Chameleon (27 page)

Koesler fully expected this radical move in his lifetime. One more gigantic change. These were interesting times.

His daydream was broken off as Cletus Bash almost shouted at Del Young, “Are you going to shuffle the spots off those cards!?”

Young, who had been shuffling the cards interminably, was roused. “Ah, yes, poker. Gentlemen, we’ll play seven card stud; low in the hole is wild.” After thinking about it, he added, “Also wild are twos, nines, and … uh … one-eyed jacks.”

“Why don’t you have fifty-two wild cards!?” Bash bellowed. “I’m out!”

“Before I deal?” Young said.

“I’m out!” Bash insisted.

Jeffrey laughed out loud.

It was then that Koesler realized that Jeffrey was merely tolerating this peculiar poker company. Much as a scratch golfer might temporarily put aside thoughts of a serious match when teamed with duffers.

As it happened, they played what passed for poker on and off until just after midnight.

Quent Jeffrey had won a ton. Clete Bash lost a small sum. Bob Koesler lost a bit more than Bash. Del Young was the evening’s big loser, which surprised no one, including Young.

However, the monsignor had enjoyed himself, gotten a lot of gossip out in the open, and demonstrated once again his prodigious capacity for beer.

After convincing everyone that he was fully capable of driving himself home, Young proceeded to do so.

Monsignor Del Young was in residence at St. Benedict parish in Pontiac. It was a long drive from downtown Detroit. Fortunately, at that time of night, the Lodge Freeway and Telegraph Road, his thoroughfares of choice, were uncluttered. So his muchdiminished reactive powers were not tested. But his need to empty his bladder grew with each passing mile. He did not see any restaurants still open, and he thought it unseemly for a prelate to relieve himself along the highway.

Thus it was with a relieved sigh that he turned from Telegraph onto Voorheis and then onto Lynn. Home at last.

He parked. The biting cold—an eighteen-below windchill—hit him hard after the comfortable warmth of his late-model Olds.

He tried to walk quickly to the rectory, but found himself staggering slightly.

Then he saw him.

Young couldn’t be sure at first. He wanted to believe his eyes were playing tricks.

He advanced no further. Fear cleared his mind of all alcoholic fog.

It was a man. He could make out the outline now. Trousers, some sort of short coat, a hat—looked like some sort of baseball cap. Not dressed for the weather. Dressed for what? Dressed to kill?

The man made no movement. He stood on the sidewalk just outside the rectory, blocking Young’s access to the rectory, to safety.

Just where the others had been killed. Donovan on the steps of St. Leo’s convent; Hoffer just outside his home. On the sidewalk.

Young was unsure what course to essay. All he knew was that he had been selected to be the next victim. But why? What had he done?
Why me?
he almost shouted. But he couldn’t speak.

Then, suddenly, he could. “NO!” he yelled. Then he ran. He ran as swiftly as he could. He didn’t dare look back. He gave brief thought to screaming for help. But what good would that do? It was near two
A
.
M
. Everyone in the neighborhood would be asleep. Besides, how eager would any of them be to come out into freezing cold in nightclothes. For what? To be killed for their trouble? He had to find safety.

The school! Somewhere on his key ring was a key to the school door. He hadn’t wanted it, but the pastor had insisted he have it. It just might save his life now.

He made it to the school. So far so good. Miraculously, out of all the many keys he carried, his fingers found the key to the school. He didn’t fumble. The key slid into the lock and turned smoothly.

He was inside.

For the first time, he dared look behind him. There was no one in sight.

Before anything else—he felt he was about to explode—he found the boys’ lavatory and relieved himself. Next he called the police.

The remainder of that early morning was an explosion of sound and light. There were sirens, questions, first from the police, then from the media. There were flashbulbs, of course, and the sun guns of the TV people.

He told his story over and over again. He walked it through just as he had earlier run it through. There would be no rest for him until late that afternoon.

He did not miss the sleep. After a while, he began to relax and enjoy the whole thing.

He was a celebrity. He had met the killer and escaped. Heady stuff.

Meanwhile, a stranger from out of town was one very bewildered man.

He had come up north from Florida. He’d been out of work too long. So, leaving his family behind, he hitchhiked to the Detroit area, certain he could find work here.

His first discovery was that he had badly misjudged the weather. It was so cold. He was nearly frozen. And he was in desperate need of shelter in a foreign land.

Good Catholic that he was, he was sure he would not be turned away by a priest. If only he could find one. It was late when he began his search for a friendly rectory.

A clerk in a twenty-four-hour gas station, where he’d been left off by his latest driver, directed him to St. Benedict rectory. He’d gotten there at about the same time as Monsignor Young.

He’d been surprised—happily—that he should be so fortunate as to have a priest meet him on the sidewalk—at that hour! Clearly, it was a most touching answer to prayer.

Then the priest had screamed at him! And began to run.

The vagrant could not figure out where this demented priest was running. He looked around to see if someone was chasing him. By the time he turned back, the priest had disappeared—there was no sign of him.

The vagrant found several packing cases in an alley and, somehow, survived the night.

The next day, a softhearted hash-house owner gave him a few hours’ work cleaning up the basement and the alley behind the eatery. He was about to tell the owner of his singular experience in the wee hours of that morning, when he heard the news on the eatery’s radio: A maniac serial killer, striking fear in Catholic leaders in the archdiocese, had almost struck again.

Good Catholic that he was, this news, quite naturally, interested him. So he stopped work to listen.

This killer had struck twice previously and would have killed again had he not been thwarted by the quick-thinking and courageous Monsignor Delbert Young.

Interesting.

The monsignor had arrived home early this morning when he was confronted by the alleged killer just outside the rectory. Somehow, the monsignor was able to elude the assailant and escape and call the police, who were even now conducting an investigation.

Interesting—and familiar.

The action took place at St. Benedict parish at 40 South Lynn in Pontiac.

Caramba!

What to do? He’d been in town less than a full day and already he was being sought as a serial killer. To lay low or not? With his luck, the police would find him, identify him as the one who was waiting for this crazy monsignor, and the next thing, he’d be in the electric chair. And if they didn’t have capital punishment in Michigan they’d establish it just for him.

There was no choice. He sought out the police and finally made them understand what had happened.

His account was reluctantly, and shamefacedly, corroborated by Monsignor Young.

As Andy Warhol said, everybody would be famous for fifteen minutes.

After the early morning clouds had dissipated, it had turned into a bright, sunny, if bitterly cold day.

Strange that it had been so cold for so much of December. Michiganians had January and the feared February to endure before even remote thoughts of spring could be entertained.

In his spacious, book-lined office on the chancery’s second floor, Cardinal Mark Boyle was visiting with Archbishop Lawrence Foley, The Cardinal was somewhat restive. He had much work ahead of him. Archbishop Foley had not been on the schedule for this morning, but Boyle could not bring himself to refuse a request from his old friend.

They had talked about and chuckled over the Monsignor Del Young saga. Both had gotten nearly all their information from radio and TV. Neither had talked with Young as yet. The office of communications had circulated a lengthy memorandum that communicated little more than that its director, Cletus Bash, was on the job and that, to the extent that all archdiocesan departments would cooperate, the communications office would keep a tight rein on the story.

“Every time I think of it—” Foley was saying, “Jose Lopez running away from Del Young, and Del Young running away from Jose Lopez—I start to laugh all over again.”

“No one could blame you.” Boyle, smiling broadly, sat back deeply in his extra-sized chair. He had settled in to talk to Foley for as long as the archbishop wished. Boyle did not want any body language to betray the fact that he was pressed for time.

“There are a few memories, over the years,” Foley said, “that are so entertaining I hope I can recall them on my deathbed. I’d like to go out laughing. And Del Young’s flight to safety is one of them.”

“Then you’ll have to have a prodigious memory. You’re going to go on for ages.”

“Not so sure about that. Though … why not? Live to a hundred and fool the actuaries.” He paused, brow knitted. “But, more seriously, Mark, this whole incident, in my mind at least, seems to go back to the latest staff meeting, when so much anger and hurt feelings poured out as Larry Hoffer suggested closing schools and—save the mark—parishes too.”

“I know what you mean, Larry. My mind plays the same trick on me. It all seems to have stemmed from that. I think it is because, at the time, we did not know that Sister Joan, and not her sister Helen, was the first intended victim. It is difficult to realize that whoever killed two innocent people had been planning the crimes long before they were committed.”

Foley shook his head. “There’s a lot of anger out there, Mark.”

Boyle snorted. “Tell me about it.”

“No one needs to tell you. You’ve felt it. And it hasn’t come to an end by any means. There are decisions yet to be made that are going to bring out a very emotional response.”

Boyle’s mood matched the somberness of Foley’s. “I know that. But … decisions must be made, no matter how painful they may be. And, unfortunately, no matter how much pain they may cause.”

“Then what will you do, Mark? I need to know for my own peace of mind. I know I’m on the shelf now. I’ve got no responsibility in this diocese—or any other, for that matter. But I feel as if I’m a part of what’s going on here. And I know full well that this is only due to your kindness in including me in the decision-making process. I know the arguments pro and con closings.

“Emotionally, people treasure their spiritual roots. Even those who have taken the place of the people who sacrificed to build these churches and schools feel they would be lost without them.

“On the other hand, they were built to answer a need. Immigrants, ethnic groups, converts—there were so many that they built these huge ornate churches and gigantic schools. Now, most of them are gone, moved out to the suburbs. Those who are left to maintain this heritage are so few in number that it makes no financial sense to keep alive buildings meant to serve thousands but occupied now by less than a hundred. Indeed, for all we know Larry Hoffer may have given his life for taking a stand on this issue.

“But he couldn’t have made a final decision. No one can make that but you. Have you made it? Can you tell me?”

Cardinal Boyle regarded his friend carefully. Bushy eyebrows pressed so closely together they seemed to form a single line, he seemed to be debating with himself whether to answer candidly.

“I have reached,” Boyle hesitated; he usually spoke slowly as he searched for just the word or phrase he wanted, “what might best be termed a tentative conclusion.”

“Tentative?” Foley repeated.

“Tentative, in that I have not closed my mind to cogent arguments from either side. Arguments that, if not changing my decision radically, might cause me to modify my approach to that decision.

“However, I don’t want to communicate to my staff that I have reached a decision. Who knows how they would react? At very least, they most probably would cease contributing their thoughts on the matter in the belief that their opinions could have no effect. And, as I have suggested, I want their continued input. Their thoughts will, I feel, very definitely affect the manner in which we will proceed. There will be repercussions to my decision that I simply cannot foresee. One or another of the staff very likely will pinpoint such consequences and we will be able to address them before they descend on us out of nowhere.”

“I understand,” Foley said, “and I agree with your approach completely. But, Mark,
will
you close the parishes? The ones too poor or underpopulated to support themselves?”

Boyle hardly ever answered a complex question with a single word. He saw too many sides of every issue to, in effect, over-simplify his response.

“Parishes may close,” he said thoughtfully. “Some are dangerously close to collapsing in upon themselves—much as matter disappears into a black hole. But …” He paused for emphasis. “… I am not going to close any parishes or schools. Not in the core city nor in the suburbs. In any case, certainly not in the city.

“Some years ago, under enormous pressure, I agreed to close severed parishes in a section of the city called Poletown. The ramifications of that decision have haunted me ever since. It may have hastened the death of a very fine priest. And, undoubtedly, it caused grave pain to many trusting people. And all for a will-of-the-wisp financial benefit to industry and the city. I vowed then that I would never repeat what I now consider a grave error.”

Foley leaned back into his chair, smiling as if relieved of a burden. “I applaud your decision, Mark. But not everyone will. Lots of people, mostly in the suburbs, will think you very foolish. Your decision will make no sense to them at all. And I fear they will make their disapproval known by withholding contributions.”