Still, he reflected as he turned back into the rectory, he had not “dived right in” to this investigation as both Archbishop Foley and Cardinal Boyle had asked. He was still only reacting.
He hadn’t contacted Tully; the lieutenant had contacted him. He hadn’t come up with any brilliant theory; he had merely answered Tully’s questions.
It was enough, Koesler told himself, that he be no more than an instrument in the solution of this mystery. He would like to have fulfilled the commission of the two bishops. But, quite frankly, he still had no clue as to where to begin.
26
It was still early, but people were already crowding into Blessed Sacrament. The cathedral would be filled by the time the Scripture Service for Archbishop Foley would begin.
Father Koesler stood in a long line of people moving almost imperceptibly forward to view the archbishop’s remains. The line moved so slowly that he had plenty of time for his stream of consciousness to dissolve into myriad unconnected thoughts.
He looked about at those already seated, standing against the walls, or, like himself, waiting to pay respects at the coffin. Since his chat this afternoon with Lieutenant Tully, Koesler tended to regard many familiar faces as suspects. He was not eager to believe that either Stapleton or Carson had committed these murders. But somebody had. Who? Monsignor Young? Hardly. But until this case was solved, almost everyone could be a suspect.
Koesler’s height enabled him to see the entire interior of the cathedral more easily than many others who also served by standing and waiting.
The sanctuary, formerly enclosed on three sides, had been transformed into the equivalent of a thrust stage, open on three sides. Thus, the altar, once so remotely situated near the rear wall, was now proximal to most of the congregation.
Directly in front of the altar was the archbishop’s bien Koesler could not see it in full view. It was as yet only a flash of brilliant white revealed periodically as those in line ahead of him shifted from one foot to the other.
Above the bier, suspended from the cathedral ceiling, was the huge ceremonial red hat that had belonged to Cardinal Edward Mooney, Detroit’s first Cardinal. It would hang there alone as long as the cathedral stood. By the time Mark Boyle was elevated to Cardinal, Pope Paul VI had done away with much of the ancient panoply of the office, including the cappa magna, a grandiose garment of watered silk and ermine, as well as the great red hat.
The hat was never actually worn. During the ceremony of installation it was held above, then touched to the Cardinal’s head, not to be used again until the Cardinal died. Then it was suspended from the cathedral ceiling. According to Church wags, it would not fall until the Cardinal was released from purgatory. Which ensured a torture lasting centuries. If so, more recent Cardinals could be grateful the custom of the red hat had been abolished.
Koesler was nearing the coffin. Tomorrow morning Cardinal Boyle would be principal celebrant at the Mass of Resurrection. Many archbishops and prelates from neighboring dioceses would concelebrate, From Detroit the body would be shipped to Cincinnati, where another funeral Mass would be offered. Finally to Florida for the final Mass and burial.
There he was. Koesler had lost track of time and distance. He was surprised to find himself standing alongside the casket.
The vestments were sumptuously ornate. Moving upward from the polished black shoes there was a spotless, starched alb, then the white chasuble glittering with inlaid gems; white ceremonial gloves covered his hands; the pallium, emblem of an archbishop, crossed his chest; on his head was the white miter. Koesler judged the miter would have to be removed or they’d never get the casket closed.
Foley’s face was the only body part not covered. In death his years had caught up with him. He appeared skeletal. Had it not been for the wrinkles, his face might have been mistaken for a bare skull.
A shiver shook Koesler. He could scarcely believe this was all that remained of the kindly gentleman with the musical voice who spoke so forcefully just yesterday afternoon.
Someone coughed. It startled Koesler. How longhad he been standing there? It was not like him to be thoughtless of others. He was holding up the line. He moved from the bier quickly and was about to enter a nearby pew when he heard a muffled sob. He turned to see who had been so moved.
Third behind him in line was Sister Joan Donovan. A handkerchief was held tightly to her mouth. Tears flowed down her cheeks. Koesler waited as she viewed the body. Then, wordlessly, he led her to the pew and seated himself beside her. Soon the weeping stopped and she regained control.
“Excuse me, Father,” she said. “I didn’t intend to make such a fool of myself. I just couldn’t stop crying once I got in that line.”
“You know what they say,” Koesler said, “there’s no one as dead as a dead priest unless it’s a dead bishop. I think Archbishop Foley would be very pleased that you were so moved.” He amended himself. “The archbishop is pleased that you cared.”
“It’s just that he was sokind when Helen was … when Helen died. While I was worried whether she could have a Church burial, he called and volunteered to offer the Mass. And then at the wake, he was just like a father … or a grandfather. He was such a support. I hardly knew him before Helen died and, in a day, it was as if he’d been part of my life for aslongas I could remember.”
“Some people have the ability. I guess I should say ‘charism.’ It’s rare. But, I agree, Archbishop Foley had it.”
Father Koesler and Sister Joan fell silent. He glanced at her. The tears had stopped flowing. She seemed at peace and lost in thought.
She was right, thought Koesler. The archbishop had excelled in humanity. Koesler had witnessed Foley participating in liturgical functions innumerable times. He always seemed distracted, constandy called back by a master of ceremonies from a private reverie. But present at all times was the hint of humor and a concern for odiers that was open and genuine. The two men had met personally only once. Yet it was as Sister Joan noted: It seemed as if Koesler had known him, and known him well, for a long time, He wasn’t some remote dignitary lying in state, but a friend.
There was a rustle behind him; Something brushed against the back of his head. “Sorry,” a male voice said.
As Koesler halfway turned, he recognized two priests of roughly his vintage. They were about to be seated direcdy behind him. One of their coats had brushed him as diey entered the pew. He nodded. “Ted … Harry.”
Almost simultaneously, they replied, “Bob.”
The two priests setded into the pew, making barely audible rustling noises as they shifted about in search of comfort, knowing all the while they would never find it.
After a few minutes, they began talking to each other in tones that shifted between normal speaking volume and a whisper. At any rate, they were a distraction. Koesler glanced at Joan, wondering if they were disturbing her. Apparently not; she seemed transfixed as she gazed steadfastly at the remains of the man who, in so brief a time, had made such a lasting impression on her. She was not disturbed by the conversation going on behind hen
He was. Koesler tried recollecting his thoughts in prayer, but the conversation continued to distract him. He decided that living with it was an easier course than creating a small scene.
“Too bad about the old man.” Koesler thought it was Ted, but was not going to turn around to make certain.
“Yeah. He seemed like anice enough guy. How long’s hebeen here … a year?”
“About. He could’ve lived in Florida, you know. That’s where he was born and raised.”
“I knew that, but I’d forgotten. Retired in Florida! And it’s his home at that. Why in hell would he want to come up here?”