Man Who Loved God

Could one-or all of them-be guilty of more?

The CEO and his executive officers were subject to few checks and balances. Might there be any other skeletons in their closets? If there were, mightn’t there be a basis for additional blackmail? For blackmail surely was what she actually planned.

In any case, her immediate plans were clear: one by one she would lead each of four men to conclude that he was the father of her unborn child. Failing their initial belief, she would convince each of them that he was the father.

That should result in a more than comfortable income for her. Actually, she would do well financially if even only one were convinced-especially if that one were Tom Adams. What, indeed, had she to fear? After all, one of them was the father. She couldn’t miss.

On top of that, she might very well uncover more dirt. Based on the track record of each of her lovers, with the possible exception of Tom Adams, they easily might be as dishonest in their business lives as they were in their private lives. Discreet yet determined questioning might uncover secrets they desperately wanted to keep hidden. This was new territory; she would have to proceed with caution.

It would require research and investigation. Fortunately, Al had been open with her, at least concerning the bank’s business operations. Based on that information and knowledge, she ought to be able to open up some cans of misconduct that could cause one or more of her paramours to squirm. She would start digging. This was a win/win situation; she couldn’t lose.

She completely disregarded Father Tully’s admonition.

Sixteen

Saturday and Sunday had been what all the Tullys hoped for during Father Zachary’s visit: a peaceful time to grow in the knowledge and love of one another. The Koznickis were with them for Saturday brunch. For the remainder of the weekend, outside of the Masses presided over by Father Tully, it was family time.

Now it was Monday and the priest had a eulogy to deliver.

Father Tully took a seat at the rear of the chapel, an excellent vantage for people watching.

He had arrived at McGovern Funeral Home some twenty minutes before the service for Al Ulrich was scheduled to begin. He would have been earlier still but for the phone call from the pastor of St. Joe’s. Father Koesler had been away from his parish almost one whole week. He could not quite let go.

Ostensibly this morning’s call was to relate yesterday’s adventures in the good company of Father Koesler’s priest classmate in Ontario. In actuality, the call was about St. Joseph’s parish in Detroit. But Father Koesler didn’t want to appear so openly possessive as to make it obvious that he missed his parish and was checking on how things were going.

But back to the adventure. Yesterday-Sunday-Father Koesler and his priest buddy had toured the rebuilt stockade of Ste. Marie Among the Hurons.

The Jesuit mission, established in 1639, had lasted a mere ten years-during which time some Indians were converted to Catholicism and some Jesuits were martyred. Many of these martyrs were famous among parochial school students-among whom was Robert Koesler when he was a lad and people got away with calling him Bobby.

It had been an evident thrill for Koesler to visit the martyrs’ shrine, as well as the fort, which had been burned to the ground when the Jesuits retreated, and much later rebuilt according to the original specifications.

To be honest, Father Tully was more than a little vague about the North American martyrs. Koesler gave a brief rundown featuring Isaac Jogues-the most famous of them all-and Fathers Brebeuf, Lalemant, Garnier, and Chabanal; as well as two laymen, Rene Goupil and Jean de la Lande.

Koesler omitted any detail of the terminal agonies of these dedicated saints. Although he did mention a humorous prayerful invocation found in a book titled St. Fidgeta and Other Parodies. The invocation, logically inserted in the Litany of the Saints, prayed, “From the Sisters who tell us precisely what the Indians did to Saint Isaac Jogues and his companions; good Lord, deliver us.”

Actually, schoolboys lapped up the macabre details of the torture and slaughter of these saintly priests. However, once the lads matured to become students in the seminary, where the martyrology was read to them immediately after lunch, the effect could be a bit nauseating.

During their visit to the old fort, Fathers Koesler and Rammer spent much of their time in the chapel, a long, narrow building constructed principally of logs. A plain wooden table served as the altar. Ornate vestments, complete with the old fiddleback chasubles, ready to be donned, hung on nearby hooks. On the altar sat a chalice that appeared to have barely survived a couple of wars.

Also on the altar lay prayer cards-two small, one large. These supplied the Latin prayers when the celebrant found it inconvenient to read the missal.

Regular Mass had not been offered in that chapel, for almost 350 years. Yet all was in readiness to begin again.

Koesler was most impressed with the realization that these vestments, implements, missal, and prayer cards had been in use a century or so before this present crude chapel was built. They were the exact same paraphernalia and trappings that had been in use in the era of his own ordination. They had remained in common use until a few years after the Second Vatican Council. Now, occasionally, with special permission, they were still used.

For Fathers Koesler and Rammer, the visit to the chapel in Huronia was a refreshing occasion for nostalgia. This was obvious from the warmth in Koesler’s voice as he concluded his account of that visit.

At that point, the conversation took an expected turn. “How are things in Detroit?” Both men knew what specific section of Detroit Koesler referred to.

“Goin’ good. Just like you said, I get out of the way and Mary O’Connor keeps things running.”

“Great! How’d the weekend liturgies go?”

“Nobody walked out till I was all done with Mass.”

“Sorry. Silly question.”

“That’s okay. I know how you feel. As I told you before, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing that’s come up is the shooting of Al Ulrich.”

“Al … Ulrich?” Koesler couldn’t place the unfamiliar name.

“He’s not one of your parishioners. I told you about him: the one who was slated to be manager of that new branch of Adams Bank?”

“Oh yes. Tom Adams-the one you gave the award to-his bank. That’s too bad. Poor man.” Koesler had no reason to know Ulrich and, indeed, had never met him.

“I’m supposed to give a eulogy for him at ten this morning.”

“Hey, I’d better get off the line and let you get going.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got some time.” Better now rather than having Koesler call back later in the day with some newly remembered detail. “Wasn’t there anything about the murder in the Canadian media? It was big here ….”

“No, not a word. I’ve been through that before though. Lots of times when we think we have a major story, the foreign press doesn’t give it any coverage at all. But you were involved in this one, as I recall.”

“I thought I was. I met Ulrich at that award dinner party. The rest of the cast of characters were there too. And I got to meet them.”

“The rest of the cast, of characters? What characters?”

“The upper echelon of Adams Bank. Especially the three executive vice presidents who stand to gain from Ulrich’s death.”

Koesler started to chuckle. ‘“Stand to gain’? Are you developing a list of suspects? You really don’t have to play cop just ’cause you’re at St. Joseph’s, you know. It doesn’t come with the territory.”

Tully bristled, partly because he had already been made to feel an intruder in this investigation. And now Koesler seemed to be making fun of him. “I know. I know. I know. I’ve been through all this with my brother. I’ve