Sudden Death fk-7 Read online

  The weeping of this brokenhearted mother finally supplied the somber, bleak character this funeral, until now, had lacked. Hardly anyone in this church lamented Hunsinger’s death. They were surprised, yes, but hardly heartbroken. So, till now, it had been a rather bland occasion at which a number of people were expected to be in attendance and to which many others were drawn by curiosity.

  Now, hearing the heart-rending sobs of Grace Hunsinger, everyone was deeply affected. Who could remain unmoved in the presence of a grieving mother?

  Koesler could sense, almost tangibly feel, a new awareness of death and grief in the congregation. Somewhere in this church, he was now certain, was the murderer of Hank Hunsinger. Could he or she not be affected by this mother’s desolate tears? Would this not alter the status quo? Would the murderer’s defenses not be lowered? Alight the guilty person not actually be moved to confess?

  Although he had not intended to do so, Koesler at that moment resolved to return to the Hunsinger home after accompanying the casket to the cemetery.

  Indeed, the priest concluded, it was long past time when he must stop thinking of Henry Hunsinger’s death as a murder investigation in which, by pure accident, he himself was involved. Leave the solution of crime to the experts. One of his duties as a priest, a duty he entirely welcomed, was to at least try to console those who mourn.

  The return drive from Holy Sepulchre Cemetery to Holy Redeemer was a long one. Father Koesler had lots of time to think. Deliberately, he forced out of his mind thoughts of the ongoing murder investigation and concentrated on the business at hand: death and dying.

  It was in one of the Epistles-Koesler thought it might be Paul’s letter to the Hebrews-but in any case, the Bible stated it clearly: “It is appointed for each man once to die. And after death the judgment.”

  After death the judgment.

  After death, what?

  The question thoughtful humans had been asking through the ages. There could be no doubt that each of us who live will die. Then what? Nothing? Anything? Reincarnation? As a lower form of life? As another human? Or, as the Bible clearly teaches, judgment? Then, heaven? Hell? Purgatory?

  No living person, pondered Koesler, can prove the answer to any of those questions. It’s a matter of choosing something in which to believe.

  The Christian is offered the Resurrection in which to believe. The Christian is supposed to put all his or her chips on Christ. If Christ did not rise from the dead, then, in St. Paul’s opinion, we are the most to be pitied because our faith is in vain. But, the Apostle goes on to write, the most important reality of all is that Christ did rise from the dead. And if He, human as well as divine, is alive, overcame death, then everyone lives after death. A most consoling faith.

  What sort of belief would a person such as Hank Hunsinger have about a life after death? From the little Koesler had been able to learn, he doubted that Hunsinger had given much if any thought to the question. Even though he had somehow found his way into a Bible study group, there was little indication that he thought about death and its consequences at all. It probably was the combination of not being religious along with being young and, though periodically injured, healthy. The Hun would have had no occasion to ponder death and a hereafter.

  No matter. Now he knows all the answers.

  Although Koesler did not often find himself on the southwest side of Detroit these days, it was easy and reassuring to recognize and remember the old neighborhood. As he drove down Junction Avenue, he passed the stately St. Hedwig’s Church, a Polish parish. Amazing how well the neighborhood had been preserved! So many Detroit neighborhoods had been allowed to deteriorate and decay.

  Finally he reached the celebrated intersection of Vernor and Junction and the familiar sprawling brick buildings that were part of the vast plant that was Holy Redeemer. He found a parking space just across the street from the Hunsinger home.

  The doorbell was answered by a woman who identified herself as Rose Walker, one of Mrs. Hunsinger’s sisters. Koesler could see the resemblance. “It’s so good of you to come back, Father. We have a buffet set up in the kitchen. Would you like something to eat?”

  “Maybe a little later. Right now I’d like to talk with Mrs. Hunsinger for a few minutes, if that’s all right. “

  “Of course. I’ll take you to her, Father. She’ll be pleased to see you.”

  Mrs. Walker led the way into the living room. Koesler located Mrs. Hunsinger immediately. She was seated near the large front window. Near her sat a man in a straight-back chair. Neither was speaking. Again, from the family resemblance, Koesler guessed it might be her brother.

  Mrs. Walker made introductions. Suspicions confirmed; the man was one of Mrs. Hunsinger’s brothers. He excused himself to let the priest be alone with Grace.

  Koesler was very glad he had decided to return to the home after the ceremonies. There was almost no one here besides Grace Hunsinger’s immediate family. For most, the special occasion of a funeral had given way to an ordinary Wednesday, and work was waiting. For others, the show was over.

  Mrs. Hunsinger appeared to be very calm, but also very remote, as if contemplating some tranquil mystery. She had held up well at the mausoleum too. Just that one moment at communion when she had been overcome by emotion.

  He could understand that. For many Catholics, himself included, communion was a time of the most intense prayer and communication with God. It was not at all uncommon for one, in a stressful demanding moment such as the funeral of a loved one, to find the intense emotional impact of communion overwhelming.

  “Mrs. Hunsinger?”

  “Oh? Oh, Father Koesler.” She had been unaware of his presence. A brief smile of recognition and welcome crossed her face.

  “I thought we could talk a little bit.”

  She nodded, but without animation.

  “How are you feeling?” Koesler felt like taking her hand in his as a consoling gesture. But, as was his wont, he remained reserved.

  “All right now, I suppose.”

  She was dry-eyed. If he had not witnessed her breakdown in church, he would have found it difficult to believe it had happened.

  “You know, Mrs. Hunsinger, according to our faith, it’s all over now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Henry. It’s three days since he died. He is well into eternal life.”

  “That’s what troubles me.”

  “You shouldn’t be troubled. The way you and I were raised and the way we were taught our catechism, death and judgment were presented in a more frightening way than they are today.”

  Even though a good number of years separated the two, Koesler could be fairly certain that both he and Grace Hunsinger had been taught identical Catholic doctrine. So little of that doctrine had been changed before the Second Vatican Council.

  “Our early impression of God,” Koesler continued, “was heavy with vengeance. We could lead decent lives in the state of sanctifying grace and then maybe slip and eat one pork chop on a Friday and if we died before getting to confession God would zap us into hell. And, while that oversimplifies things a bit, it is pretty much the way we were taught.

  “Now, I think, we tend to view the morality of a life as a whole rather than consider its individual episodes. Not that an act of theft is good. But that the act of theft flows from a lifestyle where an individual act of thievery might be more a mistake than typical of the way that person would ordinarily operate.”

  “But Henry’s lifestyle was not all that good-”

  “Perhaps not. . at least not as far as we can judge. But Henry has been judged by God. . by an all-loving and forgiving and understanding God. We musn’t lose faith that Henry has found that God can find ways unknown to humans to forgive. We leave Henry to our Father in heaven with great confidence and hope. It’s all we can do.”

  They were quiet. Koesler was content to allow his words to sink in. He sought only to give Mrs. Hunsinger confidence to help her over her terrible loss. It w
ould do Henry’s mother no earthly good to remain tortured by her son’s sudden death following upon-to be kind-a not exemplary life. He hoped he had given her some reason for optimism.

  “You walked right along there.” Mrs. Hunsinger was staring out the front window.

  “Pardon?”

  “On the day of your first Mass. The procession came out of the rectory and went down the street and up the steps into the church. I was standing right there.” She pointed, Koesler had no idea where. Somewhere along the route the procession had taken. He remembered the day clearly.

  “It was a warm, sunny day. I was standing there holding little Henry’s hand. Then we went into the church for your first solemn Mass. It was beautiful and you sang so well.

  “Then after the Mass, we came outside again and waited while the procession returned to the rectory. When you passed by, all recollected and pious, I remember I squeezed little Henry’s hand and told him he should grow up and be just like you.

  “But,” she sighed deeply, “it was not to be.”

  Koesler looked at her for a long time. She continued to gaze through the window at the facade of Holy Redeemer Church, lost in her memories. He took one of her hands in both of his and pressed gently. She did not react. She continued to sit and gaze.

  Finally, he rose and stepped away. He was startled to find that he had almost backed into Mrs. Quinn. He was additionally surprised to find Mrs. Quinn fully awake.

  “How is she, Father?”

  “I think she’s all right. I wish I could have been better able to comfort her, though.”

  “Time, Father. It’ll take time. It always does. Both of us have lost our husbands. And we know only time can heal a wound like that. It’s probably worse with the loss of a child, even if the child is a grown man. That I wouldn’t know; I’ve not lost any of my children, praise God.”

  All the while Mrs. Quinn talked she was leading Koesler toward the kitchen. As he passed through the various rooms in the old house, he was impressed with how neat and tastefully decorated they were and how well kept up. He commented on this.

  “Well, thank you, Father. It’s kind of you to notice. Grace and I do our best and we try to make up for each other. And Henry provided handsomely. He wanted us to move. He was willing to buy us a house or build one wherever we wanted. But Grace wanted to stay close to her Holy Redeemer. And I can’t say I disagree with that.

  “That would be a point in his favor, wouldn’t it, Father. . I mean, as he stands before our Savior in judgment. . that he was kind to his mother?”

  “I’m sure it would be,” Koesler assured. Somehow, he’d found himself doing a lot of consoling, particularly in view of the fact that this funeral had not been his responsibility.

  Mrs. Quinn led him into the kitchen, where a buffet consisting mainly of sandwich ingredients had been laid out.

  In the kitchen was a considerable crowd; almost everyone who had returned here from the cemetery. Koesler guessed, after a cursory study, that most of the people were relatives of Mrs. Hunsinger.

  Awkward. He definitely was odd man out. Oh, the group was respectful enough, but he was not family. What had been a rather lively conversation before he entered was now somewhat subdued.

  As speedily as he could, Koesler worked his way through the crowd, made himself a modest ham and cheese sandwich, and worked his way out of the kitchen to an empty corner of the dining room. There, alone, he wolfed down the sandwich.

  One thing was certain, he had to get out of there.

  Suddenly it occurred to him that this was his day off. Or at least what was left of it. He found Mrs. Quinn and asked if he might use the phone. She showed him to a small desk in an alcove beneath the staircase. Fortunately, no one else was in the area. He dialed a number from memory.

  “St. Clement’s,” a matronly voice answered.

  “I’d like to speak to Father McNiff, if he’s available.”

  “Just a moment, sir.”

  After several long moments: “Father McNiff.”

  “Anybody ever tell you that you physically resemble Carroll O’Connor?”

  “A few.” McNiff s voice revealed he knew the caller.

  “Anybody ever tell you that your philosophy of life resembles Archie Bunker’s?”

  “Not to my face they don’t.” McNiff chuckled.

  “Patrick, old fellow, why did I know that you’d be hard at work at the rectory on your day off?”

  “The work of the Lord must be done in season and out of season. We who have put our hands to the plow must not turn back.”

  “How very Biblical of you.”

  “And you, Robert, are you calling from some sleazy bar while your hirelings keep St. Anselm’s together?”

  “No, I’m calling from a private home,” he admitted with some embarrassment. Until having made the indictment against McNiff, Koesler hadn’t realized that he had, in effect, been working on his day off. “And what I’m calling about,” he hurried on, “is to ask you to join me for dinner.”

  “Sure. When and where?”

  “How about Carl’s Chop House about six?”

  “Done.”

  “Don’t work too hard.”

  “Don’t play too hard.”

  Koesler arrived at Carl’s at twenty minutes to six. Early again! Well, he would go to prepare a place for McNiff.

  He asked the hostess if he could be seated in the Executive Room, and told her he was expecting McNiff. She asked if Father McNiff would also be wearing a clerical uniform. If McNiff were not in clericals, Koesler replied, the next Pope would not be a Catholic.

  The Executive Room was cozier but not substantially different from the other two large dining rooms. But the Executive Room featured Kay Marie, the redhaired queen of waitresses, who had been at Carl’s since the Year I, and whose aunt was a nun, which always gave Kay Marie and Father Koesler something to talk about.

  The busboy brought the extremely generous relish tray, breadbasket, cottage cheese, and creamed herring. Koesler began to wonder if he’d been too hasty in designating Carl’s as their rendezvous. Ordinarily he dined here only as a special celebration or after a significant weight loss. Carl’s portions were bigger than life. It was a classic place for a pigout. He promised himself that he’d get some exercise tomorrow. Where, he did not know. Maybe he’d go for a walk.

  “Evening, Father. Alone tonight?” Kay Marie brought him out of his dietetic reverie.

  “No; expecting a colleague. How’s your aunt?”

  “She’s thinking of retiring.”

  “Oh? How old is she?”

  “Eighty-four.”

  “It’s a thought.”

  “What’ll it be tonight?”

  “How about a martini, up?”

  “Different. You’re usually a manhattan. Bourbon manhattan.”

  “Great memory, Kay. I’m going to leave the manhattans to my companion this evening.”

  He had filled his salad plate with the first of the preprandial delicacies and was gnawing on a bread stick when McNiff arrived.

  “Good!” said Koesler. “Now the next Pope can be a Catholic.”

  “What?” McNiff seated himself. “This isn’t going to be another of those nights where you pick on the Pope, is it?”

  “Absolutely not. Going to leave the Holy Pope of God-your phrase-out of it entirely.”

  “Good!”

  Kay Marie returned. McNiff would have a manhattan. All was well.

  “Remember your first drink, Pat?”

  “At your hand. Of course. There’s been many a sip since then.”

  “You’re lucky you laid off those first ten years. By now your liver would be embalmed.”

  “See the remarkable prescience of Holy Mother Church.”

  They understood each other’s hyperbole.

  Kay Marie took their orders. McNiff would have Dover sole. Koesler would have the ground round. Kay Marie sighed. She could have brought Koesler’s entree without asking.


  “Wasn’t that something,” said McNiff, “about Hank Hunsinger! Who woulda thought when we saw him play last Sunday that he’d be dead that night?”

  “A real surprise.”

  “Say, I hadn’t thought about this before, but what does that do to that Bible discussion group-what did you call it?”

  “The God Squad. I don’t know, Pat. We met last night. But I’d bet that group, qua group, never meets again. So I don’t think I’ll get the chance to introduce you to the bunch.”

  “That’s all right.” It wasn’t, but McNiff wouldn’t admit it. “I’ve got plenty to do.”

  “Matter of fact, I went to the funeral this morning.”

  “Hunsinger’s?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How was it?”

  “Not particularly sad until his mother broke up.”

  “That’ll do it.”

  “It was from her house that I phoned you.”

  “So, working on your day off! Physician, heal thyself.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Kay Marie brought the salads. Both McNiff and Koesler would have another drink.

  “Say, remember Robideau?”

  “Sure.” Koesler was grateful for the turn in their conversation. He was trying to forget the funeral, the investigation, the whole Hunsinger affair.

  “He was notorious for not paying attention to whom he was burying or marrying. He got help with the weddings because he could carry their marriage license along with him. But he had real trouble with funerals.

  “Well, one day he had this funeral and not only did he not know whom he was burying, he forgot whether it was a man or a woman. He had a devil of a time preaching. He used phrases like ‘the loved one,’ Our dear, departed friend,’ ‘the deceased.’ Finally, he decided to get off the fence; after all, he had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. So he said, ‘We must remember to keep him in our prayers.’ At that, he became aware that one of the pallbearers was shaking his head no.”