Kill and Tell Read online

  Koesler noticed Father Leo Clark in the front pew. The avant garde theologian from the major seminary was seated next to Father John Schwartz, who customarily identified himself as a retired veteran of World War I. The twenty-first century sitting next to the thirteenth. They wore identical vestments and, given an after-dinner drink, could find any number of Catholic traditions they could share and agree upon.

  Koesler had recently spoken to Father Clark about a more contemporary view of the seal. It was Clark’s opinion that the very nature of confession bound the confessor to do nothing the penitent would find odious. Obviously, this would include not revealing what any specific penitent had said in the confessional and certainly not connecting any particular penitent with any particular sin. But the notion that there could be absolutely no exception to this rule was no longer alluded to. While, in theory, this made the fabled seal slightly more open-ended, Koesler still could not envision any circumstance that could justify the violation of such a sacred trust.

  In any case, there was no purpose in even contemplating using in any way what he’d learned from the person who had confessed murder. All Koesler knew from two encounters was that someone—male or female, he didn’t know which—had confessed to murder. Whoever it was was able to project a strange ambiguous speaking voice. And finally, the person seemed to be under the delusion that he or she was either possessed or obsessed by the devil. Of course, the possibility of a genuine diabolical influence could not be completely dismissed. But it surely was not very plausible.

  The Mass of Resurrection was concluded, as were the prayers for the deceased as well as the bereaved. The procession reformed, the clergy again preceding the coffin, which was followed by the laity. At the door of the church, the procession halted as Bishop Ratigan once more sprinkled the casket with holy water, a gesture that would be repeated by each priest in attendance.

  As Koesler concluded his rite of sprinkling the casket and handed the aspergillum to the next priest in line, Frank Hoffman approached him.

  “You’re going to the cemetery, aren’t you, Father?”

  “Certainly, Frank.”

  “And you’ll be coming to the hall for a bite to eat?”

  “I’d like to Frank, but I’m pressed for time. I’ve got an important appointment early this afternoon. I am sorry.”

  “That’s OK, Father. But I wanted to thank you for hearing my confession last night. I feel like a new man, literally. Whatever happens now, I’m ready.”

  “Good, Frank. God bless you.”

  Koesler stepped back against the wall and thought, whoever might doubt the axiom that confession is good for the soul ought to consult with Frank Hoffman.

  It was not the sort of appointment that Koesler favored. But he had agreed to meet with the lad. So he would.

  The priest sat at the desk in his office. He was studying several brochures and newspaper clippings. He had decided it would be a good idea to make some preparation for the upcoming appointment.

  The prospect of this meeting was beginning to depress him. In no little manner he had been buoyed by the apparent spiritual rebirth of Frank Hoffman. It was good to see a penitent put his spiritual house in order. Unfortunate that it had to be caused by the threat of imminent death. But, Koesler reminded himself, the beginning of wisdom was the fear of the Lord.

  What most distressed Koesler about the coming meeting was that the person with whom he had the appointment didn’t really want to meet with him. The young man’s parents had arranged for the meeting. Koesler was not the type to impose himself on an unwilling listener. He would have made one of the world’s worst salesmen. Every once in a while, he thanked God for the law obliging Catholics to attend Mass. Although he was rather good at preaching, he was pleased that he did not have to “sell” his services. He pitied his Protestant confreres who had no such law to enforce attendance at Sunday services.

  The doorbell rang.

  Koesler checked his watch. Precisely 1:00 p.m. Good; he appreciated promptness. He had informed Mary O’Connor, the secretary, that he was expecting an appointment at one, so he would answer the door himself.

  “Good afternoon, Father.” Tom Costello, an eighteen-year-old college freshman, stood at the door. He wore a black topcoat over a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie. His hair was cut in an Ivy League style. Koesler knew that one could scarcely find that cut anymore.

  “Come in, Tommy.” Koesler led his visitor down the short hallway into the small office. They sat at opposite sides of the desk.

  Koesler moved the clipping he’d been reading to the center of the desk.

  “Your parents tell me you’re transferring to the Maharishi International University.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s quite a transfer—from Henry Ford Community College to MIU. And all the way from Dearborn to Fairfield, Iowa.”

  “Sometimes a person’s life has to change drastically, Father.”

  “I know.” Koesler had just finished encouraging one man, Frank Hoffman, to do just that—make a drastic change in his life. Now, he would try to convince a younger man that his proposed radical change in life would prove unwise. “But are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

  “Who can be sure, Father? It seems right. It sure got me to clean up my act.”

  “That it did,” Koesler was forced to agree. Until recently, Tom Costello had been a dropout from polite society. Over his parents’ constant objections, he had stopped going to Mass during his high school years and began associating with a tough, boisterous crowd. Now, in a 180-degree turnabout, he was headed for a pseudo-religious institution and, as his meticulous grooming attested, he had indeed cleaned up his act.

  “Speaking of cleaning up your act, Tom, when did all this happen? Last time I saw you, you were in Levis and your hair was down to here. And look at you now.”

  Tom smiled self-consciously. “A couple of months ago—just after we began classes in September. A representative of MIU came on campus. There was a notice on the bulletin board.”

  “But why would that attract you, Tom?”

  “I’m not sure, Father. Someplace down deep inside, I had this uncomfortable feeling. Like my life was going in sixteen directions at one time. This representative of MIU maintained that transcendental meditation could put my life together again. So, I went to see. Well, I saw. And I bought.”

  Koesler leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “You know, Tom, this business of Eastern gurus on our campuses is a comparatively recent phenomenon. Think back as early as the sixteenth century, when Francis Xavier, on the orders of Ignatius Loyola, went to India, China, and Japan, evangelizing in the East. From that time on, a constant stream of Christian missionaries, Protestant as well as Catholic, has been carrying the message of Christianity to the East. But, in just the last quarter century, approximately, there has been this growing trickle of Eastern gurus becoming evangelists, as it were, for everything from Confucianism to Zen to TM, and some really bizarre offshoots, to boot.”

  “Well, fair is fair. We did it to them. Now it’s their turn to do it to us.” Tom’s jaw was becoming fixed. Since making his decision he had had to face one challenge after another.

  “But doesn’t it make you wonder, Tom? Transcendental meditation, under one form or another, has been around as long as Christianity, some two thousand years. Yet it was only in 1957 that the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi brought TM to this country.”

  “I guess it was just time.”

  “Time, Tom, and, I would suggest, money.”

  A smile crossed Tom’s face. He had fielded this question many times. “Everybody needs some operating capital. What was it somebody once said about the marks of the true Church—One, holy, Catholic, apostolic, and bingo?”

  “OK, score one for your side. Everybody needs some capital. But I don’t think you could say that Francis Xavier went to India and the East to get rich. Nor do most Christian missionaries go from the richest c
ountries in the world to the poorest in order to get rich and build up operating capital. On the other hand, most of the gurus of the East come from very poor countries to the richest countries of the world. I would only submit for your consideration, Tom, that there may be a less than purely altruistic intent in this latter-day missionary activity.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, Father, I don’t know what everybody’s getting so excited about. After all, I’m hardly going off the deep end. I mean, I’m not joining the Moonies or Hare Krishna!”

  “I know you’re not, Tom. And thank God you’re not. But, have you given any thought to the fact that you’re about to enter a foreign culture?”

  “Foreign culture!”

  “Tom, the Maharishi’s transcendental meditation comes from India’s Vedic Science of Enlightenment. It was born, grew up, and developed as a part of Eastern civilization. It is part of Eastern culture. But you are a product of Western civilization. No matter what happens, you’re never going to be comfortable immersed in a culture that is foreign to you.”

  “For God’s sake; I’m going to learn to meditate. You don’t have anything against meditation, do you?”

  Koesler couldn’t help smiling. He was reminded of the old Bing Crosby film, Going My Way—specifically, the scene where Father Fitzgibbon, played by Barry Fitzgerald, shows Father Chuck O’Malley, played by Crosby, around the cloistered parish gardens. Fitzgibbon observes that the garden is a good place in which to meditate, and quickly adds, “You do meditate, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Koesler replied, “I believe in meditation. But even there we are going to find differences. When you reach the ultimate in meditation—contemplation—you also encounter the phenomenon of an altered state of mind . . . almost a programmed unconsciousness.”

  Tom nodded. He was familiar with the terms.

  “OK,” Koesler continued, “now, in the East, this altered state of consciousness is the whole goal of the contemplative exercise . . . a kind of nothingness, nirvana. Whereas, in our culture, the altered state of mind sometimes achieved in contemplation is not the end in itself, but a means to another end. In the altered state of consciousness, one is better able to unite oneself with God. For us, the altered state of consciousness is a vehicle for prayer. For perhaps the most sublime prayer man can achieve.”

  Tom hesitated. “I ... I didn’t know there was any mysticism but Eastern mysticism.”

  “Oh, but yes, Tom. Western civilization would not have developed as it has—perhaps would not have developed at all—without its heritage of a distinctly Western mysticism.

  “There is nothing ‘wrong’ about Eastern mysticism and such great religious movements as Confucianism, Buddhism, and Zen. Nor is there anything ‘wrong’ with those of us who are products of Western civilization using some of the Eastern methods—as long as we know what makes us what we are. Many Trappists use the methods of Zen to achieve an altered state of consciousness. But they never forget that what they’ve achieved is not an end in itself, but an effective and beautiful means toward prayer.”

  “I . . . I never quite thought of it that way, Father. I’ve got to admit, you’ve given me something to think about.”

  “Why don’t you let me help you rethink the whole thing? What you are interested in, transcendental meditation, is an altered state of consciousness. It can be an end in itself, or it can be a means to an end. It is not altogether different from self-hypnosis—”

  There was an awkward silence wherein the priest appeared to become lost in his own thoughts.

  To fill the vacuum, Tom Costello began to talk, though he didn’t really have anything to say. “I think that’s really interesting, Father, about how the purpose of contemplation is so different in the West from the East.”

  Tom continued to talk. Koesler was aware the young man was saying something, but the priest was off in another world.

  It resembled the conclusion of a famous musical: In New York, Tommy Alcott’s fiancee is talking to him. But, though her lips continue to move, Tommy doesn’t hear a word she’s saying. He hears the singing of his friends and his true love, Fiona, back in Brigadoon.

  “. . . self-hypnosis . . .”

  “. . . self-hypnosis . . .”

  “. . . hypnosis . . .”

  “. . . hypnosis . . .”

  Something someone had told him recently. But, what? It was as if Koesler had stumbled upon the final missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, but paradoxically he didn’t know where it fit.

  “. . . hypnosis . . .”

  “. . . hypnosis . . .”

  Yes, that’s where he’d heard it. But why was it important? He’d have to think it through. Now, while the thought was fresh.

  “Tommy,” Koesler interrupted the young man in mid-meaningless sentence, “excuse me, but I just remembered something and I’ve got to follow it through right now.” He turned in his swivel chair and took a small paperback from the shelf behind the desk and handed it to Tommy. “I’d like you to read this. It’s The Cloud of Unknowing. It’s by an anonymous fourteenth century mystic and it’s a classic. It will help show you the contemplative treasures of Western civilization. After you’ve read it, let’s talk again. It may work out that you will go to MIU. But I’d like you to agree with me that you will get a lot more out of an authentic Eastern mysticism if you know who you are and a lot more about the culture that produced you. OK?”

  They stood, shook hands, and, armed with the small paperback, Tom Costello went out to rethink things.

  Koesler stood in the rectory corridor smiling. What would Father Dowling do in a spot like this? Probably light his pipe and ponder the thing in a cloud of smoke.

  But Koesler had quit smoking. And, while Dowling was on the wagon, Koesler definitely was not. However, it was much too early for a drink. He decided to go over to the quiet church and think things through. Yes, he decided, Dowling would approve.

  Koesler sat in the rear pew. Somehow, he always found that an empty church was more quiet and conducive to thought than any other place he’d ever experienced.

  Perhaps he ought to try to put himself in an altered state of consciousness. Short of that, he would try to recall everything he had witnessed the night Emma Hoffman died and see if he could fit this piece of the puzzle in place.

  He had arrived a little late and parked in a crowded lot. He’d given himself a private tour of the ground floor of the Collegiate Club and had been surprised at the lack of security in such an exclusive private club.

  He’d entered the room where the party was being held. No, he hadn’t. Not quite. He’d stood in the doorway for a while, getting the lay of the land, as it were.

  He’d noticed the registration desk and the bar. Both busy places.

  He’d seen Frank Hoffman approach the Martins and give them the good news, as Koesler later learned, of their scheduled private audience with the Pope.

  Then he’d seen Charles Chase with his wife and Emma Hoffman as well as Cindy Mercury. The three women had gone off to the ladies’ room together. Koesler remembered wondering about that custom that seemed to preclude any woman’s going to the ladies’ room alone.

  Funny, but he couldn’t recall seeing them come back.

  Looking for familiar faces, he’d spied Hoffman, Mike Ratigan, and Angie Mercury together. He’d joined them. They were later joined by Emma and Cindy.

  Frank had started a quarrel with his wife. No . . . no, that’s not the way it happened. Frank had been rather happy over the papal audience. Emma had started the quarrel. Then Cindy had left the group to get a waiter to serve Frank another drink. Then the quarrel had heated up considerably.

  Angie Mercury had seemed distracted. There was someone nearby he wanted to talk to. Koesler couldn’t remember her name . . . some woman executive of a local TV station, as he recalled.

  Then Ratigan had left the circle, presumably to talk to someone. He had been followed by Mercury, who finally got to speak with the lady in question.

&
nbsp; Next, a new person had intruded on their small circle. It had turned out to be Hoffman’s very attractive mistress, Jacqueline LeBlanc. At that point, as the expression goes, everything hit the fan.

  While the argument between Hoffman, his wife, and his mistress intensified, first Ratigan, then Mercury had returned to the group. Now Koesler tried to remember what had happened next in as great detail as possible, since it was the instant Emma had surprisingly grabbed the poisoned drink from her husband and downed it.

  There had been a waiter standing on the fringe of the circle. It was he who had held the poisoned drink. Koesler could see him in his mind’s eye. The waiter, as was nearly everyone else, had been embarrassed by the vicious argument. Cindy had called her brother’s attention to his drink. Frank had taken the drink from the waiter. With a defiant cry, Emma had grabbed the glass from her husband, downed it quickly, and had seemed to be hit by two successive blows. First by the highly alcoholic beverage, then by the poison. She had collapsed, gone into convulsions, and died. Rather quickly—all things considered, Koesler later thought, mercifully quickly.

  Now, Koesler asked himself, where, in that scenario did his tentatively identified piece of the puzzle fit?

  If it fit at all, it would be applicable to only two people. Koesler considered each separately.

  If he applied the hypothesis to the one—no; that didn’t make any sense at all. But if he applied the hypothesis to the other—? Yes . . . everything seemed to fall into place.

  He tried to keep his exuberance in check. It was, after all, no more than a hypothesis. But, if he were correct, he had solved the murder.

  He needed only to make a few phone calls. If they checked out, his next call would be to the police.

  Father Koesler hurried from the church back to the rectory.