Until Mulroney said something just a few seconds ago about how Monsignor Kern was not alone in the casket, Koesler had assumed that he and Father Dunn-and, of course Guido Vespa, plus whoever had helped him insert Keating-were the only ones who knew about Father Keating and what would be his penultimate resting place.
Eyes closed, Koesler was unable to gauge the sounds made by the bystanders. However, he had expected a considerably more shocked reaction. He did clearly hear McNiff say, “What the hell is this?” Still, that was hardly the response Koesler had expected from the sight of two cadavers in the same coffin. He opened his eyes.
At first he could see nothing. His eyes had been shut so tightly that upon opening them the light momentarily blinded him. In addition, smoke from the incense continued to pour from the thurible. It was several moments before he was able to focus.
No doubt about it: There was the body of Monsignor Clement Kern.
And nobody else.
And the explanation of Mulroney’s allusion to Clem’s not being alone as well as McNiff’s surprised “What the hell is this?”: In the casket, at about the level of Clem Kern’s hip, was an unopened bottle of Courvoisier, that extremely pricey cognac. Its position in the casket indicated that someone had slid it in just as the lid was lowered. Apparently, it was meant to accompany the monsignor into eternity. And apparently, Father Mulroney was among the few who knew about it.
But-the essential concern-Koesler carefully counted the bodies. There was one. One body.
Could there be a false bottom? What if Guido and friends had planted Keating beneath Kern somehow? That outside possibility was torpedoed when the morticians removed almost all the padding from the casket, probably searching for any particle of Clem’s clothing, or of his body, which might someday become a treasured relic.
As a result of the morticians’ digging about, it was clear that, one, there was room in the casket for a couple of-if somewhat cramped-bodies, and two, the body count remained at one.
Unable to grasp the significance of this turn of events, Koesler absently studied the one body available.
It didn’t seem that Clem was going to be a self-performing miracle. There was no doubt the remains were that of Clem Kern. All the contours were there. But Clem, in life a small person, had shriveled still more. What skin that could be seen-head, neck, and hands-was dark and discolored. The eyes and cheeks were sunken. There seemed to be some sort of fungus growing there. The body was leathery, seemingly mummified. Someone touched a vestment; it disintegrated. Someone else touched a finger; the nail simply dropped off.
That was enough for Koesler.
He moved away from the casket. It was an easy directional change; everyone else seemed to be closing in on the coffin to see what they might see. So, that quickly, Koesler was alone.
How to put this together? There was no doubt about Guido Vespa’s confession. Koesler had not dreamed it. If there were any doubt-and he was not hesitant to doubt himself-there was the testimony of Father Dunn.
Guido had freely and spontaneously confessed not only the murder of Father Keating but the peculiar disposal of Keating’s body.
But the body wasn’t here. It wasn’t anywhere in the casket. Could Guido have gotten the wrong casket? If so, whose? Why would he lie about a thing like that? Why would he lie in confession? To what purpose? The confession was reserved between the priest-himself-Guido Vespa, and God. Dunn’s involvement was purely accidental. Between Koesler, Vespa, and God, what would be the point of such a detail if it were a lie? Who was Vespa trying to kid?
Or could it be possible … could someone have removed Keating’s body? Undoubtedly Vespa had help in digging up that casket. One of his henchmen? Now there was a distinct possibility. One or more of Vespa’s sidekicks returns to the cemetery, digs up the casket once again, and takes Keating’s body. Where? Why? To blackmail Vespa? Perhaps someone who found out that Church authorities were going to exhume Clem’s body. Certainly within the past week or so that was no secret. As the time neared, the media were active in publicizing the event. If one of Vespa’s henchmen stole Keating’s body, as it were, could he-would he-blackmail Vespa?
There was no point in Koesler’s remaining in the church. He wasn’t about to force himself to view the body again. In fact, he couldn’t understand why the others seemed so fascinated with what was left of Clem Kern.
Nor was there any particular problem with Koesler’s leaving. No one appeared to be paying any attention to him whatsoever. So he simply circumvented the crowd and walked out the first door he came to.
There he found a group of clamorous media people who had been barred from the ceremony. Father Mulroney considered the sun-guns, the cameras, the gaggle of newspeople extraneous to the solemnity of this event. They had been promised entree only after the ritual was finished. So, actually, the media people could have entered now, but Mulroney and the others inside had forgotten all about them.
To the media, Koesler was fresh meat; they descended on him in a feeding frenzy.
He was caught off guard. He, too, had forgotten their presence in the outer darkness where there was little weeping but a lot of gnashing of teeth. Questions poured in from every side.
Had he seen the body? Was it miraculously preserved? Was there anything unusual about Monsignor Kern, other than that he was dead? (One had to allow for that sort of question in any media interview.) Were any of those who viewed the body especially moved by the sight? Did anyone faint? Get sick? Of what did the ritual consist?
As far as Koesler could judge, just about every conceivable question had been thrust at him except, Was Father John Keating’s body in the coffin with Clem Kern? That was Koesler’s question, and he wasn’t sharing that with anybody.
Wait. There was one with whom he would be forced to share that question. And that person was waiting most impatiently at St. Joseph’s rectory, listening to every newscast. Fruitlessly hoping to learn what or who was sharing Clem Kern’s space.
Father Koesler needed to get back to the rectory right away.
Father Nick Dunn was as stunned as Koesler had been to learn that Monsignor Kern was as alone in his casket as he had ever been.
Koesler explained his hypotheses to the other priest: one, that Guido Vespa had lied about depositing the body, or two, that someone had removed Keating’s remains sometime after Vespa had interred them with Kern.
After considerable thought, conversation, and cups of coffee-made by Dunn-both priests agreed: Either Guido had lied about this detail-and neither priest could think of any reason for that-or, and more likely, someone, probably someone from the reburial squad, had stolen the body. And why? It had to be some form of blackmail. Possibly the blackmail had its roots in some arcane Mafia tradition. Maybe it had something to do with the contract.
Maybe-and this was Dunn’s hypothesis-the contract called for Keating to be buried with Kern. And that, after killing Keating, is exactly what Vespa and his gang had done. Then comes the news that Kern is going to be disinterred. So somebody, not necessarily from Vespa’s gang, but somebody who knows the two priests are buried together, steals Keating’s body, thus violating the terms of the contract. Now the one who has the body is in control and is in position to blackmail Vespa.
It sounded good. But Koesler was still uneasy over discussing someone’s confession with a third party. He realized that some of his feeling was the result of a perhaps overly cautious approach to the seal of confession. After all, neither priest had done anything whatsoever to disturb Vespa’s privacy. Both priests had heard the confession and neither priest had revealed the secret of that confession to anyone in any way. Still, it was a foreign feeling to Koesler to share any confessional secret with anyone but God.
Koesler felt it necessary to remind Dunn that they were still dealing with the sacred seal. But in the unlikely event that Vespa had lied about where he buried Jake Keating, even that lie was included as an inviolable secret. Dunn agreed.
At that moment, the phone rang.
Dunn, since he happened to be seated near the phone, answered. “St. Joseph’s.” He listened briefly, eyes widening. In apparent amazement, he handed the phone to Koesler. “It’s for you. I’m not sure, but I think it’s Guido Vespa.”
