Kill and Tell Read online

  “Frank,” Koesler said gently, “there is a person in the Gospels you may remember. His name was Zacchaeus. He was described as a wealthy man but also as a very sinful man. One day Jesus singled Zacchaeus out from among all the other people in his town as the one with whom Jesus would stay. Zacchaeus felt very honored, and justly so. He also felt very humbled by the honor Jesus paid him. In this spirit, Zacchaeus made a little speech. He said, ‘I give half my belongings to the poor, Lord. And if I have defrauded anyone in the least, I will pay him back fourfold.’ And then Jesus replied, ‘Today salvation has come to this house. The Son of Man has come to search out and save what is lost.’

  “You see, Frank, that’s what’s happened for you tonight: Jesus has come to save what is lost. He’s given you time and the impetus to repent and now He will forgive you your sins. That ought to make you feel as honored and grateful as Zacchaeus was. And, like Zacchaeus, you ought to want to make things right. It is one thing to ask God’s forgiveness—and receive that forgiveness—and another thing to ask the forgiveness of those we have offended. But remember, Frank: Zacchaeus wanted to make everything right. Anyone he had defrauded, he intended to pay back fourfold. I think you ought to feel that way, too, Frank. And would you agree, if I made your penance to do your best to set things straight with all these people you’ve mentioned tonight?”

  “Yes. I’ll do it, Father! I’ll do it!”

  “Good.”

  As he went on to pronounce absolution, Koesler could not help but wonder whether, as a decided fringe benefit of his penance, Hoffman might not even yet thereby dissuade his would-be killer from his murderous course. If so, this could turn out to be one of the most effective confessions and penances in the history of the sacrament.

  After Hoffman departed, Koesler decided to wait a moment to see if he might escape a contagion of confessions. But no sooner had Hoffman left the room than Koesler heard shuffling feet and two knees hitting the kneeler.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a few months since my last confession. Say, can’t I go to confession face to face?”

  “We’re not set up for it tonight.”

  “Oh. OK. Well, last time I confessed impatience with my husband and I was going to work on that. Specifically, I was going to stop complaining about how he always throws his soiled clothes in the laundry inside out. Well, I did OK with that resolution. In fact, it was perfect. But I still feel and express impatience with him. So this time, I think I’ll resolve to be more patient with him when he loses patience with me.”

  Koesler told the woman he considered that to be both a good resolution and a good penance. And he absolved her.

  She was followed by still another penitent. Koesler looked at his ever-present watch. Five after eight. He was late for the rosary. As was the case with the previous penitent, he had to fight back the urge to be impatient.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two months since my last confession. And I didn’t do anything.”

  “You didn’t do anything? You didn’t miss Mass or anything?”

  “No. I didn’t do anything. I was in the hospital.”

  This was by no means the first time Koesler had heard such a confession. He had no idea why patients in a hospital never did anything, much less committed a sin. But a great number of them seemed to share this experience.

  “You’re sorry for the sins of your past life, aren’t you? Maybe especially for impatience?” He had to find something to forgive. One could not absolve from nothing. And impatience seemed to be popular tonight.

  “Oh, yes, Father.”

  “Then for your penance say five Hail Marys.”

  Koesler absolved.

  “One more thing, Father.”

  “Yes?”

  “This is really neat.”

  “What?”

  “Having confessions in a funeral home.”

  He might have argued the “neatness” of the custom. But there wasn’t time.

  As the latest penitent departed, Koesler decided to wait just a few seconds in case there was another. He did not wish to inflict embarrassment by bumping into someone entering the quasi-confessional—someone who might desire anonymity.

  Sure enough, he heard slow, hesitant footsteps approaching. The penitent knelt. There was something different, something strange. He couldn’t identify what it was. Perhaps the breathing. It was irregular. Was the person ill? He felt a presentiment. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” An indifferent chuckle. “Yes, I’d . . . say so.”

  That voice again! The one he’d heard in the confessional just before Emma Hoffman had been killed.

  “It’s you again!”

  “My, aren’t . . . we perceptive.”

  Either a high-pitched male or a low-pitched female voice. But so blasé about such a serious matter that Koesler found it frightening. “Why are you here!” Koesler reflexively made it a challenge rather than a mere question.

  “Why am . . . I here? Why . . . to confess. Why else would anyone . . . come to confession?” Another humorless chuckle. “This time I . . . have it for you . . . priest.”

  “Have what?”

  “A sin. Just what you . . . were looking for. And not just a slight sin. That would be . . . dull. I have a . . . capital crime for you. I committed murder, once.” It was an effort to mimic an adolescent sing-song manner of confessing. “What is lost in . . . quantity is compensated for in quality.”

  “You killed Emma Hoffman!”

  “As it turns out . . .yes.”

  For one of the rare moments in his life, Koesler forgot about time. There were serious things to be settled here. There was the matter of surrender to the civil authorities, particularly should an innocent person be harmed by an investigation, a trial, a false conviction. More than anything was the fact that the penitent had killed the wrong person and would very probably try again to kill Frank Hoffman. But above all, there was the matter of sorrow, contrition, amendment, atonement. The essentials to the granting of absolution. He decided, before possibly wasting much time on the consequences of this sin, that he’d better get down to the essence and see if there were any reason to talk about undoing, to the extent possible, the evil that had been done.

  “From your tone and the manner of your presentation, I find it difficult to believe you are sorry for what you did.”

  “Sorry? Sorry . . .” The person seemed to be pondering the word. “As it . . . turns out, I am not . . . sorry for just about anything. I asked you to consider . . . the devil living again on this earth. Do you . . . suppose the devil can be sorry for what he does? Then do not . . . expect me to be sorry!”

  This was, by no means, a unique occurrence. In Koesler’s experience, quite a few unrepentant sinners presented themselves in the confessional. Usually their presence was pro forma. They had sinned, thus it was only natural to visit the confessional. Perhaps they hoped that the priest might overlook their lack of true contrition. Perhaps they simply wanted to confide in someone even though absolution would be denied. However, Koesler had to admit that this was the first time contrition had been withheld by someone claiming to be the devil.

  “Then I cannot absolve you. I cannot begin this act of reconciliation until and unless you have sorrow. Can we talk about that?”

  “No! There is . . . no point. Let’s just consider this . . . our little secret.”

  With that, the person rose and left the room, leaving Koesler badly shaken. For a fleeting moment, he had experienced the natural urge to discover the identity of this strange penitent. There was no Church rule or law against it; it simply was not in his character to dash around the screen and peek. As he respected the penitent’s right to secrecy, he also respected his or her right to anonymity. He considered it unseemly to violate either trust.

  Fortunately, there were no more penitents. He would have had a decidedly difficult time concentrating on any more confessions. As it was, he was concerned about gett
ing through the rosary.

  The knock at the door startled her. She expected no one.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me . . . Frank . . . Frank Hoffman.”

  She hesitated. “Just a minute.” She opened the door.

  “You had the lock changed! Why did you do that?” A look of anger passed over his face and then it was gone. “Never mind,” he added.

  “Really, Frank—after all that’s happened, I didn’t really think we’d be getting together again. Or, if you did want to see me, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to see you. So, I had the lock changed.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Ordinarily he would have been livid at such a unilateral action. But this was the “new” Frank Hoffman. “You had every right to feel that way. But things have changed.”

  “That may be the understatement of the century.” She was still wearing the simple yet attractive black dress she had worn at tonight’s rosary service at the funeral home. “I have gone from being your closet mistress to being the occasion, if not the cause, of your wife’s death. I’d say that marks a certain degree of change in our relationship!”

  “No, Jackie; you don’t understand. The change is in me. I saw you in the back of the crowd at the rosary this evening. I tried to talk to you afterward, but by the time I got back there, you’d gone.”

  In point of fact, on his way from the Dearborn funeral home to 1300 Lafayette, Hoffman had been forced once again to consider the possibility that Jackie had been responsible for the poisoned drink. However, that possibility made no difference in what he was determined to accomplish—nothing less than the radical reformation of his life.

  He was thoroughly convinced that his death was imminent. There was nothing the police or anyone else could do to prevent it. Nowadays particularly, it was so simple for a determined killer to have his or her way. If it had not been for that bizarre accident of Em’s grabbing the drink from his hand, he would be dead now. And they would be burying him tomorrow instead of Em.

  In any case, it no longer mattered which of the suspects was the real perpetrator. What mattered was his certainty that in the relatively near future, he knew not when, he would be meeting his God in judgment. To a certain extent, he felt fortunate. God was giving him more than fair warning and a golden opportunity to make up for the past, set all matters straight, and prepare for eternity. He was determined to make good use of this opportunity.

  So determined was he to make amends that it did not occur to him that in changing his life, he just might be persuading whoever was determined to kill him to change his or her mind. That Hoffman might be removing the grounds for which someone wanted to commit murder. Buying his eternal welfare by self-reformation might not have been a completely selfless consideration. But it was as close to altruism as Frank Hoffman had ever come.

  “What did you want to talk to me about, Frank?” Jackie could not help but notice that some change, seemingly profound, had come over him.

  Hoffman led her to the sofa near the window. Together, for a few moments, they watched absently as the Canadian Club sign continued to blink.

  “After Em died,” Hoffman said finally, “well, after I got over the shock of Em’s death, I started thinking that perhaps it would be better for me if I never married again. Or, at least, not for a great number of years—”

  “Frank, if you came all the way over here just to dump me, you needn’t have bothered. I figured that’s the way we were headed—Split City—without your having to tell me.”

  “No, no! On the contrary, I didn’t come here to announce that we were finished. I came here to ask you to marry me.”

  “Frank!”

  “As soon as possible. Before it’s too late.”

  “Too late!”

  “Never mind that. Just tell me: Will you marry me?”

  “Frank! Of course! It’s all I’ve ever wanted since we first got together. I mean, I’m sorry it had to happen this way—with your wife dying. But—oh, yes, Frank; I’d be proud to be your wife!”

  “Good!” It was said with little romantic emotion. But then, he felt little romantic emotion. It was simply a base that needed touching on his circuit of reformation. And now it had been touched.

  “But, Frank, how—?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know this is sudden . . .” He stopped, smiled briefly, and shook his head. “Strange to say a proposal can be sudden after we’ve been practically living together for years. But it is sudden—at least unexpected—for both of us. But, it’s the right thing to do. Yes,” he nodded, “the right thing to do.”

  The right thing to do. When, she wondered, had she known him to be concerned about “the right thing to do”?

  She was both surprised and a little frightened. Surprised, naturally, by his proposal when she had been convinced their relationship had been terminated. Frightened by the obvious change in him.

  The thought crossed her mind that maybe it would be a good idea for them to date for a while before marriage. Could she be sure about entering wedlock with a man who suddenly appeared to be, in some respects, a stranger?

  She quickly dismissed this thought as nonsense. If she knew any man, she knew Frank Hoffman, even if he did appear to be, in some respects, a stranger.

  Perhaps he just needed a little something. He did look a bit ashen.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  He considered. “I guess I could use a little something. I’ll get it.”

  The surprises kept coming. She could not recall his ever volunteering to wait on himself. He went to the kitchen; she to the bedroom.

  He dropped a large ice cube into a cocktail glass and added Dewar’s. He glanced momentarily at the sweet and dry vermouth, closed the liquor cabinet and added water to the Scotch. It was a spontaneous decision. Along with all the other things in his life he was changing, he would alter his drinking habits. No more perfect Rob Roys. It was symbolic, but symbols were important indicators of change.

  He stood before the window, letting the melting ice further dilute his drink and gazing at the lights of Windsor reflected in the now placid waters of the Detroit River. Gradually, he became aware of her presence.

  He looked over his shoulder. She stood at the corner of the window, illuminated only by the reflected lights of the city. She wore a black lace negligee. Something from Frederick’s of Hollywood that Hoffman had picked up on one of his New York trips. She had never worn it. The clinging, revealing garment accentuated her subtle youthful curves.

  “Something for our celebration,” she said.

  The ice began to rattle against the side of Hoffman’s glass. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed with utmost sincerity. “Oh, my God, but you’re beautiful!” It was evident that he was restraining himself only with great difficulty. “But we can’t! We mustn’t! Jackie, the flannel nightgown: Go put it on!”

  “But . . .” She felt confused and not a little scorned.

  “Please! The flannel nightgown!”

  She disappeared into the bedroom. She felt oddly embarrassed, and tried with great difficulty to sort out her feelings. None but her parents, when they had had to diaper her, had seen her naked more often than Frank Hoffman. Why should he suddenly give the impression not only of being unfamiliar with her body but of being shocked at the sight of her in a seductive negligee. Heretofore, they had had no legal relationship. Now, they were virtually engaged.

  She returned to the living room, in shapeless flannel from neck to toe, and hopeful for some sort of explanation.

  “Jackie, I know this is going to sound incomprehensible to you, but I won’t be able to sleep with you again until we’re married.”

  “What!”

  “I am in the state of . . . uh . . . grace for the first time in a long time, and I’ve got to maintain it. I can’t chance going to hell.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned! No; as a matter of fact, as long as I hang around with you, I won’t be.”

  It all fell into place. It had final
ly dawned on Frank Hoffman that he was mortal: He had been scared into virtue. Enough of her Catholic training remained to enable her to recognize the signs. His was a deathbed conversion without the bed. Definitely without the bed.

  She could scarcely argue with it since his change of heart had prompted him to want to make an honest woman of her.

  “So,” she said, open to suggestion, “what’s next?”

  “I think we ought to say our night prayers and then go to sleep. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.” He breathed a quick prayer that he would have a full day. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  Night prayers. All she could recall was, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” Inappropriate. “You lead.”

  “All right.”

  He stumbled through some half-forgotten formal prayer, bade her a chaste goodnight, turned out the light, and easily found the couch.

  The extinguishing of the lights was noted by the occupants of a car parked on East Larned.

  “Looks like they’ve gone to bed,” noted Sergeant Ewing.

  “But not necessarily to sleep,” added Sergeant Papkin.

  They continued their protective surveillance of Frank Hoffman. They would be relieved at midnight. Till then, they would sip coffee from a thermos and imagine how nice it would be to be home with their wives.

  19.

  It wasn’t what it used to be. Oh, not that there hadn’t been division among the clergy even in the good old days. But the major split of yore had been between the older and younger priests. Or, more specifically, between pastors and assistants.

  These thoughts occurred to Father Koesler as he welcomed the visiting priests to St. Anselm’s rectory. They were gathering for Emma Hoffman’s funeral.

  Koesler recalled an incident that had taught him his place as a very young priest in the sacerdotal pecking order. He had been ordained only a couple of years when he attended a priests’ retreat given by the noted Redemptorist theologian, Father Francis J. Connell. During one of Connell’s conferences, Koesler found himself seated in the rear of the chapel directly behind an enormous, bald pastor.