that Tully was totally dedicated to his work.
And Koesler? Over the past decade, Homicide had investigated some cases with decidedly Catholic angles. He had merely clarified some facets of Catholicism that had cleared the way for the police to do their job
In the periphery of his vision, Tully caught Koesler looking in his direction. He had been waiting for that. Graciously he terminated his conversation with the women and stepped forward into the nearly empty room toward Koesler. For Tully, Koesler represented an oasis of familiarity in a desert of foreign identities.
They greeted each other cordially but their mutual greeting was more pro forma than personal.
“For just a second there, Lieutenant”—Koesler’s sole use of nicknames was confined to colleagues who were friends from childhood—“I was surprised to see you here. Then I recalled that this is, after all, a murder investigation. So why wouldn’t you be here?”
“Uh-huh. Good to see you again, And you? Did you know the deceased?”
For just an instant, Koesler reacted as if he were being interrogated. “No, not at all.” Then he relaxed. “I do know her sister, Sister Joan. I was afraid there wouldn’t be many showing up for this wake so I was going to add my body to the few. Obviously”—Koesler’s gesture encompassed what had been a packed room—“I was mistaken.”
“You weren’t the only one surprised. What attracted this crowd?”
“Oh, I think certainly the fact that Sister Joan is the head of a department in the archdiocese. A few of the people here tonight are also department heads, and a lot of the others work in the various departments.”
That makes sense, thought Tully. “And you know all these people?”
Koesler nodded. “Most of them. Certainly all the department heads. Not everyone who works under them.”
“Interesting. The elderly gentleman, the one who led the prayers, he a department head?”
“No, he’s a bishop. An archbishop.” Koesler had had this perception many times before. There was no shorthand to explain the trappings of Catholicism—its law, doctrine, morality, liturgy, etc.—easily and simply. “He’s retired.”
“Retired? Then why’s he leading the prayers?”
Koesler didn’t immediately grasp the thrust of Tully’s question. “Leading prayers?” Then, “Oh, I see. Well, priests, bishops, even if they’re retired, don’t stop praying or even leading prayers. They can continue doing as much or as little as they wish and as the Church law allows, liturgically if not parochially. Most of them want to be rid of administrative work. But most of them still want to be with people—want to be of some service to people.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” Once again Tully felt overwhelmed with the amount of detail in Catholicism—in all of organized religion, for all he knew—and how little of it he understood or was aware of. At this point Koesler was his only guide to a vast unknown area that might be important to this case. He fervently hoped there was no connection. Mostly, he hoped this homicide was not a case of mistaken identity. For if the real intended victim was the nun, Tully could be drawn into this maze of Catholicism he so little understood. “You’re not goin’ on vacation anytime soon, are you?”
Koesler chuckled. “It seems as if I just got to my new parish,” he said. “No, I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere soon.”
“New parish?”
“St. Joseph’s—old St. Joseph’s downtown.”
“Near police headquarters?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nice.”
5
“The cut on your lip looks okay now, but I don’t know about that bruise on your cheek. You could end up with a mean shiner.”
“How many stitches, you figure?” Arnold Carson asked.
Dwight Morgan, right index finger about an inch from Garson’s face, began counting. “Three … four … five. I figure five or six. Hard to tell, Arnie. There might be some more inside your lip.”
Carson
And Koesler? Over the past decade, Homicide had investigated some cases with decidedly Catholic angles. He had merely clarified some facets of Catholicism that had cleared the way for the police to do their job
In the periphery of his vision, Tully caught Koesler looking in his direction. He had been waiting for that. Graciously he terminated his conversation with the women and stepped forward into the nearly empty room toward Koesler. For Tully, Koesler represented an oasis of familiarity in a desert of foreign identities.
They greeted each other cordially but their mutual greeting was more pro forma than personal.
“For just a second there, Lieutenant”—Koesler’s sole use of nicknames was confined to colleagues who were friends from childhood—“I was surprised to see you here. Then I recalled that this is, after all, a murder investigation. So why wouldn’t you be here?”
“Uh-huh. Good to see you again, And you? Did you know the deceased?”
For just an instant, Koesler reacted as if he were being interrogated. “No, not at all.” Then he relaxed. “I do know her sister, Sister Joan. I was afraid there wouldn’t be many showing up for this wake so I was going to add my body to the few. Obviously”—Koesler’s gesture encompassed what had been a packed room—“I was mistaken.”
“You weren’t the only one surprised. What attracted this crowd?”
“Oh, I think certainly the fact that Sister Joan is the head of a department in the archdiocese. A few of the people here tonight are also department heads, and a lot of the others work in the various departments.”
That makes sense, thought Tully. “And you know all these people?”
Koesler nodded. “Most of them. Certainly all the department heads. Not everyone who works under them.”
“Interesting. The elderly gentleman, the one who led the prayers, he a department head?”
“No, he’s a bishop. An archbishop.” Koesler had had this perception many times before. There was no shorthand to explain the trappings of Catholicism—its law, doctrine, morality, liturgy, etc.—easily and simply. “He’s retired.”
“Retired? Then why’s he leading the prayers?”
Koesler didn’t immediately grasp the thrust of Tully’s question. “Leading prayers?” Then, “Oh, I see. Well, priests, bishops, even if they’re retired, don’t stop praying or even leading prayers. They can continue doing as much or as little as they wish and as the Church law allows, liturgically if not parochially. Most of them want to be rid of administrative work. But most of them still want to be with people—want to be of some service to people.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” Once again Tully felt overwhelmed with the amount of detail in Catholicism—in all of organized religion, for all he knew—and how little of it he understood or was aware of. At this point Koesler was his only guide to a vast unknown area that might be important to this case. He fervently hoped there was no connection. Mostly, he hoped this homicide was not a case of mistaken identity. For if the real intended victim was the nun, Tully could be drawn into this maze of Catholicism he so little understood. “You’re not goin’ on vacation anytime soon, are you?”
Koesler chuckled. “It seems as if I just got to my new parish,” he said. “No, I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere soon.”
“New parish?”
“St. Joseph’s—old St. Joseph’s downtown.”
“Near police headquarters?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nice.”
5
“The cut on your lip looks okay now, but I don’t know about that bruise on your cheek. You could end up with a mean shiner.”
“How many stitches, you figure?” Arnold Carson asked.
Dwight Morgan, right index finger about an inch from Garson’s face, began counting. “Three … four … five. I figure five or six. Hard to tell, Arnie. There might be some more inside your lip.”
Carson
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