button.
Next, he tried to put the events of last evening together. It was not easy. Nothing even remotely similar had ever happened to him before.
Okay. He met Guido Vespa at the Eastern Market. Koesler remembered how dark it had been and how poorly lit the area was. It had been the first time he and Guido had been together when both of them were standing. They were roughly the same height, but Vespa was much heavier. All of this together probably explained why Koesler would not have seen the gunman. It was dark, and everything was in shadows. Koesler would most likely have not seen anyone approaching to the rear of Vespa due to Vespa’s bulk. Additionally, he had been paying such close attention to Vespa’s incredible story that it would have taken an almost deliberate effort of a third party to be noticed by Koesler.
And that brought him to the crux of the matter: Vespa’s message.
Could he take seriously Vespa’s claim that he had invented the detail of burying Father Keating with Monsignor Kern? Koesler believed he had to take the man seriously. For one thing, there hadn’t been an extra body in the coffin. But also-and Koesler now felt this to be so-last night Vespa was not kidding. It was almost as if he somehow realized that something was about to happen. In effect, it was a deathbed confession that became an actual confession at the point of death.
If that were true, then the heart of what he said also fell into the realm of a deathbed confession. And that was that he had had no intention whatsoever of making a sacramental confession on that memorable Saturday afternoon. It had been-what did Vespa say? — part of the contract. It was what theologians term “simulation.” It appeared to be the real thing, but it was sham. On the other side of the confessional, it would be as if the priest were to pretend to absolve but did not. Or like a priest pretending to consecrate the bread and wine at Mass but withholding the intention to consecrate.
Thus, Vespa’s confession was no confession at all. So, Koesler-and, for that matter, Dunn-was not bound by the seal of confession.
The remaining question was a very large Why? Vespa had explained last night that his pretending to make a confession was part of the contract to kill Keating. But why did the contract carry that provision?
As his thinking became more and more lucid, almost everything that came to mind ended in a question mark.
Why did Vespa fake a confession? Why would anyone stipulate to that as part of a contract? What had happened to Guido Vespa? Could he have survived last night’s shooting? Did whoever fired that gun intend to kill Koesler? Lots of questions, very few-or no-answers.
Koesler was not feeling at all well. His right arm lay across his waist in a sling and the arm was bound tightly to his body by a bandage around his chest. The pain was less sharp than it had been, but he did not want to press the morphine button again. In fact, he felt somewhat nauseated.
He located the nurse’s call button and pressed it. Within seconds the door opened. But instead of a nurse, Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Tully entered. Koesler’s expression telegraphed his surprise.
Koznicki smiled warmly. “We were waiting for you to wake up.”
Koesler returned the smile, though it was modified by his discomfort. “I guess I’m glad to see you. But I really need the nurse just now.”
With some confusion the two officers abruptly left the room, to be immediately replaced by a nurse. As soon as she heard his symptoms, she left, to return at once with an injection that quickly calmed his stomach.
Almost apologetically, the two men returned.
“You gave us a scare and a surprise,” Koznicki said. “The last thing I expected to hear last night was that you had been shot in the company of Guido Vespa in Eastern Market close to midnight.”
Koesler nodded slowly. “How is Guido? Did he make it?”
Koznicki shook his head. “He was dead at the scene. But you, how are you feeling?”
“I’ve been lots better. I guess I was shot. That’s a first. I haven’t seen the doctor yet.” It occurred to Koesler that the officers probably had seen his doctor. “How am I?” he added.
Koznicki smiled. “You will be all right. You sustained a shoulder wound from a bullet that seems to have passed through Guido Vespa and lodged in you. The surgeon says that your rotator cuff has been virtually destroyed-a combination of the wound and the fall you took after being shot. But everyone assures us that with a strong program of physical therapy, you should be almost as good as new.”
As Koznicki explained this, Koesler looked from one officer to the other. Koznicki was a policeman. But in this instance, he was first and foremost a good and close friend to Koesler. Tully, on the other hand, was in all instances a cop. And he was evidencing an eagerness to get some relevant facts. At this point, there seemed to be an implicit agreement among the three men that it was time to get down to business. Unspoken were Koesler’s acquiescence to be interrogated and Koznicki’s permission for Tully to interrogate.
“To begin then, Father,” Tully said, “what were you doing there with Vespa?”
“He called earlier last night and asked that I meet him there. It’s kind of a long story-one I couldn’t tell you before, and one I can tell you now.” Koesler began with Vespa’s confession that Saturday afternoon. The mere mention of the confession brought a startled look to Koznicki’s face. It bespoke his astonishment that Father Koesler would reveal what had been told him under the sacramental seal.
Koesler of course anticipated this reaction. Koznicki worried over the sacramental breach. Tully was more concerned with the legal implications of the confession.
So Koesler explained-several times, from different angles to make sure his freedom to talk now was completely understood-how the sacramental seal had been reduced to no more than a professional secret at best. From Vespa’s spontaneous revelation and the manner in which the explanation was made, it was clear that he had wanted Koesler to understand. Even if it were a professional secret, the need to solve Keating’s murder mandated Koesler’s complete candor in revealing his information to the police.
That explained, the three settled down to analyze the information.
Koesler proved far more easily convinced that Vespa’s claim to have double-buried Keating was poetic license. The officers, particularly Tully, decided to put that on the back burner to be resolved later, perhaps at the closing of the case.
Of more immediate interest was a contract that called not only for a murder but also for the confession-albeit simulated-of that killing to Father Koesler.
While Koesler was at a loss to understand it, neither of the police seemed to have any problem with it. “It was meant to silence you,” Koznicki stated.
“This began as a missing persons investigation,” Tully said. “It turned into a suspected homicide case. The important thing is that the central character was a priest.”
“In the past,” Koznicki continued, “you have been generous enough to give your time and insider’s knowledge to investigations such as this. Sometimes you have happened to be on the scene. More often we have asked for your cooperation and participation.”
“And that,” Tully said, “is actually exactly what happened here. We were called in on the missing priest case, and I called you. Whoever gave Vespa that contract knew our past association well enough to guess that we’d call on you. And we did. But you couldn’t give us much help, could you?”
“Well, no,” Koesler admitted. “I couldn’t do much of anything. I was mindful all the time that I couldn’t do anything that might compromise the seal.”
“Clever, was it not?” Koznicki said. “Whoever commissioned Vespa guessed correctly all the way along, and removed you from any active participation in this case by having Vespa make that bogus confession.”
“I’m curious,” Tully said. “What did you think when the investigation turned to Carl Costello-Vespa’s grandfather?”
It was Koesler’s turn to smile. “I was rooting for you-silently, but rooting anyway. In the beginning, I couldn’t refuse your request that I act as a sort of technical adviser. I’ve never begged off in the past. If I were to have just flat out turned you down, I was afraid that in itself would be suspicious. It might have led to a lot of questions, questions that could have had no answers.”
“That is a distinct possibility,” Koznicki said.
“So,” Koesler continued, “I decided I would help as much as I could without relying on anything at all from that confession. It was a very narrow boundary. I knew that going in, but I had no idea it would be as difficult as it proved. At one time, Lieutenant, I referred to Father Keating in the past tense-and you called me on it.”
