Man Who Loved God (3 page)

The Josephites, an order small in number, were dedicated to a parish ministry for African-Americans. Possibly their most famous member was Father Phil Berrigan, who, with his Jesuit brother, Father Dan Berrigan, raised consciousness over the issues of war, injustice, and poverty.

That was the visitor’s background. His name was Tully—Father Zachary Tully. And at this moment he came downstairs and stepped into Koesler’s office.

“All settled in?” Koesler asked brightly.

“It didn’t take long.” Tully wore a black suit and clerical collar.

Koesler himself regularly dressed in clericals; he appreciated other priests in uniform. “I notice you didn’t bring much with you. I hope our Michigan weather doesn’t surprise you too much.”

“We’re just out of August,” the other protested.

“It gets tricky in Michigan. After all, you’re up here from Dallas.”

Father Tully took a chair opposite Koesler. “That’s Texas, and that probably sounds warm to a Northerner or a damyankee. But we have our winters too. Oh, granted, not like yours,” he said, anticipating Koesler’s exception. “But we need our warm clothing too.” He chuckled. “I remember one Christmas when we had an ice storm in Dallas. Knocked out the electricity and really threw the residents for a loop. Some of the neighborhoods didn’t get the power back on for eleven days.” He grinned. “Which led to the headline on the front page of one of the Dallas papers:
DALLAS OFFICE OF EMERGENCY PREPAREDNESS NOT YET READY
.”

“Speaking of winter temperatures,” Koesler said with a smile, “how about, for medicinal purposes, a drink?”

Father Tully waved the offer away. “No. Thanks much, but I’d better save myself for the party tonight.”

“That’s right,” Koesler recalled, “you’re headed for a party, aren’t you? Something about a bank?”

“Adams Bank and Trust. That’s what got all this going.”

“Yes.” Koesler warmed to the story. “How was that again?”

“Well, most of us Josephites are at least acquainted with the name Tom Adams. He’s been a major league donor to our order. I’ve always been impressed with his generosity.

“We were set to recognize him and his charity toward us and present him with our annual St. Peter Claver Award. Then we got word that he was going to open a branch of his bank in one of the poorest sections of Detroit. Our Superior General decided to break with tradition and give him the award out of due season as it were. To make it extra special.

“So, don’t ask me why, but I was chosen to present the award. That’s what I’m going to do at the party tonight.

“We would’ve preferred a larger ceremony—maybe in the cathedral with your Cardinal Archbishop Boyle. But Mr. Adams preferred a private ceremony with some of his employees and their spouses. And we said—what else?—‘Whatever you want, Mr. Adams.’”

“Yes,” Koesler urged, “but how did you find out you had a prominent relative here?”

Tully settled into the chair and leaned forward. “Let’s see … how to put this …? Well, my father died some forty years ago. I was just five then, so I hardly knew or remember him. My mother and her sister raised me. My dad didn’t have any religion in his life, so they told me.

“But my mother and my aunt were sort of super-Catholic. So it wasn’t very unusual that pretty early on I thought of being a priest.”

“That’s the way it usually works,” Koesler agreed. “Or at least the way it
used
to work.”

“Then,” Tully continued, “our parish in Baltimore was staffed by a Josephite priest. He sort of took me under his wing. And off I went to the Josephite seminary. About twenty years ago I was ordained and I’ve spent these years hopping around to various of our parishes. It’s been a great life.” Tully smiled broadly. “My aunt, when she found out I was going to Detroit—for the first time in my life—told me the story.

“It started with my parents’ marriage. It was my father’s second marriage, my mother’s first. He was supposed to be a widower. Whenever the priest pressed Dad for documentation on his first marriage, he stalled, gave excuses, got nasty. I guess the priest decided life was too short for all this grief. So he ended up taking depositions instead of documents.

“Anyway, they were married. I was their only child. Just after Dad died, his first wife finally found us. I didn’t know about all this. Only my mother and my aunt knew. And they chose not to tell me. It was mostly my mother’s decision. But Aunt May went along with it.

“Another thing that fits into this picture is that my father was black and my mother, and her family, were white.”

Koesler looked at his visitor more intently. Yes, Father Tully could easily pass. “Then, after all that time, why would your aunt suddenly tell you about your father’s first marriage?”

“Do you mind if I stretch my legs a bit? Seems I’ve been sitting a long time.”

Koesler smiled and nodded.

Father Tully rose and paced slowly back and forth through the large room. “See,” he said finally, “my mother died about ten years ago. And Dad’s first wife never told her kids about their father’s second marriage—or about me. All my half brothers and sisters know about their father was that he worked in an auto factory and one day he walked out on them.

“Now I was coming back to Detroit, the home of my father. Aunt May did a little probing and found that only one of Dad’s kids still lived in Detroit. We had the same name—Tully—and he was a policeman. She didn’t want to take a chance on my coming across him without knowing about him—or vice versa.”

“So she told you the whole story.”

“All she knew. I was fascinated, of course. I couldn’t wait to get in touch with my brother. So I phoned him. That was a couple of days ago.”

“How did he take it?” Koesler suppressed a grin.

“He didn’t believe me at first. Especially when I told him I was a priest. In fact, at that point, he hung up on me.”

“And then?”

“I called him back and asked him to hear me out. I told him most of what Aunt May had told me. Some of the details must’ve caught his attention: he began to take me seriously.”

“Did you see him before coming here to St. Joseph’s?”

“There wasn’t time. I’m supposed to get together with him and his wife for dinner tomorrow evening. I really can hardly wait to meet him … and her.

“But you know him, don’t you?” He looked expectantly at Koesler. “When I told him I was looking for a parish to stay in while I’m in Detroit, he suggested this … St. Joseph’s parish. He said it was close to police headquarters and also to their home. He said he knew you. After the way he reacted when I mentioned I was a priest, I was really surprised that he knew any local priest well enough to recommend my stay. And, by the way, once again, I am deeply grateful you invited me.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m getting a vacation when I’d almost forgotten what that was like.” Koesler wasn’t sure whether it was his imagination now that he knew the priest was Lieutenant Tully’s half brother, but there was a definite resemblance. Evidently the priest had inherited his mother’s coloring but some of his father’s features. Koesler was sure that when the two brothers met they would be struck by the likeness. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to leave?” the always punctual Koesler asked. “We wouldn’t want you to be late.”

Father Tully checked his watch.” Just six o’clock. Mr. Adams asked that I not show up until seven. The party starts at eight. He wanted to get to know me and familiarize me with the guests before they got there.

“So I’ve got about an hour. Would you tell me something about my brother? He said something about your working with him on a few homicide cases. It didn’t seem to make much sense.”

“Sure, I’ll fill you in. Would you like some coffee while we talk about it?”

Tully took a moment to weigh the invitation. “That would be great … if it’s not too much trouble.”

Koesler led the way to the kitchen. He began to heat the water while Tully sat at the table. Father Tully didn’t know what he was in for.

Four

“I don't blame you for being startled when your brother told you he knew me,” Koesler said as he sat across the kitchen table from Father Tully. “I suppose you thought the only way Lieutenant Tully would know a priest is if the priest were in trouble with the law.”

“No, nothing like that.” Tully chuckled. “Just surprised. How
did
it happen?”

“Actually,” Koesler explained, “my meeting with your brother took place quite a few years after I first got involved with the Detroit Police. Again”—he smiled—“not as a felon.

“I was,” Koesler proceeded, “editor of the
Detroit Catholic
—the diocesan newspaper. So, with that assignment, I was pretty much out of parochial ministry—just helping out.

“I lived at a Detroit parish when there was a series of murders of priests and nuns. I happened to discover the body of the second victim—a nun. I also happened upon the killer’s calling card, a plain black rosary.”

Tully seemed to recollect. “Yeah … I remember that. Didn’t the media call it ‘The Rosary Murders’? Because the killer left a rosary with each body …. wrapped around the wrist?”

“That’s it. You’ve got a good memory; that was a long time ago.

“But through that investigation I met some people in the police department. Perhaps the closest connection was an inspector—Walter Koznicki. We’ve become good friends.”

“Is that where my brother came in?”

“No. We didn’t meet until much later. See, my contact with the police sort of grew gradually over the years. After that original investigation of the serial murders, I’ve been involved, to varying degrees, in a few other homicide cases. Sometimes because I happened to be around … or because the case involved a parishioner or two. Or just because the case hinged on a knowledge of things Catholic.

“I know,” Koesler continued, “that this must sound surreal, but with one thing or another, I’ve been involved in a homicide investigation just about every year since then.”

“You weren’t Father Brown in a previous life?” Tully joked, referring to G. K. Chesterton’s fictional priest-sleuth.

“Nothing of the kind. It just happened. What can I say?”

Tully glanced at the stove. “The water’s boiling.”

“So it is.” Koesler measured instant coffee into two mugs and added the hot water. He placed the mugs on the table. “Anyway, that’s how I met your brother. But it was maybe four or five years ago. And it was just such a case as I was describing: murder with a Catholic twist.”

Tully blew across the surface of the coffee and took a sip. He almost shuddered. It must, he thought, be the high degree of heat.

“I think,” Koesler said, sipping the coffee with no apparent ill effect, “your brother was the most skeptical of all the officers I’ve met in the department.”

“Skeptical? How so?”

“Skeptical of me,” Koesler clarified. “I can understand that any police officer might react negatively when some outsider steps in and tries to out-professional the professionals. I mean, the police are a highly skilled group. I know I’m even less than an amateur when it comes to police procedure. And I never for a moment thought I could do their work. I tried to make it clear that I was at best a resource person. But some of the officers, at least at first, objected to my presence—none more forcefully or wholeheartedly than your brother.

“But, over the years, we’ve come to a better understanding. I think, by now, your brother even likes to have me around when things Catholic are mucking up an investigation.”

Once more Tully tried to cool the coffee with his breath. He sipped, then suppressed a grimace. He focused on the instant coffee container. It was a brand-name product—indeed, a brand he had enjoyed from time to time. Could it be the water? The kettle? The
cup?

Whatever, this was the worst coffee he could remember. He would have to go easy on the food and drink here until he sampled each serving. “I can understand my brother’s reluctance to let you in on a criminal investigation. But I’m still not clear where you fit in. What could be ‘Catholic’ about a murder case?”

“Hard to say,” Koesler admitted. “But maybe I can give you a couple of typical cases.

“Our first go-round is as good an example as any. You mentioned that the media called it ‘The Rosary Murders’—”

“And the rosary is almost exclusively a Catholic devotion,” Tully interjected.

“Right. But on top of that, maybe only a priest would recognize that particular prayer as part of the penance he might give a penitent to say after confession. And indeed, that was at least part of the clue to solving those murders.

“Then there was another serial murder case where the motto on a papal coat of arms was the clue. And another when the solution depended on knowing the kind of perks a priest might enjoy on vacation. And another when a murderer equated the cards in a poker hand to various officers in the diocese. That sort of thing.

“Any clearer?”

“A little.”

Koesler looked at his watch, something he was apt to do many times during the day and perhaps a couple of times through the night. “It’s getting close to seven.”

“So it is,” Tully said as he checked his watch. “Guess I’d better get going.”

“Do you have a car? You can borrow mine for the evening. I’ll be busy packing.”

“Thanks, but I’m renting one. It’s on the order.” He grinned. “The vow of poverty comes in handy every once in a while.

“Besides,” he added, “Mr. Adams said he’d send a car to pick me up tonight.” Tully stood and peered through the window overlooking the parking lot. “And here it is now. That is, unless you’re driving a Lincoln.”

Koesler chuckled. “Not a chance. I’m surprised he didn’t send a stretch limo. There’s a lot of that going on around here.”

“Probably in deference to that vow of poverty,” Tully joked.

“I won’t be leaving too early tomorrow,” Koesler said. “If you have any questions, we can talk about them in the morning. And of course I’ll leave you my number at Georgian Bay.”

Tully, on his way down the steps, looked back and smiled. “Don’t worry, Father, I’ll take good care of your baby. And I’ll return her to you safe and sound with no heresies flourishing on your return. Trust me. After all, I’m not fresh out of the seminary. Just relax and have a good rest.”