Body Count

conclude the confession?

In this, Koesler had proved a quick learner-uncharacteristically. After only a couple of minor disasters with kids stopped dead in their tracks because he sought clarification, he just accepted whatever they said-no matter how contradictory or impossible-issued a penance of a certain number of prayers, and absolved them from their fancied transgressions or peccadillos.

At one time during his early years as a priest, Koesler figured that was how he would die: on a Saturday afternoon, listening to the repetitive confessions of children-from boredom.

But in all likelihood it was not to be. Kids were no longer coming to confession weekly, daily. Adults did not come. Nobody came. Not as they had. The weeks before Christmas and Easter had once been Monday-through- Saturday, dawn-till-night confessions. Now a few hours would take care of the entire load.

Abruptly, the door to the open confessional was flung back. There stood-no, towered-one of the largest men Koesler had ever seen. His body was mountainous. His head was huge. His lips, his mouth, his teeth, raised visions of Jaws. His ears were sagging shutters; his bulbous off-centered nose seemed to have been smashed many times over. His eyes seemed to have been put in his face as an afterthought; so small were they that had it not been for their beadiness they would have almost disappeared in the moon-crater face.

Why did he have the feeling he had seen this man before? In a previous parish? At a meeting? In a gathering? The news media, television, the newspapers? The boxing ring? The movies?

The man seemed as startled to see Koesler as Koesler was to see him. “What the hell! What’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m …” Koesler had to think about this one, “I’m hearing confessions.”

“Then where’s the wall? Where’s the goddam window?”

Ah, that was it. “It’s on the other side. You came in the wrong door. Go in the other door … the one that’s marked ‘private confessions.’”

The door slammed shut. Koesler could hear him grousing as he barged through the other door; the entire cubicle shook as that too slammed in the behemoth’s wake.

Koesler slid the small window open. He could hear the man groping his way toward the kneeler. Koesler could hear it all but could make out nothing in the dark. But of course he had already seen the man. So much for anonymity.

Finally, the man was kneeling-and grunting. Then, after several extended moments of silence, “How do you start this thing again?”

“Bless me, Father …” Koesler prompted.

“Bless me, Father …” Silence. “Then what?”

“… for I have sinned.”

“… for I have sinned. Oh, yeah: Bless me. Father, for I have sinned. That’s right.”

Another silence.

“My last confession. …”

“My last confession …?” the man wondered.

“How long has it been since you went to confession last?”

“Oh. Oh … oh … I guess my last confession was the first time.”

“Your last confession was your first confession? When you were a child?”

“Near as I can figure.”

“Not even when you were confirmed?”

“What’s that?”

“Confirmation. When a bishop confirms you. You weren’t confirmed?”

“I don’t think so. I would have remembered that, I guess.”

This, thought Koesler, was one of God’s neglected children. The man’s swarthy cast, together with his features and pronounced accent, suggested a Mediterranean heritage, possibly Sicilian. In Koesler’s experience, such people frequently were either extremely religious or total strangers to church. He recalled the man who had stopped in at a Detroit rectory and asked for Monsignor Vizmara, only to be told that monsignor had died five years previously. “Oh, that’ sa too bad,” the man said, “he was-a my regular confessor.”

In any case, something extraordinary must have happened for this man to have come in after all these years. What?

“All right, ” Koesler said, “it’s been a great number of years since you’ve been to confession. What brings you back?”

“Well, see, I killed a priest.”

“You what!?” Koesler suddenly realized that not only had he and his penitent been speaking aloud instead of whispering, but that he himself had just shouted. Koesler was embarrassed. “You what?” he repeated in a whisper.

“I said I killed a priest. You hard of hearing?”

“No. And you should whisper, like I am … now.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“You killed a priest, ” Koesler repeated, his tone a mixture of wonderment and near astonishment.

“That’s what I did all right.” He was not whispering.

“Well … why?”

“A contract.”

“A contract?”

“Yeah. A contract. Somebody put out a contract on him. They gave it to me. I felt bad about it. I never wasted a priest before.”

“You never wasted … uh … killed a priest before. Does that mean you have killed others-others who were not priests?”

“Oh, yeah. But never a priest. This was my first time.” His tone communicated pride in his achievement.

In all his years as a priest, Koesler had heard murder confessed only a couple of times. He considered murder the ultimate crime, if not sin, and he was shocked. But he tried to regain his composure as he forced himself to consider the theological implications of murder.

Obviously, no matter how repentant a murderer might be, there was nothing he could do for his victim. There were other considerations though. Damnum emergens-as a result of the murder, were there any ramifications, complications, consequences?

“Did anyone depend on this priest?” Koesler asked in a whisper. “I mean, was he supporting anyone, as far as you know?”

“He wasn’t married.” The man was definitely not whispering. “At least I don’t think he was married. He couldna been married, could he … I mean, he was a priest after all!”

“You should whisper, ” Koesler admonished. “I mean, was he supporting any relative-a mother, sister, something like that? Did anyone rely on him for support-financial support?” The implication being that if anyone suffered as a consequence of this killing, the murderer would incur that responsibility.

“Geez, I don’t think so.”

“Has any innocent person been accused of the crime?”

“Are you kiddin’? I just did it yesterday. What’s with all these questions?”

“I’m trying to cover all the possibilities. For you to be truly sorry for what you did you have, to be willing to make reparations for any evil consequences-any bad things that happen because you killed this man, this priest. For instance, if an innocent person were to be accused of this crime-especially if an innocent person were convicted of the crime-you would have to come forward and confess publicly. Would you do that?”

Pause.

“That’s a safe enough bet, ” the man said finally. “If they tagged somebody, I’d sing. But I wouldn’t put my last chip on that happening.” Pause. Then, “These are crazy questions. I thought you’d want to know who bought it.”

“Who bought it? You mean who got killed? Well, it’s not absolutely necessary for your confession. But, yes, of course, I’d like very much to know the name.”

“Keating.”