No Greater Love Page 29

  A rifle lay on the floor where it had been dropped, seemingly haphazardly. Farther into the room but this side of the large desk a chair lay on its side. Nearby, was a scene similar to those Tully had observed too many times.

  A kneeling man clutched a younger man to his chest.

  The older man? Very probably Bill Cody—the object of Tully’s pursuit. Cody allegedly was intent on causing great bodily harm to or killing a bishop—Patrick McNiff.

  Tully had seen the elder Cody during a Folk Mass at St. Joe’s when Tully had been a reluctant member of the congregation and Cody had been one of three observers in the choir loft. That had been at a considerable distance. But this seemed to be the same man.

  It was not the scene Tully had expected, especially when he’d heard the rifle shot. He expected to find Cody, certainly. But the victim Tully anticipated was a much older man. As he continued to inhale the crime scene, it seemed obvious there had been a tragic mistake.

  The initial impression: The young man was William Cody’s son. As the elder man rocked back and forth, he moaned repeatedly, “My son! My son! I didn’t mean it to be you.”

  Tully stepped forward. He leaned down to check for signs of life, while not taking his eyes off the elder man, who offered no resistance as Tully felt the victim’s neck for a pulse. He couldn’t find any.

  Tully stepped back. Cody Senior, still in a kneeling position, seemed to have turned to stone, his eyes glazed. Tully stood between Cody and the rifle, fixing the scene in his mind.

  The victim was garbed in a black cassock with red buttons and matching piping. The ill-fitting cassock seemed too small for the victim; it gapped in spots where it was unbuttoned. A red skullcap lay nearby, a darker crimson staining its original shade.

  Judging from the position of the blotter and the books on the work surface, the chair was on the wrong side of the desk.

  Tully guessed that the younger Cody, masquerading as the bishop, had been sitting with his back to the door. He had gambled on his father’s impulsiveness and had won—or lost. Instead of coming around the desk to confront the man he thought was the bishop, the perpetrator had fired upon entry.

  But where was the bishop?

  And where, as Tully impatiently tapped his foot on the carpeted floor, was his backup?

  The latter question was answered as a commotion in the corridor grew louder, and police of various disciplines poured into the room.

  Father and son were separated; the father, virtually in shock, led into an adjoining room.

  Arriving next, almost simultaneously, were Bishop McNiff and Father Koesler. Each had questions, but first there was Al Cody. They both started toward the inert body, then Koesler looked to Tully, who nodded. “Just don’t touch anything.”

  McNiff and Koesler knelt by Al. They prayed for the young man whose life had held such rich promise and who was now far beyond the pain and sorrow of his death.

  As the two clergymen stood, Tully approached. “What happened here?”

  After a brief moment during which each waited for the other to speak, McNiff proceeded to recount how Al had come to him with the decision—out of nowhere—to resign, though he had only a few weeks till ordination.

  McNiff’s voice was flat as he went on to tell how all his efforts to persuade Al to change his mind were for naught: Al would not be budged.

  Then there was McNiff’s well-intentioned call to the Codys and William’s off-the-wall reaction to what he thought was McNiff’s role in this. Then came the threats of murder.

  From that moment on, McNiff related, Al simply took charge. It was the most amazing transformation the bishop had ever witnessed. Al all but physically steered the bishop to the chapel and told—ordered—him not to emerge from there until he was summoned by Al or someone else—anyone else except Bill Cody.

  Apparently the young man had then put on the bishop’s zucchetto and one of his cassocks, then offered his own back as bait for his father. It had worked. Too well. It had cost Al his life, and his father might just as well have lost his too.

  Koesler filled in the missing pieces. Al’s phone call telling of his father’s intent and the rifle his dad must’ve taken with him.

  At that point, Tully gestured toward the desk, where two pages from a yellow legal pad lay. “Apparently the victim was writing a note to the perpetrator: The message may be more clear to you two than it was to me.”

  “May we touch it?” Koesler asked.

  Tully nodded. “The techs are done with it.”

  Koesler made room for McNiff alongside the center of the desk. But McNiff shook his head. “I can’t, Bob. I’m afraid my eyes are watering. Read it out loud, would you?”

  Koesler picked up the sheets. His problem was similar to McNiff’s. But he resolved to fight his way through it.

  Dear Dad,

  If you are reading this, I am probably dead. If, somehow, I survive your coming here tonight, I will destroy this note. If I do not survive, this will be my farewell to you.

  Koesler was amazed that Al’s handwriting was so legible.

  Dad, I think you misunderstood—or, let me be plain—I think you refused to understand that leaving the seminary was my choice, my initiative. Bishop McNiff had absolutely nothing to do with it. Neither did anyone else. It was my decision alone.

  In fact, Bishop McNiff did everything in his power to talk me out of it. He even insisted on this being a leave of absence rather than a permanent break, so that I could return to the seminary and pick up from about where I left off.

  You must know, Dad, that I did not come to this resolution lightly. I’ve spent hours and hours in intense prayer. I’m convinced, totally convinced, this is the right solution to my problem.

  Now a word—if I’ve got time—about this charade.

  I learned from Mother that you were on your way here and that you probably were armed. You planned to kill the man you thought was responsible for my leaving the seminary.

  Bottom line (as you like to say, Dad): I didn’t think I could stop you.

  I’ve seen your determination. When you want something done, or you want to do something, if you really want it, you let nothing stand in your way. Nothing.

  Why did I stand in for Bishop McNiff? Because you would have killed him. Nothing or no one, including me, could have stopped you. I took the bishop’s place because I love you—and because you love me. You will be far more contrite, more repentant for killing me than you would be for killing anyone else in the world.

  I don’t know how much time I have. I intend to keep writing to the end.

  One more thing: Please tell Father Koesler it was just the way he told me it would be. We were talking about making decisions and how a person can know that he’s made the right decision.

  Father told me that when you reach the right decision, you feel an abiding sense of peace.

  That’s the way it was, Dad. I’ve spent this whole day in prayer. Prayer about my vocation. When I finally decided that leaving the seminary was my final decision on the matter, a deep, deep peace came over me. It was right, and I knew it.

  Then, tonight, when I learned that you were headed here to kill Bishop McNiff, I had just a couple of minutes to make up my mind. I decided to take his place. Once again there was this deep sense of peace. I knew it was right. I know it is right.

  Tell Father Koesler—he’ll understand—It is a far, far—Oh, Dad, you’re here. I

  A dull murmur from street traffic was the only sound in the room.

  Father Koesler looked at the clock on the wall. It was after midnight. It was Good Friday.

  EPILOGUE-CONCLUSION

  Koesler buried his head in his hands. It was foolish to try to relive the past. Raising his eyes heavenward, he mused aloud: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done—”

  “It is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known,” declaimed another voice.

  Koesler almost jumped out of his skin. He whirl
ed to see who was behind him. At first he knew only that someone else had joined him in the chapel. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness just beyond the candles’ illumination, he made out the elfin face of Bishop McNiff.

  “You had trouble sleeping too,” McNiff said. It was not a question.

  Koesler took a deep breath and exhaled. “You scared me. I thought I was alone.”

  “I’m good at that. Once, long ago, I went over to lock the church late at night. But before I locked it, I knelt in the sanctuary to pray. I didn’t know it, but the pastor sent a kid over to lock the church. Neither the pastor nor the kid knew I was there. By then my eyes were accustomed to the dark. The kid walked down the middle aisle with his arm extended in front of him so he wouldn’t run into anything.

  “To me it looked like he was going to shake hands with me. So I walked over and took his hand.”

  “Has he come down to earth yet?”

  McNiff ignored the satirical question. “I’ve been tossing and turning for hours. I saw a flickering light in the chapel. I thought maybe it was a fire: Just what we needed!”

  “I was trying to collect my thoughts for a eulogy.”

  “Anything come?”

  “Just the Dickens quote and John Fifteen:thirteen.”

  “I must confess I’m familiar with the Dickens, but not the citations of John’s Gospel. Terrible admission for a bishop, eh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You still remember the formula for absolution?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’re all right. For a bishop.”

  “What’s the John text?”

  ‘“There is no greater love than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’”

  “There’s a connection, isn’t there?”

  “I think so.” Koesler straightened one of the candles. “That’s what Al and I were developing when he came to see me about his homily.”

  “I remember that sermon. It went over well. We got a lot of good feedback on it.”

  “Well, it was almost as if Sydney Carton was following Christ’s example, word for word. Carton gave his life for his friend. And that’s what Al did.” Pause. “For you.”

  “I’ll never forget it!”

  “Actually, I think Al had more than one objective.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He was trying to save your life. Which he did. And, I think, he was trying to save his dad’s soul.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We’ll never know, of course; Al took this secret with him into eternity. But look at it this way: If Bill Cody had killed you, it’s anybody’s guess if he would ever have repented the sin. He wanted to kill you and he did—or so he thought. But with this mistaken identity, he will never cease being repentant over having killed his own son.

  “Just a thought.”

  “Speculation. True. But worth the thought.”

  They sat silently, each lost in recollections of the events leading up to this moment.

  “You know,” Koesler said, “when I began this vigil I was trying to think through all the things that happened over these months that built to this conclusion. Things that, because they happened, Al Cody was killed.”

  “I would be at the top of that list,” McNiff said sadly.

  “You mean because you phoned the Codys?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you ever do that before? When a kid either was kicked out or quit?”

  “Couple of times. Not in every case by any means. But parents invest a lot when they send us their kids. Usually it’s a considerable blow when the son goes home short of ordination. In the past, when I felt that the parents needed a buffer to accept the fact that their kid would not be ordained, I’ve broken the news to them.

  “That’s what happened Thursday night.” McNiff studied the wrinkles in his soft hands. “I’ve never known anyone as involved in his son’s vocation as Bill Cody was. I thought he’d fly off the handle if Al tried to tell him it was quits.

  “So I phoned to let him know, as gently as possible, that as far as the seminary was concerned, Al satisfied everyone on the faculty. That his quitting was completely his own choice. And that I was leaving the door ajar almost permanently for his return whenever he wanted to come back.

  “It just seemed the right thing to do.

  “Cody’s reaction, though, was totally unexpected. I wasn’t even halfway—I didn’t even get a chance to explain, before he just exploded. From that point on, I couldn’t get a word in. I’ve never been so roundly cursed in my life.”

  Koesler had been gazing at the coffin as McNiff spoke. Now he turned toward the bishop and smiled. “It’s true, Pat, that your call triggered this—” He gazed again at the coffin, then turned back to his friend. “But you couldn’t have known that. Nobody could. You tried your best to help. It wasn’t your fault that Bill Cody misread you. For all we know, if you hadn’t phoned and Al had the next morning, Bill could have flipped then, pushed Al aside, and come after you anyway.

  “Put it out of your mind, Pat.”

  “I’ll try. But I wouldn’t bet on my success.”

  “Actually,” Koesler said, “the root of this problem was Bill Cody. He might just as well have taken over his son’s personality. He devoured him. If he had let the kid develop for himself, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “I haven’t been following the news lately. Where’s Bill Cody now?”

  Koesler shook his head. “I went to see him yesterday—no, wait: Yesterday was Sunday—Easter Sunday. I saw him Saturday. He’s being held without bond in the Wayne County Jail, under a charge of murder in the first degree.” Noting McNiff’s quizzical expression, Koesler explained. “It’s called ‘transferred intent’; it’s the same charge as if he had killed—uh, his intended victim.” Koesler bit his lip as he shook his head. “He’s shattered, demolished. His attorney plans a plea of temporary insanity.”

  “Think he has a chance?”

  “I guess it depends on whether his lawyer can convince a jury that a man can become temporarily insane over his son’s loss of vocation. I don’t know.…”

  McNiff rubbed his hands together. The only heat in the chapel came from the candles. Which hardly warmed anything. “Speaking of Bill Cody, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.…”

  Koesler looked at McNiff inquiringly.

  “It had to do with something that Lieutenant Tully said to me. He said when you called him, you mentioned Al Cody as someone to look out for and protect. It didn’t hit me right away. But later I wondered why you’d say that. I was the only one in danger, no? Bill Cody was after me!”

  “You’re right, of course. But I remembered the talk we had over Al’s sermon. The parts about the ‘far, far better thing’ and ‘no greater love.’ I thought, in that light, that Al might try to intervene and fulfill the promise of ‘no greater love,’ thus becoming a victim. I wish I’d thought of it sooner—then maybe all this wouldn’t have happened.”

  They fell silent again.

  “Now that I think of it,” Koesler said, “there’s another thing that contributed to this death.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If Bill Cody had only looked. Instead of looking, he just fired.”

  McNiff stroked the stubble on his face. “You’re right. If Cody hadn’t been so bound and determined on revenge, he might’ve wondered why I would sit in a chair with my back to the door.

  “If only he had looked,” McNiff concluded.

  The two fell silent.

  “What about the other players in this tragedy?” Koesler asked, after reflection. “Andrea Zawalich, for instance?”

  “Andrea?” McNiff smiled for the first time. “In the few weeks since she was expelled, she’s found several dioceses that are eager to have her. She picked Naples, Florida. The deal is the Naples diocese gives her full credit on her degree, and she’s got a parish that is almost a carbon copy of St. George’s up here. She’s got on
e of those FBI pastors who’ll give her free reign to run any programs she wants.”

  “And, I assume that since the pastor is Foreign Born Irish, he’s probably elderly. She’ll practically be the pastor.”

  McNiff feigned shock. “At our age, you shouldn’t toss the word ‘elderly’ around.”

  “How about Patty Donnelly?”

  “Donnelly? She’ll finish up here in a few more weeks. Then she’s going to join Andrea and really make that parish smoke. The only fly in the ointment is that Patty feels some responsibility for what happened to Al. She thinks that if she hadn’t rejected his friendship …”

  “That’s nonsense,” Koesler said. “I can see how she’d feel bad about what happened. But she had no part in Al’s death. That was strictly between Al and his father.”

  “I know, I know. I think Andrea will be good for her. Andrea always impressed me as having both feet on the ground. They’ll work it out.”

  McNiff looked at his watch. He had trouble seeing the hands in the flickering light. “Wanna try for a couple hours of shut-eye?”

  Koesler checked his watch. “Not enough time. As we’ve been talking, I’ve gotten the essence of the eulogy. Which is good, since I still feel a little queasy preaching in front of this faculty. They never have completely accepted me.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised, Robert. You haven’t been with them since the shooting. I tell you, something’s happened to them. Oh, not all of them … but a significant number.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s very definitely the impact of what Al did. It was that simple but sublime act of love. For many on the faculty the supremacy of love just cut right through the textbook theology. I think the evenhandedness, the tolerance we were looking for has finally materialized. It’s the beginning of a new beginning. It even hit Bill Page, of all people!”

  “Page? I wouldn’t have counted on that.”

  “Nor I. But—and you wouldn’t have guessed this in a million years—Page has requested, and been granted, a leave of absence.”