“Father Koesler?”
The voice over the phone sounded like that which Koesler had heard through the grill of the confessional. In neither instance was there a whisper. There was the same throaty quality and a strong hint of an Italian-American accent.
“This is Father Koesler.”
“This is Guido Vespa. Was you there in the church today when they-whaddyacallit-opened the thing, the coffin?”
“I was there.”
“Then you know.”
“I know, but I don’t understand.”
“Yeah. I gotta see you.”
“You want to see me? Can you come here, to St. Joseph’s, to the rectory?”
“That wouldn’t be so hot, Father.”
“All right. Then where? When?”
“You know where the Eastern Market is?”
“Sure. Of course. I can walk there easily from here.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll meet you at the southeast corner at 11:30.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
Koesler was quite familiar with the locale. At that time of night it would be dark and deserted. The only likely illumination would come from the sparsely placed overhead streetlights-if they were working. He was wary of meeting in such a desolate spot. “Why don’t we meet in a more public place? Maybe a restaurant?”
“No. I don’t wanna have any people around. And you can’t bring nobody. But we gotta meet.”
Once again Koesler hesitated. Practical judgment dictated that he refuse the invitation and insist that if they were to meet at all, it would have to be in a much more public place. But experience told him that Guido Vespa would remain adamant and insist on the market for their rendezvous.
Two circumstances influenced Koesler to acquiesce to Guido’s insistence. Quite naturally he was more than curious about Vespa’s explanation of what had happened. Secondly, Vespa sounded as though he was desperate to talk to the priest to whom he had confessed. The second reason won the inner argument; Koesler could not bring himself to turn down a soul in need. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”
“Alone.”
“I’ll be alone.”
“Thanks, Father.” Vespa broke the connection.
“He wants to meet you tonight?” Dunn had of course heard only Koesler’s end of the conversation.
Koesler nodded.
“I’ll go with you.” Dunn considered that a rather fearless offer.
“Not if you don’t want to abort this meeting. The gentleman was quite insistent that I come alone.”
“But that-“
“
“You’ll tell me about it?”
“I certainly hope I have that opportunity.”
18
The distance from St. Joe’s to the market was only a few blocks-albeit long blocks. Father Koesler was sure he could walk there in less than half an hour. Nonetheless, he gave himself a full half hour, leaving the rectory at 11:00 P.M. Koesler also left behind him an anxious Nick Dunn.
Dunn was left at the rectory to “mind the store.” Hardly a daunting task since nothing much ever occurred at this hour of night. Of course there was always the possibility of an emergency sick call or a sudden death in one of the condos or apartments. But usually that involved an EMS ambulance and the services of a hospital chaplain.
Father Dunn was left behind because there was no room for him in this enterprise by edict of none but Guido Vespa.
Koesler’s thoughts ranged all over creation as he walked briskly up Gratiot toward the market area. He was quite alone on the sidewalk. The few vehicles on the street sped by in a wink.
This sort of isolation engendered apprehension as he skirted one shadowy doorway after another. Anyone could pop out from any doorway, ahead of him or behind. Koesler knew that his clerical collar was little deterrent to a mugger desperate for whatever could buy some crack cocaine to send him into a far more pleasant fantasyland.
Forget the muggers, he thought. My God! He was going to meet a murderer. A man who had, among many other victims, indeed killed a priest! Sometimes, thought Koesler, this soul-in-need philosophy could get a practitioner in trouble. And this, very definitely, qualified as one of those times.
Father Koesler’s recent past was overflowing with too many questions and too few answers.
It had been a simple Saturday afternoon. The usual sporadic confessions. Then-Guido. Why had Vespa wandered into St. Joe’s for his second-ever confession? Why had he blundered into the “open” side of the confessional? With that simple error, Koesler had seen the penitent. A fifty-fifty chance. If Vespa had only entered the other side, he would have been nothing more than a voice, a whisper. Well, no; he wouldn’t have been a whisper. Koesler had tried, without any success, to get Vespa to speak sotto voce.
Then another turn of bad luck having Father Dunn happen in just then. Just in time to overhear Vespa’s confession.
In the final analysis, it didn’t matter all that much that he had seen Vespa, since Dunn also saw him. And then Dunn identified him from that fortuitous picture in the next day’s paper.
That Koesler had been dragged into the investigation of the missing Father Keating was not so much a matter of happenstance. By now, Koesler was almost accustomed to having his precious routine interrupted by a homicide investigation that bore a heavily Catholic aspect. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano or the buzzards to Hinckley, it had become an annual event.
But this was the first time he had known who did it before the investigation even began. With but a couple of exceptions, it was the only time he had been sacramentally prevented from participating fully in the case.
What a strange affair … capped by the missing body! And now, in all probability, he was about to find out what had really happened to Father Keating’s body. Would he be able to use productively the information he was about to learn? Probably not. Unless Vespa were to free him from the secrecy of Vespa’s own confession-which seemed highly unlikely-everything would still be bound by that earlier confession.
So … this evening would be entirely devoted to the service of one needy soul.
With this thought, Koesler arrived at the marketplace.
The only establishment open at this hour in this part of town was the Roma Cafe, too far distant to shed any light here. Otherwise the marketplace was deserted.
During the season, farmers brought their fresh produce, plants, and flowers to the market. During business hours trade in the outdoor market was brisk. Now the area resembled a stage set: an uncompleted cluster of buildings with ancient roofs and no walls, which had been deserted and abandoned. Papers, driven by a slight breeze, drifted along the pavements and walkways. Creatures were stirring, but only to feed on the scraps left behind when the farmers departed. Only a few streetlights were functioning. They did little beyond casting unreal shadows. Even though Koesler’s eyes had adapted to the darkness, he could not see very clearly.
“You been waitin’ long, Father?”
This was the third time he had heard the voice. In the confessional, over the phone a few hours ago, and now.
Guido Vespa.
Koesler about-faced abruptly. At first, he could make out only the outline of the other man. But from that outline, he could tell the man was easily as tall as himself and considerably heftier. As Vespa stepped closer, his
