“She came into the office as assistant to the delegate. The nun who was then delegate was not allowed to eat lunch in the chancery dining room with the priests and bishops. She had to eat in me kitchen-if you can imagine such a thing.”
“Yeah, I think I can imagine what discrimination is like.”
Once again, Koesler was embarrassed. “Oh, I am sorry. How stupid of me!”
Tully shrugged. “It’s okay. Go on.”
Koesler nodded. “Okay, back to my story.
“The first day Sister Joan was on the job in the delegate’s office, her superior told her to eat lunch in the chancery dining room. Joan understood that this was a first, and that she would not be welcome. But it was an order, and nuns, especially, are used to carrying out orders.
“It was with fear and trepidation that she approached the dining room just after noon.
“When she entered, the table talk, which had been lively, ended. In the loaded silence that followed, she didn’t even know what food she was serving herself from the buffet, and she was mumbling incoherently.
“Then, breaking the silence, Cardinal Boyle said, ‘Sister, when you’re ready, come and sit next to me.’ And that washow the chancery lunch counter was integrated, as it were.”
It was an interesting story, and Tully’s regard for Boyle rose, but he was unable to draw from the account any conclusion that would be useful to the theory he was trying to construct. So he simply looked expectantly at Koesler.
“The point,” Koesler said after a moment, “is that this is how the delegate for religious was treated. Even though me delegate’s status is rather exalted in me Church,”
Koesler saw’that he was not getting through to Tully, so he attempted to clarify and amplify. “This job in this diocese was originally filled by a bishop, and later by a priest. At that time the position was termed ‘vicar for religious.’ Then, when nuns filled the position, the title was changed to ‘delegate,’ because a woman could not be called ‘vicar’-a tide reserved to the priesdy caste.
“Not only was the title changed-and changed to one lower in rank-but the delegate was further humbled by not being allowed to eat in the dining room with priests. All the while, the vicar-or delegate, whichever title one wished to recognize-outranked most of the priests in that dining room.
“You see, Lieutenant, if you were to put that job in the context of, say, the administration of the president of the United States, me position would be of cabinet rank. It’s not usually looked on in this way-but, if it were, she, Sister Joan, would be me highest ranking woman in the archdiocese of Detroit.”
Tully reflected on that for a few moments. “I see,” he said, slowly. “Well, then,” he challenged, “is your Church as racist as it is sexist?”
It was Koesler’s turn to reflect. “That’s not easy to answer,” he said finally. “I don’t think the Church is racist-though you couldn’t prove that by the number of black Catholics, let alone black priests or bishops. Generally, the Church has been on the scene and given witness in the civil rights movement. But I must admit that point is arguable.
“As for sexism, there can be no doubt we’re guilty-and I must confess we’re not doing much besides talk to remedy the situation.”
After another moment’s thought, Tully said, “You are an intelligent man. You can see what’s wrong. Why do you stay in?”
“In the Church? In the priesthood?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Because I love the Church and I love the priesthood. Even though I can see the warts and the blemishes, I still love it. I think if there weren’t a Catholic Church, somebody would have to invent it. I guess I love it more for what it sometimes has been and what it someday can be. Let me ask you, Lieutenant, is everything perfect in the police department?”
Tully didn’t need time for deliberation. “No.” He smiled, “Okay, I get the drift. Back to the nun and her job; What, if anything, would she have to do with parishes and schools closing?”
“Nothing, direcdy, that I can see offhand. She is not in a position to close any of them, or keep them open, for that matter. I suppose if she were to successfully recruit hundreds of young Women to become teachers in parochial schools, she would contribute mightily to the preservation of diose schools, But mat, I diink, would be next to impossible-for anyone-now.”
“Okay. But would she have any influence on somebody else’s decision to keep them open or close mem?”
“Like who?”
“Like Hoffer. Supposing Hoffer decided to close some parishes or schools, Would the opinion of the delegate for religious carry any weight?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t explained mings very well. Larry Hoffer couldn’t close a parish or a school no matter how much he might have wanted to”
“Because?”
“Because, in ecclesiastical as well as civil law, the archbishop owns everything.”
“Everything?”
“All properties, lands, institutions, buildings-everything that belongs to the archdiocese of Detroit-and not, for instance, belonging to one or another of the religious orders-everything’s in the name of whoever happens to be the archbishop of Detroit.
“So, for now, only Cardinal Boyle, as archbishop of Detroit, can close parishes or schools. But I must say this for Cardinal Boyle: He truly listens to the people he puts in charge of things. I can tell you from personal experience, when he appoints someone to a special job, he expects that person to do the job. But, at the game time, he does not abdicate his ultimate responsibility and power. So neither Hoffer nor Sister Joan would have the power or authority to effect a closing or extension of operation of any archdiocesan institution. But both of them could, and undoubtedly would, make their opinions known. And Cardinal Boyle would give those opinions careful consideration.”
“Okay.” Tully was zeroing in on what he considered the vital question. “We know what Hoffer thought: He wanted to close a number of parishes and maybe the whole school system. How about the nun? Would she have given the same advice to her boss?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly she herself doesn’t even know. I did hear some talk that at the most recent staff meeting, when Larry proposed the closings, Sister Joan argued against closing. But that was a brainstorming session. Her constituents probably would approve of the closings. Rather than have some schools with no nuns or maybe at most one or two, consolidating would give the religious more voice, clout. I think, when push came to shove, they probably would have sided with Larry.”
That’s two, thought Tully. His infant theory was gaining strength. Suppose the thread that held these serial killings together was the determination to close parishes and/or schools. The next step then would be to identify others among the Cardinal’s advisers who would counsel in favor of the closings. It might not be much of a handle, but it was better than nothing, which was precisely what he had been looking at before this talk with Koesler.
“Okay,” Tully said, “now do the same for the archbishop. Something about the man, about his job.”
“This is another case,” Koesler responded, “where I don’t know all that much about him personally. We had our first, and, as it turned out, last, chat just yesterday.”
“He’s been here about a year, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. So you’re wondering why if he’s been here all that time don’t I know more about him?”
“That, and why you happened to have your first meeting just the day before he got killed.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t know how often you meet with the chief of police or the mayor, but I’ll bet you stand a better chance of socializing with them than a priest does of hobnobbing with a bishop. So there isn’t much explanation necessary as to why I had no personal association with him before.
“As to why I met with him yesterday? He invited me to visit him.”
“The reason?” Tully hoped it would not be some sort of unrevealable secret.