Then the phone calls began. Friends torn between real concern for her emotional and physical welfare and a morbid fascination with this sordid story and the desire to be a part of it, if only vicariously. Eventually, she removed the phone from its plug-in outlet. She would take no more calls.
But the story went on. She followed it at every opportunity, mostly on radio, since TV would not have another newscast until eleven o’clock.
Some of the radio newscasts were more tentative than others, and she would take hope. Then a commentator would sound particularly sure of himself when he announced the charges against Father Kramer, and she would despair anew.
Mostly, it was the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. She felt compelled to help her friend. But for the life of her she couldn’t think of a single thing to do.
Briefly, she considered going down to Police Headquarters. She phoned, only to find that there was no possible way she would be allowed to see him. No one could. Not until after his arraignment tomorrow—afternoon, sometime. The officer did not know the exact time and he was far too busy to find out.
So she was reduced to following one news bulletin after another. Once Gerald Harrington signed off, she realized that would be the final substantive news of the night. Anything that followed would be a synopsis of what she already knew.
She was disconsolate, beside herself, and alone. There was no question of even an attempt at sleep. Not while Dick Kramer was probably pacing a dank cell in fear, humiliation, and solitariness.
Desperate, she turned to prayer. Not the sort of unfamiliar prayer the irreligious fall back on in moments of stress. Rather, hers was the confident prayer of one accustomed to regular conversation with God. Even in this trying time, prayer came easily. She sought God’s consolation for Father Kramer, now abandoned by everyone but God. She sought light and inspiration—some practical way to help Dick Kramer.
Then, through the turmoil of her thoughts, an image began to form. It was a memory enhanced by special attributes that could be, perhaps literally, a godsend to Father Kramer. It was an awareness of the one person who was qualified in a unique way to solve this problem, if anyone could.
Father Robert Koesler.
Wasn’t he a friend to Dick Kramer? Hadn’t he just the other day dropped in to visit Father Kramer? It was she herself who had given Father Koesler directions on how to bypass all the locked doors in the basement of Mother of Sorrows church. Father Kramer had few friends, as far as Therese knew, at least among fellow priests. But who more than a fellow priest could better understand the predicament faced by Kramer? Priests understand priests.
Then there was the very special relationship Father Koesler had built up with Detroit’s police department over the years. Some were prone to forget Koesler’s many interventions. But Therese had not forgotten.
So there he was—a confrere of Dick Kramer’s with friends in the police department. And now that she was considering it, she could not recall a single incident she had heard about when Koesler’s involvement with investigations had not been with the Homicide Division. Perfect! Dick Kramer was accused of homicide. Certainly Father Koesler would know his way around that department.
Hope rebounded. She freely attributed her newfound solution to the power of prayer. As quickly as she found the listing of Koesler’s parish in the Detroit Catholic Directory, she dialed the number.
24
The phone rang just as Jerry Hodak was concluding his Channel 7 weather forecast. Father Koesler had just absorbed the informed opinion that tomorrow would be unseasonably warm. His head jerked at the first ring. Experience had taught him that usually anyone calling a rectory at this hour had trouble and it most likely was an emergency. He felt a little queasy as he answered the phone. “St Anselm’s.”
“Father Koesler?”
“Yes.” He almost placed the voice.
“Sister Therese—at Mother of Sorrows.”
“Oh, yes.” That had not been his guess. “I’m sorry about Father Kramer. I just heard about it on the news. But I’m sure that . . .”
“That’s what I’m calling about.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to see you.”
“Oh. Well, I have some time in the morning.”
“Now.”
“Now! Do you know what time it is?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to see you.”
“Are you sure we can’t do this in the morning?”
“Father, if we don’t talk tonight, you will be able to see me tomorrow in the psycho ward at Lafayette Clinic.”
“Uh, well . . . can we do it on the phone?”
“I’ve got to see you!”
He glanced at his watch—11:32. The recap of the day’s ABC network news was on. In Koesler’s plan, this was to be the final conscious event of the day, to be followed by sleep. But . . . there didn’t appear to be any way out. “Oh, very well. How long will it take you to get here?”
“I’m on my way. About fifteen, twenty minutes . . . and . . . thanks.”
Koesler looked at his watch again. It would be almost midnight by the time she got here. Good grief.
Robert Koesler had lived almost sixty years. And, having paid attention, he knew himself pretty well. He was a creature of habit, even more of routine. Years before, he’d read one of those articles that purported to describe the differences between men and women. The example he best recalled had to do with housecleaning. Women, the article held, tend to go about cleaning a room with no particular order in mind, simply moving from one piece of furniture to the next.
Men, on the other hand, tend to make a plan before beginning, which was fine unless something interfered with or voided the plan. For example, on second thought it made more sense to clean the fireplace before cleaning the floor. At which point, the plan would be destroyed and the man would have to sit down and make up a new plan. Koesler knew he was that man.
And so it went on Sundays.
The compulsory routines on Sundays tended to drain most priests. Offering two, possibly three, Masses was not a major problem. It was the preaching. If they invested in a serious attempt to hold the congregation’s attention while communicating the Gospel message, few priests had much physical or emotional stamina left by Sunday afternoon.
From afternoon on, each priest was pretty much on his own. Occasionally, there might be baptisms to perform. But usually the remainder of the day was free.
Koesler, after the morning Masses, liked to relax. Perhaps a concert or a movie or a visit with friends. Sunday evenings were for reading, listening to records, or extending the friendly visits.
As with most evenings, things wound down for Koesler about eleven o’clock at night. The routine was the news at eleven o’clock, with a mild highball or glass of wine. After local news, another fourteen minutes, perhaps, of sports or the network news, and then to bed.
Thus he could not help grousing about this upset in routine. Attired in pajamas and robe, he’d gotten almost through the news program, had taken a few sips of scotch and water, and was drifting toward sleep when the damn phone rang.
He would not have minded so much if it had been a sick call. One can’t help what time one gets sick—or dies. Though, God knows, most sick people in need of spiritual ministration of a priest were in a hospital.
It wasn’t that he did not sympathize with Sister Therese. He knew she was close to Dick Kramer. And there was no doubt that what had happened to the poor man was a tragedy. But did she really have to do this tonight?
His routine!
Well, there was nothing for it but to get ready. He went to the bedroom, where he slipped trousers and shirt over the pajamas. Then the clerical collar and cassock over that, muttering all the while. Thus proving that grousing can be audible even if there is no one else around to hear it.