Such incidents provide the special excitement and promise inherent in a canonical exhumation. One never knows in what condition one is going to find the Servant of God.
Of course, modern methods of embalming, the better-made caskets and vaults can muddy the matter. In today’s world, is a well-preserved body a sign of God’s favor to the deceased? Could it be a miracle, or could it be the miracle of modern technology?
Whatever.
Still there was the undeniable thrill of anticipation. What would Clem Kern look like these many years since his death and burial? Those strong of stomach, at least, wanted to know. It didn’t much matter in the final analysis whether he had been preserved or not. If he were well preserved, in all probability it would not be accepted as miraculous. Clem would have to come up with something clearly spectacular on his own. However, in the eyes of many of his old buddies, it would be good to see him again.
However, not all of his buddies could be present for the viewing, not by any means. The viewers were there by invitation only. And there weren’t many of them. There were, of course, representatives of the mortuary industry. There were heads of archdiocesan commissions and committees. There were a few who were invited but for squeamish reasons had declined. There was Cardinal Mark Boyle, who, as the local bishop, had authored the original petition to Rome to start this case. Finally, there was Father Mulroney, and his three friends, Fathers Marvin, McNiff, and Koesler.
As the “relator’s collaborator,” Mulroney was pretty much running this paraliturgical event. He had led an appropriate hymn and offered some appropriate prayers. He had held a copy of some of these specially prepared prayers for Cardinal Boyle to read aloud. The Cardinal had spread some sweet-smelling incense over the burning coals in the thurible. He had walked around the casket, sprinkling it with holy water. He had retraced his steps around the casket, swinging the thurible back and forth, filling the small church with the aroma of incense. Some of those present, Koesler included, rather hoped that the aroma might modify whatever smell there might come from the casket once it was opened after years in the ground.
In fact, the process of raising the lid was going on right now. Inspired by the preceding elaborate ceremony, the morticians were taking their sweet time in getting the lid off. They were sort of winging their own paraliturgy in an area wherein none had been composed by anyone.
An unmistakable air of expectancy permeated the small group.
Wayne County’s medical examiner had not been invited. He might have been the only one to whom this was old hat. The morticians present had some slight experience with exhumations, though never in the case of one who might be named a saint. As to the rest, emotions ranged from dread to morbid interest.
The only one who felt completely ambivalent was Father Koesler. He was pleased that Clem Kern was finally being given the sort of respect and attention that rightfully should be his. On the other hand, he was apprehensive about what he knew would be found in that casket.
Meanwhile, the morticians continued to fiddle with the fasteners that needed to be loosened before the entire lid could be removed.
“If they ever get that damn thing off, I don’t think we’ll be able to see what’s left of Clem for all this smoke,” Father Marvin said in a stage whisper.
“Don’t get me wrong,” McNiff stage-whispered in return, “but I don’t see what’s taking them so long.” He turned to Father Mulroney, and, still whispering, said, “I really am glad you invited us for this ceremony, although we won’t be able to tell our grandchildren about it. But how long is this supposed to go on?”
Mulroney smiled. “It shouldn’t be much longer,” he whispered. The four priest friends were standing close enough together to communicate through whispering without unduly disturbing the others. “I wonder what everybody will think when they find that Clem is not alone in there?”
Koesler’s eyes popped. He could not believe his ears. “What did you say?” He forgot to whisper, momentarily drawing the attention of the others. Koesler made an apologetic gesture, then repeated the question, this time in the approved stage whisper. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Mulroney whispered, “I wonder how many here know that Clem is not alone in there?”
How could Mulroney know?! It couldn’t have been through the confessional, or Mulroney would not be bandying the information about so casually. Hadn’t Guido made his crime a sacrosanct secret only to Koesler? If Mulroney knew, and if he could be so offhandedly candid about it, why hadn’t he told the police long ago? God knows everyone in Detroit who read papers or listened to radio or television knew the police were looking for Father Keating. Koesler clearly was bewildered.
His wondering was brought to a sharp conclusion by a flurry at the casket. Evidently, the morticians had finally undone all the fasteners. But now, they found the casket lid either too cumbersome or too unwieldy for two men to lift. As Father Mulroney stepped forward to help out, he asked his friends to lend a hand.
Marvin and McNiff joined Mulroney immediately. Under ordinary circumstances, Koesler would have helped too. But by now he was not only frozen in place, he had squeezed his eyes shut. Why had he come?! Yet how could he have stayed away?
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.