.”
“Mangiapane?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Did he speak with your husband?”
Margie raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Moe is not receiving.”
“He wouldn’t see the officer?”
“Nobody! No, check that: He did see the doctor-Dr. Fox.”
“Did the doctor say what transpired? Was there any kind of diagnosis?”
Margie shook her head.
