Body Count

The doctor chuckled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard them referred to as staples.”

“What then?”

“Clamps. But you’re just as correct; they’re staples. In a couple of weeks, I’ll take them out. Meanwhile, they’ll hold you together.”

“What happens next? I don’t know how much use I’ve got of my arm. It’s strapped to my body.”

“What comes next is you’ll start on physical therapy. They’ll move your arm. Then, little by little, you’ll move your arm. Then you’ll begin working with weights.”

“That bad!”

“That bad. But if you continue your exercises you’ll regain most of your strength. But you’ll have to be very faithful to those exercises … do them religiously. As it were,” he added quasi-humorously.

“Doctor, I normally sleep on my right side. How’s that going to work-I mean, with the arm?”

“Don’t even think of it.”

“That bad!”

“That bad. You about ready for the onslaught of the media?”

“I guess.”

The doctor opened the door and stepped back.

In they came. Though there weren’t nearly as many as Koesler expected, actually there were a representative number. As the door to his room had repeatedly opened and closed, the intermittent clamor had sounded as if it were coming from a considerable mob.

TV, radio, and the print media were represented. Koesler recognized most of them, though he knew hardly any of them. One he did recognize and know was Pat Lennon of the News. He’d met her in the very beginning, on the occasion of the first homicide case in which he’d been involved, as well as on subsequent investigations. He knew that she was perhaps the premiere reporter in the city. Thus he wondered at her presence here. Because this incident involved him so deeply, he could not imagine that it was important enough to attract someone with Pat Lennon’s credentials.

Koesler had not grasped the fact that the shooting of a mobster and a priest together was, by far, the top story of the day. It would make the national and even the international media.

Limited as he was by his own knowledge of the case, as well as by the boundaries suggested by Inspector Koznicki, Koesler had relatively little information for these reporters. Only that he’d been called to that meeting with Vespa last night and before he’d said-or heard- very much at all, the two of them had been shot.

No, Koesler had not known Vespa previously. No, since Vespa had had so little time before the shooting, Koesler did not know much of the reason for this meeting. No, he had no idea who had fired the shots.

There were many more questions coming from every quarter, but none of Koesler’s answers were much more specific or helpful than these.

The news groups left the room in their usual order. TV first, then radio, finally print.

Last to leave was Pat Lennon. She lingered a moment. “You’ll have to forgive my buddies. They’ve got deadlines. I do too-but I just wanted to say I’m awfully sorry this happened to you.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” Koesler was aware that the media commonly gave the impression they cared for nothing but the story. He was also aware that in most cases the men and women of the media cared very deeply about the people and events that needed to be reported on. He was moved by Lennon’s expression of concern.

Now that he was alone again, he realized he was tired to the point of exhaustion. And the pain was making itself felt again. Probably it had been there all along, but he’d been distracted by all the visitors- the police, Nick Dunn, the doctor, and the reporters. Whatever. The pain seemed to be denying him the sleep he desperately needed. With some reluctance, mixed with gratitude for its availability, he depressed the morphine button once again.

While waiting for it to take effect, he thought about his situation.

His involvement in this whole thing had begun when somebody considered him some sort of supersleuth. Nothing could be further from reality. Anyway, this somebody was determined to have Jake Keating executed, probably over unpaid gambling debts. This somebody didn’t want him-Father Koesler-to contribute anything to the inevitable investigation. Thus the bizarre plan of the fake confession.

Well, the somebody was correct in that he had been called upon to take part in the investigation. And as far as contributing to any resolution of the case, he might just as well have been bound, gagged, and blindfolded. But if he hadn’t been silenced by what he had thought to be the seal of confession, what might he have contributed? There was no way of telling; it was a condition contrary to fact.

If only that somebody had not had that wild misconception as to his detection talents, if only he had refused to meet Guido Vespa at Eastern Market … he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed in a sea of pain with a destroyed rotator cuff.

The good news, he thought, as he began to drift, was that it was over. Once the police caught whoever had hired Guido, the case would be wrapped up. They might never find Jake Keating’s body. But one thing for sure, Koesler wasn’t going to help them find it.

Part Three 20

It was good to be home. If one had to be in pain, there was a lot to be said for the comfort and familiarity of home. If all that could be done for one in the hospital was to medicate against pain, that could be accomplished as well at the rectory.

The hospital agreed. So, on the third day-biblical? — he rose from his hospital bed and returned to the rectory.

Before leaving Receiving Hospital, Koesler had attended his first physical rehabilitation session, and discovered how very little spontaneous motion he had in his right arm. The therapist assured him that if he was faithful to the exercises, he would recover at least some of his former mobility and strength. Perhaps more than a little. But it was going to be a long haul.

Mary O’Connor, parish secretary, had been most solicitous, as had many of the parishioners. He had to assure them over and over that he was not ill, just injured. And that he was fully capable of getting around, laboring awkwardly through a one-arm Mass, and signing checks-as long as he moved the paper. He couldn’t move his arm.

Father Dunn was doing his best to see to the routine needs of the parish, attend as many classes at the university as possible, fulfill his reading assignments, and put to rest as many of Koesler’s doubts and suspicions as possible.

He had helped Koesler make phone calls to the Minneapolis Chancery as well as to several priests, all of whom attested to Dunn’s identity. Yes, Father Dunn had been granted a leave of absence. Yes, he was a classmate. Yes, he had told one and all that he was going to take up residence at St. Joseph’s parish in downtown Detroit. Yes, that certainly sounded like Nick Dunn’s voice on the telephone extension.

In addition, Dunn had asked his Chancery to send him a celebret-a. document stating that he was a priest in good standing. It was something he might have brought with him to Detroit. But he’d had no inkling that he would become a suspect in a murder investigation.

The relationship of Koesler and Dunn had altered somewhat. Koesler was uncomfortable having Dunn around. Koesler had intimated-if not made an outright accusation-that Dunn might be up to his ears in a murder conspiracy. Hardly the mark of a gracious host. Dunn, for his part, seemed to be in high good humor as he sought to allay the pastor’s fears. Dunn was the soul of cooperation in finding ways of establishing his identity and being completely open to any of Koesler’s suggestions along that line. Thus whatever tension existed seemed to stem from Koesler. It made him uncomfortable.

Koesler had just taken a pill for pain when he heard the front doorbell.

Dunn had already left for one of his morning classes at the university. Koesler could heard the click-clack of