Man Who Loved God (34 page)

Father Koesler smiled in return. Actually he almost laughed out loud. “That’s about the way it is, Zack. I can only hope that you took my turn this year.

“But look: all we’ve talked about is the investigation. This is a farewell party for Father Tully, who now returns to a far-off land known as Dallas. Forgetting about the investigation for now, did you enjoy your time at Old St. Joe’s? And are you coming back to stay, perhaps?”

“I enjoyed everything about this trip—the parish, Mary O’Connor, the Koznickis” —he bowed toward his hosts—“you, the thrill of the case—and very much mostly my new family—my brother and my sister. I’ve still got some thinking and praying to do. All I can tell you is that I’m close to a decision. But” —he smiled—“it would be premature to say which way I’m leaning.”

“I can think of a parish here that would welcome you with open arms,” said Koesler.

“Oh? Which one?”

“Mine. Old St. Joseph’s. I retire next year.”

The announcement caught all of them by surprise. The resultant gasps segued into a barrage of questions.

“It’s my turn to take off the harness,” Koesler said simply.

“But what will you do?” asked Walt Koznicki with genuine concern.

Koesler shrugged. “There are lots and lots of things to do. I haven’t begun to discover all the possibilities. One thing for sure: I won’t be involved in any murder investigations.”

The inspector laughed. “You say that every year.”

“Well then” Koesler said, “there’s one more thing that is certain sure.” He paused. “You—any of you—all of you, will always be welcome to visit me wherever I am and share a cup of coffee with me.” His smile was as broad as it could be.

His listeners were in varying states of shock.

Zoo spoke for them all. “You don’t suppose he’s getting his own joke!”

But Father Koesler just kept on smiling.

Acknowledgments

Gratitude for technical advice to:

Louis Betanzos, Chief Financial Officer (retired), NBD Bancorp

John Bradfield, M.D.

Inspector James Grace, Director of Professional Standards, Kalamazoo Department of Public Safety

Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Pastoral Care Department (retired), Mercy Hospital, Detroit

Vicki Hershey, C.R.N.A., Henry Ford Hospital, Detroit

Sharon Lutz, Attorney

Michigan National Bank

Bonnie Perugino, Branch Sales Manager

Lynn DeVoll, Financial Service Representative

Barbara Burrow, Customer Service Supervisor

Colleen Scholes, B.S.N., C.C.R.N., Michigan Heart and Vascular Institute

Andrea Solak, Chief of Special Operations, Wayne County Prosecutor’s Office

Werner U. Spitz, M.D., Professor of Forensic Pathology, Wayne State University

Barbara Weide, Inspector, Medical Section, Detroit Police Department

Rabbi Richard Weiss, Therapist in Private Practice

With special thanks for the helpful advice of the late Richard Ridling, Inspector, Homicide Division, Detroit Police Department.

Any technical error is the author’s.

The Man Who Loved God
copyright © 1997, 2013 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

www.andrewsmcmeel.com

This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.

ISBN: 9781449423766

Photos by StockXchange/intruso4 and StockXchange/drouu. Cover design by Kevin Williamson.

William X. Kienzle
died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.

1. The Rosary Murders

2. Death Wears a Red Hat

3. Mind Over Murder

4. Assault with Intent

5. Shadow of Death

6. Kill and Tell

7. Sudden Death

8. Deathbed

9. Deadline for a Critic

10. Marked for Murder

11. Eminence

12. Masquerade

13. Chameleon

14. Body Count

15. Dead Wrong

16. Bishop as Pawn

17. Call No Man Father

18. Requiem for Moses

19. The Man Who Loved God

20. The Greatest Evil

21. No Greater Love

22. Till Death

23. The Sacrifice

24. The Gathering

1953

It was the middle of July, but Bob Koesler was shivering.

He tugged at his sweatshirt. Still it did not cover his swim trunks. He pulled the bulky towel more tightly about his neck. That didn’t help; the towel was wet. He hugged himself as he shifted from one foot to the other. There was no getting away from it: He was freezing.

He probably would get out of this alive. But he didn’t have to like it.

His discomfort was by no means unique. This was the ninth consecutive summer he’d been a counselor at Camp Ozanam.

O-Z, as it was more casually known, was financed and run by the St. Vincent de Paul Society. Catholic parishes affiliated with S.V.deP. were given tickets to distribute to financially distressed boys. The only expenditure for each camper for the entire two weeks’ stay—there were five such tours each summer—was the five-dollar round-trip discount bus fare from Detroit.

O-Z was located some thirty miles north of Port Huron. It helps to know that Michigan is mitten-shaped. The camp sat just south of the thumb’s knuckle. The western border was U.S. 25, the extension of Gratiot Avenue, which began in downtown Detroit.

Its eastern border was mighty Lake Huron. And that is where Bob Koesler was at the moment: shivering atop a diving tower in Lake Huron about thirty-five yards from the shore.

No diving would be permitted today; the water was too rough. Near gale force winds blew from the north. Ordinarily frigid; the water this day was only relatively bearable. Thus counselors having beach or even water duty were less tested. The genuine torture was reserved for the poor wretches on the towers: They had to swim to their stations.

Which Koesler had done. After all these summers at camp, the maneuver was well practiced: He wrapped towel and sweatshirt around his left arm, then sidestroked, with his right arm and the scissors kick.

Once safely atop the tower, the lifeguard would dry himself, then use the towel and sweatshirt for as much warmth as they would afford. But the combination of water and wind-chill factor regularly challenged the counselor’s immune system.

A casual observer—or trained philosopher—might ask why: Why program a swim in such challenging conditions?

Answers might range from, Because the lake is there; or, Such challenges make men (or kill in the attempt); or, Because a consensus—to swim or not to swim—could not be arrived at.

Probably the last reason came closest to a truer explanation. If the campers—all two hundred of them—were assembled on the beach and not one of them wanted to enter that threatening water, undoubtedly the swim would be canceled. But with two hundred boys, there were always a few who were impervious to cold water. And if those foolhardy souls chose to swim, then counselors would necessarily play lifeguard.

Safety, especially water safety, was given high priority at camp. The swimming perimeters were clearly defined. Each swimmer was assigned a buddy who had to stay nearby; each was responsible for the other. Periodic buddy checks took place: At the head beachman’s signal, each and every camper in the water had to stand silently holding his buddy’s hand aloft.

Koesler had played lifeguard so many times the routine was now automatic. Perhaps that was a contributing reason why he did nothing but watch as a developing situation called for action.

Due to the weather, few boys were in the water this morning. But a solitary lad was trying to swim out to Koesler’s post. He was supposed to have a buddy in order to even enter the swim area. But no kid was within the prescribed proximity. Where was his buddy? In trouble?

That question, however, did not even occur to Bob Koesler; he was too interested in what was happening to the camper who was trying to reach his platform.

This lad, fighting his way through the water, arms flailing, legs thrashing, head turning from side to side with mouth and nostrils held above water level, was not a class swimmer under the best of circumstances. And these were nowhere near the best of circumstances. As the waves washed over him, the dogged boy continued his flailing struggle. And, as might be expected, in his attempts to gulp down air, he instead swallowed water. And then, also to be expected, he panicked.

Koesler watched as the boy repeatedly disappeared beneath the waves—where, presumably, he bounced off the lake bottom—broke the surface, coughed, momentarily gulped air, then disappeared and eventually reappeared again … but always a little nearer the tower.

What was remarkable—and memorable—was the fact that throughout this episode, not once did it occur to Koesler that he should go get the boy.

Such an action was, after all, Koesler’s responsibility. A swimmer was in trouble. Koesler should have blown his whistle—the signal for just such an emergency as this. The swim would have been halted and immediate steps taken to help the camper. This would involve Koesler’s dropping towel and sweatshirt and diving into the water.

Of course he’d have to do that at the end of the swim period in any case. But this was not the end. If he dove in now, he would, after rescuing the kid, have to climb back on the tower. Once again he would have to battle the renewed wet cold. And, after all, the camper was making progress: With each submerging, the lad was getting nearer the tower.

As luck—or the power of prayer—had it, the swimmer reached the tower, somewhat the worse for a near-death experience. At which point Koesler spotted the missing buddy: He was swimming—much more easily than his pal—toward the tower.

With the two youngsters now hanging on to the platform, Koesler crouched down and assured them that it would be much easier going in to shore than it had been coming out.

In time, the two pushed off and made their way with, instead of against, the waves.

Only then did Koesler reflect on what had just happened.

That, he concluded was
dumb.
In time—and particularly because it had ended well, it would be funny. But for now he was guilty of an insensitive and derelict reaction to a potentially dangerous emergency.

Of course, he told himself, he had not taken his eyes off the swimmer. If there had been an immediate problem, the lifeguard would have acted at once. Nevertheless, he should have been in the water, supporting the youngster.

The two buddies made it to shore without further incident. For them there were no aftereffects. Not so for Koesler, who was left with a troubled conscience. But he had little time to mull over his actions: A whistle sounded, short and sharp. It emanated not from the head beachman’s tower on shore, but from a nearby tower in the water.

Koesler turned to see fellow counselor Pat McNiff dive. Without hesitation, Koesler dropped towel and sweatshirt and dove in the general direction McNiff had taken.

A few strokes and a couple of thrusting kicks brought Koesler to the side of a camper who was almost literally scared stiff. Koesler was joined by McNiff and Vince Delvecchio, the third counselor on tower duty.

The water, at this point, was some five-and-a-half-feet deep. Since Koesler and Delvecchio were a few inches over six feet tall, the two were able to stand on the bottom and, allowing for the waves to wash over them, still support the camper, who was frightened but otherwise unharmed.

McNiff, considerably shorter than the other two, was treading water. Suddenly the light dawned. “Are you guys standing on the bottom?” There was rancor in McNiff’s tone.

“Uh-huh,” Koesler and Delvecchio chorused.

“Shit!” McNiff turned and swam back to his tower, there to brood over a cruel fate, not to mention genetic codes, that decreed each individual’s height and build.

Still awash with guilt over his recent selfish reaction, Koesler volunteered to carry the camper to shore. For either of the two tall counselors, it was only a short walk. Delvecchio nodded and Koesler carried out the uneventful rescue.

The Present

Father Zachary Tully chuckled. “So that’s the way you got to meet one of Detroit’s auxiliary bishops … over a drowning kid?”

“You mean,” Father Robert Koesler said, “something like, ‘I’ll carry this kid to shore and … uh, by the way: Just who are you?’ No, nothing like that … although if Vince Delvecchio hadn’t been a counselor at Ozanam, I doubt that I would have gotten to know him well—or at all.”

“You
were
in the seminary together?”

“Yes, of course. But Vince was five years behind me. Which meant that I was in college when he was in high school. When he was in college I was in Theology. And by the time he got to Theology, I was ordained a priest. You know how that goes, Zack: In the seminary in the good old days you got to know who the guys ahead of you were, but you weren’t as likely to know the guys younger than you—especially if you’re looking at a time frame of five years or so.”

“I suppose …” Tully mused. “Except that in a Josephite seminary it wasn’t that difficult to know just about everybody. There weren’t that many of us.”

Zachary Tully had been ordained a Catholic priest in a religious community known as the Josephites. Basically, the order staffed parishes that served Afro-Americans.

Tully’s father was Afro, his mother Caucasian. Aside from a few so-called black characteristics, he could easily have passed for white.