Dunn pondered that, then smiled broadly. “What a delicious secret! The police maybe don’t even know the crime’s been committed yet, and we know who did it! I feel tingly inside.” Indeed, Dunn’s eyes were glowing. “Let’s check it out.”
“What!?”
“I don’t know, I just want to make sure.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“What was that guy’s name-Keating, wasn’t it? And what parish was that?”
“St. Waldo’s.” The question was academic; Dunn could easily have looked up the appropriate parish in the Catholic directory.
“Is St. Waldo’s in Detroit?”
“Bloomfield Hills.”
“Let’s call and ask for Father Keating.”
“Forget it, Nick. What would it prove if a priest is not in his parish on a Saturday night? Just plain forget it: It’s the best favor you could do for yourself and everybody else.”
Dunn still had a gleam in his eye. “Ah, but what if a priest is not in his parish on a Sunday morning when all his parishioners come for Mass?”
“Nick, I’m going to bed. And I’m going to bury this special secret deep inside me. And I advise you most strongly to do the same. And I’m as serious as I can be.”
Koesler regretted the chill left in Dunn’s room after this, their first encounter. He was surprised by it as much as he regretted it.
The dispute-their first-concerned a matter that was of prime importance to Koesler: the seal of confession. To him this was one of the most sacred tenets of religion. And in no other expression of religion was it more firmly entrenched than in Catholicism. In all his years as a priest-even as a seminarian-he had never known a priest to violate the seal of confession. Oh, there were a few jokes about it; there were a few jokes about nearly everything. But in actual practice, the seal was inviolate.
He got the impression that Father Dunn did not share that conviction. Was it the age gap?
Koesler had lived more than half his life in the pre-Vatican II Church. That span definitely colored his perception of the present post-Vatican II Church.
Dunn belonged to an interesting time frame.
Seminarians who were the immediate product of the postconciliar Church-the late sixties, the seventies-lived in a virtual rebellion against the beliefs and practices of the earlier theology. However, in the eighties, a peculiar rebound occurred in some seminaries, certainly in Detroit, possibly in Minneapolis-St. Paul as well.
With seminaries almost empty of candidates for the priesthood (the legacy of the sixties and seventies?), administrators seemed to be attempting to put as much of the toothpaste as possible back in the tube. The clerical costume, for instance-the cassock, clerical suit, full Mass vestments-returned to acceptable use. But a good portion of what had been discarded and subsequently lost could not be retrieved. It was a strange amalgam. And from this mixture sprang young priests such as Father Nick Dunn.
Koesler was unable to comprehend much of this sometimes bitter rebellion. Nor was he totally familiar with this latest seminary product.
Empirically, there was no compelling reason for Koesler to become an expert in either wave of the postconciliar phenomena. He had developed a theological approach to life that, as far as he was concerned, combined the best of both worlds-pre-and postconciliar. Armed with this comfortable and comforting theology, he was willing to work his small corner of the vineyard until he dropped.
Except for now. Now he would be forced to deal with Father Dunn.
But it was getting late. Time enough for that tomorrow.
3
Weekend services at St. Joe’s comprised a Mass at 5:00 Saturday afternoon, and four additional Masses on Sunday.
Father Koesler got help with this schedule catch-as-catch-can. Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary, spent much of her time during various weeks phoning around in search of the rare surplus priest. Jesuits were always a good bet through the auspices of Sts. Peter and Paul, the nearby Jesuit parish. With the advent of Father Dunn, now, and for at least U of D’s first semester, St. Joe’s would have the luxury of an extra resident priest.
However, the resident was not a barrel of help his first Sunday. Oh, there was no trouble with his presiding over a couple of Masses. The problem was he had prepared no homily. So Father Koesler had to preach not only at his own two Masses but also at Dunn’s. And, as any priest who strove to deliver decent homilies could attest, it wasn’t the number of Masses offered but the number of sermons given that wiped one out.
Thus Koesler had spent virtually this entire Sunday morning in church. Searching for a silver lining for this fatiguing cloud, he had ample time to study Father Dunn’s characteristics.
A slenderly built man of perhaps five feet nine or ten-some five inches shorter than Koesler-Dunn had a full head of dark blond, carefully groomed hair parted in the middle, set off by a matching mustache. He had a strong voice that probably could project without amplification. He seemed comfortable wearing the full complement of liturgical vestments and-somewhat rare these days-wearing a cassock beneath the vestments. By and large, he seemed the sort of priest Koesler could relate to more easily than the creations of the early postconciliar Church.
With one exception: Father Dunn wanted to be a cop.
Even worse, he seemed determined to grow up to be Father Koesler, whom he perceived as having made police officer before him. And, judging from last night’s conversation, there was no way of convincing him otherwise.
Koesler wondered about that. Everyone he had known in the seminary, of whatever vintage, had wanted to be a priest. And that was it. Oh, here and there one might find a seminarian whose sights were aimed at a monsignorship or, more ambitiously, a bishopric. But those aspirations were still within the parameters of the priesthood.
Where on earth did this desire of Dunn’s come from? Certainly there was nothing wrong with wanting to be a police officer. But such a desire had nothing to do with the priesthood-or at least nothing that Koesler could think of. The few times that he had worked with the police had not been comfortable experiences for him. Granted, there was a certain thrill to peeling back the layers of a puzzle to solve a mystery. But he could live without that sort of excitement-easily.
Koesler wanted only to be a priest. How could he bring home this fact to Father Dunn? That young man was digging a shallow grave for his vocational dreams if he couldn’t realize he now had everything he needed for an eminently fulfilling life.
Even more troubling to Koesler was the young man’s apparent attitude toward the secrecy requisite in the sacrament of confession.
Koesler had been disconcerted by what Dunn seemed to be suggesting last night. That either of them should even consider revealing in any way what both had heard confessed yesterday Koesler found repulsive. And his sentiment had absolutely nothing to do with the man who had confessed the murder of a priest. If anything, Koesler hoped the police would get him. But not with Koesler’s help. And not with Dunn’s either.
Koesler had heard, and Dunn had overheard, a man confess a sin and, at the same time, confide a secret. That secret, Koesler knew, was sacrosanct. Through the ages, the seal of confession had been challenged by hypothetical as well as factual questions and compelling circumstances. But the seal had to withstand every challenge and remain inviolate or its entire substructure would crumble.
However, Koesler feared that last night’s brief discussion over what should be done about the confession of murder was far from concluded. He wished it were, but Dunn gave every indication that he was not convinced. It was this suspicion that late last night had impelled Koesler to consult some of his theology books and further ponder the matter. The more he researched, the more he was convinced his stand was valid.
The essence of the matter was plainly stated in both the old (A.D. 1917) and the new (A.D. 1983) Code of
