“But you—”
“If you’ll let me finish, Sister, I think I may speak to the question I think you have in mind.
“There is nothing particularly ‘religious,’ let alone Catholic, in the murder and mutilation of prostitutes. It’s true that your friend and my brother priest has been arrested as a suspect in the case. And that is tragic. We all ought to pray and do whatever we can to help Dick. But I am no more equipped to intervene in this case—even if the police would tolerate such an intrusion—than any other priest. Monsignor Meehan, for instance.
“In the past, don’t you see, I have been drawn into some homicide cases by some accident, some quirk of fate, through no voluntary act on my part. But that’s not true here. I’m not involved in this in any way. So your appeal to things that have happened to me in the past doesn’t apply here. It’s apples and oranges. I’m sorry.”
Koesler fervently hoped she would not cry. He never quite knew what to do when women cried. Often he felt drawn to offer a shoulder. But he never could get beyond his position as a priest to do anything even that innocently physical. At this moment, Sister Therese did seem so perilously close to tears that he felt like putting her on his lap and just holding her. But he could not.
Fortunately, the tears did not appear. She merely grew reflective, gazing at her hands folded in her lap. When she finally spoke, it was without looking up. “I can’t argue with anything you’ve said. And I know it’s getting late.”
It is late, he thought.
“I just want to say one more thing, and then I’ll go,” she stated. “Father Kramer has no one really close to him.”
That’s not exactly true, thought Koesler. This lady is as close as anyone will ever get to Dick Kramer. Probably she loves him. In all likelihood, he will never know. For all of that, she will never admit it, even to herself.
For some reason, Koesler suddenly thought this to be overwhelmingly sad. Once again, given the present status of celibacy and chastity, to which at least all three of them subscribed, there was nothing to be done about it.
“And Dick needs somebody now,” she went on. “He desperately needs someone. For what reason I cannot possibly imagine, this good man has been accused of . . . of murder.” She shook her head. “I still can’t get myself to put the two together in the same sentence—Dick Kramer and murder. But the police have somehow put them together. And as long as this charge hangs over him—whether he is in jail or we are able to get him out on bond—he will be helpless in the face of this shame and embarrassment. I know him well enough to know this is true.
“That’s why, Father Koesler, he needs someone. Not just anybody, but someone who can be an alter ego for him. Dick Kramer will be powerless to come to his own defense in the sense of proving himself innocent. He needs someone to do just that; someone who will take on this accusation as if it were leveled against himself.
“It’s as if Dick will be locked up inside himself whether he’s locked inside a cell or not. He needs someone who will care enough to exert the same amount of concern and total dedication to proving him innocent that Dick would do for himself if he were able.
“Father Koesler, I don’t know where he’s going to find such a person—other than you. You are about the closest person—the only person—he has to be such a friend. You at least know your way around in a situation like this. But I suppose it is silly of me to put those two qualifications together and come up with someone who would work as hard to clear Dick’s name as Dick himself would, were he able.”
It was, Koesler thought, an eloquent plea. In its face, all he could do was to try to reassure her that he would do all he could, and that, with all the prayers that would be said, God surely would not let any permanent harm come to Dick Kramer. Maybe, Koesler told Therese, as he bade goodbye, this would prove to be a beneficial experience for Dick and for all of them.
The words were lame. Koesler knew it and he was aware that Therese knew it. One of those things, he thought. What could anyone do at a time like this?
Removing cassock and collar, he was once again in pajamas, over which he drew his robe.
His routine had been destroyed, utterly destroyed. He checked his ever-present watch. After 1:00 A.M. He wasn’t the least bit sleepy now—but it would be one more time when the faithful few who attended daily morning Mass would have to excuse an overly tired priest without even knowing why they were excusing him.
At this hour, he dared not return to his highball. He made a cup of instant decaffeinated coffee. As he sipped the steaming brew, which seemed perfectly fine to him, he wondered why it was that no one else seemed to appreciate his coffee.
As he sat in the silent living room, trying to slow everything down toward sleep, he could not help but reflect on his conversation with Sister Therese.
He realized that his rejection of her final argument was totally a reflex action. He was not in any way involved in this matter. For a change, he would have the luxury of sitting on the sidelines and rooting for the good guys. All that he had told her about the difference between this situation and the cases he had been connected with in the past—it was all true.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
He felt compelled, for some reason, to consider her words absent his automatic dismissal.
He imagined himself imprisoned for a crime, a capital crime. In this invention, he had been condemned to death. He had a month to live, at the end of which he would be hanged.
This was not, by any means, getting him closer to sleep. Nevertheless, having begun, he had to press on to whatever end might follow.
Of course he was innocent of the crime for which he had been condemned. But what could he do? He was locked away with but one short month of life remaining. There was no possible way he could clear himself. Of course if he had been able to leave his jail cell, he would devote his every moment to proving his innocence. He would not eat or sleep, except as absolutely required for life and strength. If he were to lose this battle to clear himself, he would lose life itself. Nothing that had ever happened to him or would ever happen to him was as crucial as this quest.
But, in this daydream, he could not leave his cell.
The scenario had become so real to Koesler that he actually began to feel the confinement of prison as well as the helplessness of his situation.
His one chance, his only chance, was to find someone on the outside who would act for him. This person, whoever it might be, would have to become as totally and thoroughly involved as Koesler, the jailed man, himself. This alter ego would have to at very least take a leave of absence from work—from family and everything else, for that matter—and devote every hour of every day for that final month as if his own life depended on it.
That was it! That was what would distinguish this alter ego from every other conceivable friend. This person, alone among everyone the accused knew, would be the only one who would work to prove innocence as if his own life depended on it.
Koesler, in all his many flights of fancy, had never before invented a conundrum like this. He became fascinated with the prospect. If he himself were to actually be in a situation such as this, whom could he call on? Who could be depended upon to abandon all else and work on this case as if his very own life depended on it?
One by one, he considered all those who came to mind, beginning with all his priest friends. One by one, quite reluctantly, but quite realistically, he dismissed one after another. Oh, they would be distressed, no doubt about that. They would offer prayers. They would express genuine concern. But, he realized, each would beg off—just as he had done only a few minutes ago when Sister Therese had pleaded with him for help.