The inspector entered the parish parking lot and stopped at the side door of the rectory. The priest was about to leave when he sensed that Koznicki had something more to say.
“Father, I have no idea what your previous experience with the police has been. And I certainly do not wish to give you the impression that everyday police work is as demanding as today’s episode with a, barricaded gunman.”
“I know that, Inspector.”
“The point I want to make, Father, is that even if such bizarre behavior is blessedly unusual and comparatively infrequent, still, a policeman’s time is not his own. Engagements and appointments are made to be broken.”
The priest looked puzzled. The inspector was preaching to the converted. Long before he’d come to Detroit, Father Tully had had plenty of contact with police departments in many U.S. cities. These departments differed from one another in sometimes subtle, sometimes evident ways. But in general, cops were busy people. Father Tully was more than willing to concede the inspector’s point.
“Even though police work literally never ends, some are more dedicated to it than others.” The inspector paused, seeming to weigh his next words. “Father, I do not know how much you know about your brother’s divorce. But I assume, as a priest, you must wonder-”
“Inspector …” Father Tully reclosed the car door and turned to face the officer. “I didn’t have the vaguest idea what I’d find in Detroit. All I knew was that my brother was here and that he was on the police force. I didn’t know where he lived, whether he was married, if he had children-or even what he looked like.
“Since I’ve come, Anne Marie sort of brought me up to date on things, including his first marriage and this present one as well. My brother shared a bit of history with me. So I think I know. But I’m grateful to you for volunteering to clue me in.”
“Yet,” Koznicki persisted, “there is one condition that you may not know of, but is very pertinent.”
The priest leaned back with an encouraging smile.
“While it is true that police work is never-ending, not all individuals are equally dedicated. I, perhaps, know that better than Anne Marie and even than Alonzo. He does his work in what, to him, is a very ordinary, run-of- the-mill fashion. He expects his fellow officers to equal his dedication. In that expectation he is almost always disappointed. His dedication is more complete and more compelling than that of any other officer I have ever known.
“I may be wrong, but I think that people who enter his life in special ways-in everything from police work to marriage-cannot comprehend what it is they are getting into.
“Let me repeat: he expects his fellow officers to be as single-minded as he. That seldom happens. But it does explain why his squad completes more investigations and has a higher conviction rate than any of the other six squads in homicide. He expects anyone who wants to share his life, in marriage or not, to grasp how total, how complete, is his dedication.
“No one, yet, has been able to do that. So far, Anne Marie is coping marvelously.
“In this regard-Alonzo’s intense fidelity to his work-I know him better even than a wife could.
“And you must know this also: if you are going to stand close to him as the brother you are, you must realize, as his wife must, that his work comes first in his life-even ahead of his wife and children.” He looked at the priest meaningfully. “Even ahead of you.”
They sat in silence. Finally the priest spoke. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Inspector. And it’s something I must think through. I thank you most sincerely.”
Koznicki smiled as he nodded. He watched as the priest left the car and entered the rectory. When he was safely inside, the inspector drove away.
Maybe tomorrow there would be brunch.
Maybe.
Father Tully checked the answering service. Four calls for Father Koesler, none of them urgent. A few calls regarding the time of weekend services. No emergencies, thank God.
He dug out the sacramentary wherein he found the Scripture readings for this weekend’s Mass. With a notepad and pen and readings, he was sure to come up with some thoughts for a homily. He always did.
Settling into a comfortable chair, he reflected on Inspector Koznicki’s parting words-the part about the total involvement of a police officer in his work … being constantly on call.
Earlier, when his brother had made practically the same statement, Father Tully had compared police work to the priesthood. Now, on second thought, he saw differences.
Back in Father Koesler’s heyday, there had been a similar totality of time and service.
It was a different world then-at least a different Catholic world. Pre-Vatican II priests were the deputed “holy men” of parochial life In addition to administering sacraments, which priests of Tully’s time continued to do, Koesler’s priests heard endless confessions, forgave countless sins.
Today, few people die at home. They tend to expire in nursing homes, hospices, and hospitals. Places where institutional chaplains: have anointed them-at the first sign of illness-not with the dreaded extreme unction, but with the more encouraging sacrament of the sick. Offering one answer to the question: what’s in a name?
No longer was there the sense of urgency that had accompanied a 3 A.M. call to the rectory, and the dash of the race with death.
Those two sacraments alone, confessions that would not quit, plus the summons of unschedulable death, had yesterday’s priests on a par with police and with an open-ended call to service at any time, day or night.
Additionally, pre-Vatican II priests had had all the answers to all the obvious questions. Which kept parishioners calling on the phone or in person. Most parishes could guarantee the presence and availability of a priest anytime one was needed for anything.
Today’s shrinking numbers made the rectory priest an endangered species.
But not Father Zachary Tully. The parishes he served were so poor that no one was standing in line to take a departing pastor’s place.
Strange what problems most of today’s Catholics could solve on their own. And strange what poverty can create in terms of dependency.
But this was not getting the required homily thought out. He would have to get some serious work done. One never knew what might interrupt-and brunch would be served in just a few more hours.
Fifteen
Barbara Ulrich, a bit numb from all that had happened today, sat in her living room. The blinds were closed. She wore only a half slip and a bra.
Frequently she wore nothing at home. It was part of a peculiar game she and her late husband had played. She would try to tempt him and he would resist temptation.
God! Now that she looked back on it, how sick they had been. The more Al lived in and for the bank, the more she had pulled their relationship apart.
Was he really gone? She had to keep reminding herself that he would not be coming home-ever again. The games were over.
The sound of the phone seemed unreal. Who would call her at a time like this? Telemarketing, probably. She reached over the arm of the couch and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said absently.
“Barbara, this is Marilyn … Marilyn Fradet.”
For a second, it didn’t register. “Oh … yes, Marilyn. What is it?”
“Did you hear the news? Do you have your radio or TV on?”
“No. What news?”
“They got Al’s killer!”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Turn on your TV. Channel Four. No, wait; it was a bulletin. It’s over now.”
“I can’t focus, Marilyn. What is this all about?”
