This scene that Koesler found himself a part of was by no means unique. However, it had been a long while since he’d been in a like situation.
Usually it happened on those infrequent occasions when a wife would bring her husband to the rectory so that the priest could impose “the pledge” on the man, who, at that point, was usually close to delirium tremens. Thus coerced, the victim would pledge to abstain from booze forever. In a lifetime, some men took the pledge dozens of times. It is said you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. In Koesler’s experience, you could lead a man to sobriety, but you couldn’t guarantee he’d be sober next week.
Such, obviously, was the case here. Ms. Blondell seemed determined that Father Koesler effect some sort of reformation. Mr. Bush did not appear to share her conviction of the need for reform. Thus, if anything was going to happen here—and Koesler had no clue as to what Agnes intended to happen—it would depend entirely on Bush’s undergoing a massive change in attitude.
Whatever might ensue, this was the antithesis of Koesler’s method of operation. And he deeply resented the woman’s forcing this situation on him. “Ms. . . .” Koesler had forgotten her name.
“Blondell.”
“Ms. Blondell, would you mind very much leaving me alone with Mr. . . .”
“Bush.”
“. . . with Mr. Bush here?”
Her expression said she was not all that eager to leave, but if the priest insisted . . . “Well, all right. I suppose you need privacy to do whatever it is you Catholics do.” She left and joined some of the female onlookers waiting to learn the outcome of this scene. Conspiratorially, they left together to conjecture on Bush’s fate now that he’d been turned over to his priest.
Bush and Koesler regarded each other silently for a few moments. Finally, Bush tossed his head in the direction of the departed Agnes Blondell. “She’s a bitch.”
Koesler could not debate the point.
On reflection, Bush concluded that this priest had nothing to do with the present humiliation. It was entirely Blondell’s fault. No use blaming the priest. “I don’t know your name.”
“Koesler. Father Koesler.”
“Is that K-E-S-S-L-E-R?”
“No; K-O-E-S-L-E-R.”
“German?”
“Yes.” Though he was half Irish, Koesler rarely acknowledged that fact. To a casual acquaintance, the explanation was not worth the time it took.
“I’m sorry you got mixed up in this. It’s none of your affair. But then, it’s none of her business either.”
“Granted.”
Bush looked at his watch. “We got a break now. You want to go to lunch? We could get a salad in one of the Greek places.”
Koesler briefly considered the invitation. “Okay.” He felt too sorry for Bush to refuse him.
As usual around midday in Greektown, auto traffic was perilously close to gridlock and the sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians. Partly because he wanted to get this engagement over with as quickly as possible and partly because it was so cold, Koesler walked rapidly. With his longer stride, the much taller Koesler unconsciously forced Bush to almost run just to keep up. When they reached the Laikon Café, Koesler felt invigorated. Bush was panting.
“Do you always walk this fast?” Bush gasped.
“Only when it’s cold,” Koesler answered as he looked over the early luncheon crowd, found a space, and headed for a table for two not far from a window.
They each ordered salad. The coffee was poured immediately.
Their conversation had barely begun when Koesler sensed lunch would be destroyed if Bush were allowed to explain his work. Without doubt someone had to assist in autopsies, but Koesler knew he would be happier if he never heard a graphic description of the work. So he steered the talk in this and that direction until they chanced on Bush’s avocation of handiwork and his fascination with machines, both human and constructed.
So pleased was Koesler to have stumbled on this neutral subject, it did not occur to him that Arnold Bush and Father Kramer had identical hobbies.
By the time their salads were delivered, the subject of Bush’s pastime was pretty well exhausted. Through the salad course and more coffee, Koesler coaxed Bush into giving an account, albeit abbreviated, of his life. It was a knack Koesler had, springing from his genuine interest in people, that caused others, oftentimes even strangers like Bush, to open up.
Bush, however, was not about to reveal all. He had been wounded too often to bare himself completely. His carefully edited personal narrative skipped over such items as the time he had spent living in a bordello. But, testing the waters, he did throw in a few controversial facts such as his on-again/off-again practice of Catholicism.
When Koesler rejected the bait, neither greeting the news with widened eyes nor berating him for his backsliding, Bush found himself warming to the priest somewhat. He was indeed sorry to have the lunch end. But the priest, though gracious enough, appeared to be in a hurry. So, too soon for Bush, the luncheon was over. And, wonder of wonders, the priest picked up the tab. If Bush needed another reason to trust this priest, the fact that he would pay for lunch was it. For one used to having the flow of money go from the laity to the clergy, this was a unique experience.
Koesler left the restaurant and leaned into the cold damp gale that gusted in from the Detroit River and twisted through the canyons of downtown. Fortunately, his car was parked only a few blocks away. He hurried into the vehicle, shivering, but grateful to be protected from the biting wind-chill.
Before starting the car, he cleaned the mist from his glasses and thought about this unexpectedly busy, if not as productive as he had wished, morning.
He had been disheartened by Inspector Koznicki’s loss of faith in Father Kramer. And yet, it had not been a complete surprise. A police officer such as the inspector had to rely on his vast experience, together with all available evidence. In the end, no one could understand a priest like another priest could. In this case, Koesler was willing to wager his knowledge and experience in the priesthood against even the vastly superior experience in criminal behavior and homicide of his friend, Inspector Koznicki.
Then there was Dr. Moellmann, a most provocative man. Due to his patient explanation, Koesler now knew exactly what had happened to those poor women. The necessary restraint of the news media couldn’t do justice to the violence of those deaths. The word “mutilation” was inadequate to describe the obscenity of that horrible evisceration, not to mention the branding. And what could those marks mean?
What irritated Koesler most was that those branding marks did mean something to him. But what? There was some clue buried just outside his conscious mind that promised to open a door to this mystery. But he couldn’t find the key. And there was the further discouragement stemming from Dr. Moellmann’s implicit confidence in the certitude of Lieutenant Tully. Koesler had to admit that any disinterested third party would consider it foolhardy for him to continue to stand in opposition to the combined expertise of Koznicki and Tully. But there Koesler stood. With his faith in Father Kramer, he could do no less.
Finally, this morning, there was Arnold Bush.
In retrospect, their meeting had been sheerly ludicrous. Koesler knew that he would forevermore smile at the memory of Agnes Blondell’s leading him around the mortuary. And yet, there was something vaguely unsettling about Arnold Bush and . . . Koesler could not quite put his finger on it. Something Bush had said. What was it? At the time, it had slipped by Koesler and it was still evading him.
Then there was the disquieting thought that somewhere, somehow he and Bush had met previously. There was just something familiar about the man. But Koesler had been assigned to so many parishes over the years, been on so many committees, done business with so many people, that it was not uncommon for him to meet someone for the first time who would remind him of someone else he knew.