Man Who Loved God

some outsider steps in and tries to out-professional the professionals. I mean, the police are a highly skilled group. I know I’m even less than an amateur when it comes to police procedure. And I never for a moment thought I could do their work. I tried to make it clear that I was at best a resource person. But some of the officers, at least at first, objected to my presence-none more forcefully or wholeheartedly than your brother.

“But, over the years, we’ve come to a better understanding. I think, by now, your brother even likes to have me around when things Catholic are mucking up an investigation.”

Once more Tully tried to cool the coffee with his breath. He sipped, then suppressed a grimace. He focused on the instant coffee container. It was a brand-name product-indeed, a brand he had enjoyed from time to time. Could it be the water? The kettle? The cup?

Whatever, this was the worst coffee he could remember. He would have to go easy on the food and drink here until he sampled each serving. “I can understand my brother’s reluctance to let you in on a criminal investigation. But I’m still not clear where you fit in. What could be ‘Catholic’ about a murder case?”

“Hard to say,” Koesler admitted. “But maybe I can give you a couple of typical cases.

“Our first go-round is as good an example as any. You mentioned that the media called it ‘The Rosary Murders’-”

“And the rosary is almost exclusively a Catholic devotion,” Tully interjected.

“Right. But on top of that, maybe only a priest would recognize that particular prayer as part of the penance he might give a penitent to say after confession. And indeed, that was at least part of the clue to solving those murders.

“Then there was another serial murder case where the motto on a papal coat of arms was the clue. And another when the solution depended on knowing the kind of perks a priest might enjoy on vacation. And another when a murderer equated the cards in a poker hand to various officers in the diocese. That sort of thing.

“Any clearer?”

“A little.”

Koesler looked at his watch, something he was apt to do many times during the day and perhaps a couple of times through the night. “It’s getting close to seven.”

“So it is,” Tully said as he checked his watch. “Guess I’d better get going.”

“Do you have a car? You can borrow mine for the evening. I’ll be busy packing.”

“Thanks, but I’m renting one. It’s on the order.” He grinned. “The vow of poverty comes in handy every once in a while.

“Besides,” he added, “Mr. Adams said he’d send a car to pick me up tonight.” Tully stood and peered through the window overlooking the parking lot. “And here it is now. That is, unless you’re driving a Lincoln.”

Koesler chuckled. “Not a chance. I’m surprised he didn’t send a stretch limo. There’s a lot of that going on around here.”

“Probably in deference to that vow of poverty,” Tully joked.

“I won’t be leaving too early tomorrow,” Koesler said. “If you have any questions, we can talk about them in the morning. And of course I’ll leave you my number at Georgian Bay.”

Tully, on his way down the steps, looked back and smiled. “Don’t worry, Father, I’ll take good care of your baby. And I’ll return her to you safe and sound with no heresies flourishing on your return. Trust me. After all, I’m not fresh out of the seminary. Just relax and have a good rest.”

Koesler watched Tully’s departure until the Town Car turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Even though the car and Tully were gone, Koesler continued to gaze out the window. He wasn’t seeing what he was looking at. His mind was miles away.

He was beginning to be … what?… homesick. And he hadn’t even left home yet.

What had he to be concerned about? St. Joseph’s parish had existed long before he came into being. It had survived many pastors. It would survive him.

He should be confident in entrusting the parish to Father Tully. For one, Koesler long had had friends among the Josephites. He admired the order.

But Father Tully had asked too few questions when the two had toured the buildings. Then again, as Tully himself had stated, he was not a newly ordained priest, the oil of ordination still moist on his hands. He was a seasoned veteran. Surely he could administer old St. Joe’s.

Besides, his brother was Alonzo Tully, a proven professional. Trustworthy and competent.

On the other hand, though the two had a common father, they had different mothers. Raised entirely differently. The priestly Tully could not be measured by his policeman brother. And if he could not be measured by what Koesler knew of his brother, what, indeed, did Koesler know about this visiting priest?

Not much.

Before the phone call, neither Koesler nor the lieutenant had been aware of Father Tully’s existence. His call had taken Koesler completely by surprise-a voice volunteering to step in and make it possible for the pastor to enjoy a most rare vacation.

In the final analysis, Father Zachary Tully was a complete stranger. And in the present setup, the visitor would be completely unsupervised.

What if there were some sort of emergency? Could Tully be trusted to call Koesler if he were needed?

But most of all-and this was important-there was this pressing premonition: something was going to happen that would demand the presence of Father Koesler. He knew it.

Maybe he could shorten his vacation. One week would give him as much rest as two. In fact, it probably was statistically proven that after such a long hiatus in vacations, brevity in leisure was advisable. Better to get into something like that slowly, gradually.

Doing things cold turkey was not Koesler’s style.

But then he laughed at himself. All this rationalization was ridiculous.

In the little time he’d had to get organized, Koesler had prepared pretty thoroughly for Father Tully’s short stay at St. Joe’s. The most important element of that planning had been to brief Mary O’Connor on the newcomer. Mary, longtime secretary to Father Koesler, could and would see to it that the parish functioned on all cylinders in his absence.

No matter what else happened, Mary would hold the fort.

With a lighter heart, Father Koesler began to pack.

Five

At the outset, Father Tully attempted small talk with his driver. The response was monosyllabic.

The driver’s only bow toward a uniform was a pair of leather gloves. Why the hand covering? Father Tully hadn’t a clue, but judging from the driver’s reaction to other questions, the priest decided not to pursue it.

Riding along Jefferson at this early evening hour, Father Tully was most impressed by the emptiness of the streets.

Downtown Detroit’s gigantic buildings-the Renaissance Center, the Millender Center, Cobo Hall, the Pontchartrain Hotel-all of them attested to a vibrant city. But where was everybody?

As it happened, they had a very short ride.

Just past Cobo Hall and beyond the Joe Louis Arena stood the Riverfront Apartments, the home of Thomas A. Adams, Father Tully’s host for this evening and soon-to-be recipient of the St. Peter Claver Award.

They had to pass through two checkpoints, one to enter the garage and another for the building itself. The security system seemed quite formidable to Father Tully. He had no idea how it would have been viewed by a professional burglar.

They left the elevator at the fourteenth floor and walked a short distance down the hall. The decor, though obviously expensive, was depressing; it seemed dark and confining.

The door to the Adams apartment was opened promptly after the driver rang the doorbell. Father Tully’s chauffeur preceded him, peeled off to the right, and disappeared through another doorway. The priest assumed they would not meet again until it was time to return to the rectory.

Father Tully was ushered into an expansive living room. Off-white walls and ceiling, comfortable leather