“Was it an interesting funeral?”

Father Bob Koesler stubbed out his third after-dinner cigarette. Dinners at old St. Ursula’s rectory were painfully elongated experiences for Koesler for the simple reason that he tore through his food like a starving European child, while Father Paul Pompilio, pastor at St. Ursula’s, toyed with his.

Father Pompilio carefully cut a sliver of meat from his porterhouse, placed the knife beside his plate, transferred the fork from his left hand to his right, and began to swirl the meat in its juice. “Not particularly. You’ve seen one priest’s funeral, you’ve seen ’em all.”

Koesler lit another cigarette. There were a million places he’d rather be, but, for politeness’ sake, he always waited until Pompilio finished eating. Which was always a good forty-five minutes after Koesler finished. Which was not helping Koesler’s effort to cut down on cigarettes.

“Was Monsignor O’Brien there?”

Pompilio’s fork and knife were resting on his plate as he thoughtfully chewed a morsel of steak. “Old O’Brien? It wouldn’t have been a valid priest’s funeral without O’Brien. He was there, all right, from the first psalm of the Office for the Dead until they wheeled the body out the door. They were great buddies, you know.” Pompilio resumed knife and fork and began sawing away at another cut of meat. “Old Father Larry Lord and O’Brien. Funny thing. Before they closed the lid on the casket, O’Brien tried on Lord’s glasses—took them right off the old man’s face and tried ’em on. Looked around the church, decided his own were better, put the glasses back on Lord, and went back to his pew like nothing happened. It’s a good thing O’Brien didn’t need teeth.”

Koesler’s stomach turned. He was glad he’d finished eating. Pompilio built a forkful of mashed potatoes.

“How was the sermon?” Koesler asked, crushing out his fourth after-dinner cigarette. He had tried early on to monopolize dinner conversations on the chance that, with nothing to do but eat, Pompilio would finish sooner. But by actual measured time, Koesler had discovered that it didn’t make any difference.

“The arch is out of town, as you know…” Pompilio speared his last sliver of meat. “…so Bishop Donnelly gave the sermon. Same old Donnelly stuff, very spiritual. Told how Lord had died on Ash Wednesday. How significant that was. Can’t see it myself. Good Friday, maybe. But Ash Wednesday just isn’t a very significant day to die. By the way…” Pompilio shoved aside his well-scoured plate and tinkled the small bell that stood next to it. Sophie, five feet in every direction, entered the room, cleared the table, and served coffee. “…why weren’t you at the funeral?”

Koesler lit another cigarette. “Couldn’t. Had negotiations with the newspaper guild. Contract’s up in another couple of months.”

Koesler was priest-editor of the diocesan weekly paper. He wasn’t exactly assigned to St. Ursula’s. He was in residence there, said Mass daily and Sundays, heard confessions, helped out as much as he could. But his primary assignment was at the paper. He sipped his black coffee. “Did anyone say anything about the plug?”

“Plug? What plug?” Pompilio stirred the third spoonful of sugar into his coffee.

“Come on, Pomps,” Koesler chuckled, “You know there’s a rumor that somebody at St. Mary’s Hospital pulled the plug on Lord. Not that anyone, including God, would mind. The poor old guy had no place to go but out.”

“Now that you mention it, there was some talk about that rumor at the priests’ brunch after the funeral. Say, Bob, if you print any of this,” Pompilio was grinning from ear to ear, “you will protect your sources, won’t you?”

Koesler grinned back. Of all people on earth, Pompilio would be among those who most wanted to see their names in print. The problem, as usual, was not protecting sources but keeping the whole damn story out of the paper. He remembered just a few weeks back. Tony Vespa, the newly appointed Archdiocesan Delegate for the Laity, had called and asked if the Detroit Catholic would consider running an “Action Line” similar to the column in the Free Press that solved everybody’s problems. He had explained, “Look, Tony, besides the expense of hiring a staff to run a column like that, most of the problems Catholics have with the institution don’t have solutions.” Tony, after careful consideration, had withdrawn bis suggestion.

“Don’t worry, Pomps, you’ll be well protected. But, go on, did the guys at the luncheon think it really happened?”

There wasn’t any question of anything like that appearing in the diocesan paper. Koesler was simply a mystery buff. He read mystery novels like some priests read the Bible. He loved a mystery. And he felt this was as close to a real-life mystery as he was likely to get.

“Disputatur apud peritos.” Pompilio didn’t know much Latin, but when he tripped over an appropriate phrase like “The experts are in dispute,” he liked to throw it in for everyone’s amazement. “Some thought yes. Others, no. Jack Battersby made a great point that according to Church teaching, nobody is bound to use extraordinary means to support life, and all those tubes and plugs certainly could be described as extraordinary. Ed Carberry, who, as you know, is still in the thirteenth, the greatest of centuries, argued that God was surely reducing Father Lord’s purgatory time with all that added suffering, and to shorten his time of expiration was thwarting God’s plan and so, against the Natural Law—or some damn thing—and gravely sinful.”

Koesler, now bored, was about to yield to a gigantic distraction.

“However,” Pompilio droned on, “Pete Baldwin’s sister is a nurse at St. Mary’s. And she told Pete somebody at the hospital definitely detached Lord’s respirator system. And that finally put the old man out of his misery.”

Koesler, alert to the first bit of genuine news, fought off his distraction. “You mean they actually know the respirator was unplugged?”

“According to Pete’s sister, yes.”

“Is anybody at the hospital trying to find out who did it?”

“I dunno. I get the idea that if it actually happened—and remember, Father Editor, this is still rumor—nobody at the hospital wants to know.”

“Did anyone call the police?”

“I don’t think so. If anybody did, there’d have to be an investigation. Pete, who seems to know more about this than I would have given him credit for, says the police couldn’t sweep something like this under the rug. If they knew about it, they’d have to investigate, and if they found who did it, there’d be a prosecution. I guess nobody at the hospital wants that. Especially a Catholic hospital with a dead Catholic priest whom nobody cared about anyway.”

“I’ll bet they don’t.” For the umpteenth time, Koesler found himself wishing he belonged to a somewhat more legitimate news medium instead of being boss of what was little more than a religious house organ. Nevertheless, he felt drawn to speculate about who might have done it. He pictured a holy nun—one still covered from head to toe with yards and yards of habit—stealthily entering Lord’s quiet room, looking every which way to be sure no one was watching, then, with utmost compassion, jerking the plug out of the wall socket. Then, later, in great remorse, confessing her sin. Or maybe it was an agnostic doctor strolling into Lord’s room. No one around. He casually lifts his foot and kicks the plug out. Leaves the room. Thinks nothing of it. Never will.

“So the consensus seems to be that Lord’s unplugged respirator is gonna be swept under the institutional rug, eh?” Koesler asked, lighting yet another cigarette. He counted the butts in the ashtray. This was his sixth. He shook his head.

“Guess so.” Pompilio had finished his coffee. There was the usual residue of undissolved sugar at the bottom of his cup. He gave a little shove to the table. Nothing moved. It was just a signal that the dinner ritual was concluded. “Funny thing, though, about the rosary Lord was holding when he died.”

“What’s that?”

“It wasn’t his.”

“Wasn’t his?”

“Didn’t belong to him. Lord’s rosary was mother-of-pearl. It was in the drawer of the table near his bed. The rosary he was holding was an ordinary black one. But I guess a rosary is a rosary is a rosary.”

Nelson Kane, city editor of the Detroit Free Press, stood looking around his large, rectangular, well-lit city room. As usual, at least whenever he was there, the dozens of reporters seemed to be developing Pulitzer Prize-winning stories. On those rare occasions when Kane wasn’t there, feet were propped on desks and typewriters, mobs formed at the coffee machine, after-hours dates were made, and gossip passed. Fortunately for the paper’s welfare, Kane was usually there, barking orders and being generally unsatisfied and demanding.

Kane was looking for Joe Cox. Cox had come to the Free Press only three months before with an award-winning book under his belt and excellent references. For years, the Free Press had had no religion writer as such. Kane learned quickly from experience, and he had experienced a memory full of inaccuracies from past religion specialists. Cox was a staff writer, and a good one, who, among other things, was given most of the religious assignments. He handled them well.

Cox came in and had just reached his desk when Kane spotted him.

“Cox!” Kane’s practiced tone rose well above the noise of typewriters and ringing phones.

Cox smiled at his master’s voice and hurried over to Kane’s centrally located desk.

“Did you check that hospital lead?” Kane talked around his never-removed cigar.

“Yup.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I talked to just about everyone on the floor Father Lord was on. Nurses, nuns, orderlies, nurses’ aides, doctors, interns, even the chaplain. Couldn’t get anything from anybody. Not even for nonattribution.”

“What did your gut tell you?”

“It happened.”

“Goddammit, I know it happened! Are the cops in on this at all?”

“I don’t think so. I made the tour of headquarters, real slow, and nobody’s movin’ on it.”

“Whaddya think?”

“Catholic hospital, Catholic priest, they don’t wanna admit they got a problem.”

“Any more leads?”

“One. There’s a nurse I talked to, a…” Cox flipped through his small notebook, “a …Nancy Baldwin. She just didn’t seem too sure of herself.”

“How’s that?”

“Nobody wanted to talk about no plug in no respirator. But she hesitated. Like she really did want to talk—or already had—to somebody. I thought I’d give her a day or so and get back to her. The story’s still there. All locked up in the priests’ pasture at Mt. Olivet Cemetery. It won’t go away.”

“And it won’t get so old nobody cares. Not a Catholic priest getting knocked off in a Catholic hospital. That’s the closest to an eternal story we got at this goddam paper.”

“Right, Nellie.”

“Stay on it and keep me informed.”

“Right.”

Joe Cox, Kane mused, was his kind of reporter. Just as interested in and dedicated to a breaking news story as Kane ever was. With the young legs Kane no longer had.

It was Wednesday, the day the Detroit Catholic weekly newspaper was put together and sent to Brown Printing for publication. It was also one week, to the day, since Father Lawrence Lord had died at St. Mary’s Hospital.

Father Koesler pondered as he paced back and forth in his cluttered office at the paper on Forest Avenue close to downtown Detroit. There had been no mention of the unplugged respirator in any of the local media. There certainly would be no mention of it in the Detroit Catholic. It would be a straight priest’s obit, on the bottom of page one: picture, brief biography, length of service, number of buildings built, survivors, interment. In Lord’s case, there would be lots of buildings but no survivors. Few besides priests and other bachelors left no survivors, Koesler mused.

Maybe there was no unplugged plug. It was, after all, just a rumor. And the other media, particularly the two daily papers, had the means to dig out the story if it were really there. If they had, it would have been the Detroit Catholic’s lot to react and defend the hospital in every way possible. Koesler had learned long ago that the guys in the chancery, from the archbishop on down, didn’t like waves. They could live with criticism being aimed at almost anybody or anything, as long as the target was not a member of the Catholic institution, especially another bishop. They were particularly happy when a controversial Catholic doctrine, such as abortion, divorce, or birth control, was being defended. On that score, they were often not happy with the Detroit Catholic. However, the archbishop had never suggested that Koesler be removed as editor. And that, in this day and age, Koesler reflected, was no small virtue.

The tall, thin, blond priest’s pacing was interrupted when Irene Casey appeared in the doorway. “The editorial page is done, Father; do you want to look it over before we pack it up? And do you want another cup of coffee? It’s going fast.”

Dear Irene. She’d been with the paper nearly fifteen years. It wasn’t a great deal of money, but it did help get her five kids through an increasingly expensive parochial school system. Irene, technically, was women’s editor. But on a publication with the Catholic’s small staff, everyone did a little bit of everything.

“No, thanks, Irene, I don’t want any more coffee. And, yes, I’d like to see the editorial page. Did you change anything in my editorials?”

“Does the pope change anything in the Bible?”

“It probably hasn’t occurred to him.”

Koesler was on his way into the editorial office when his phone rang. He backtracked.

“Father Koesler,” he said guardedly into the phone. As often as not, he was greeted on the office phone by a hostile voice. He figured he got more calls and letters from Catholic nuts than any other priest in the archdiocese.

“Father, you don’t know me. I don’t live in St. Ursula’s parish, but I go there every Sunday for Mass. I’ve got a problem, and I wondered if I could talk to you about it?”

“Why me? Father Pompilio is home at the rectory today. Or there must be a priest in a parish near where you live…”

“This is a complicated problem, Father. And I …well, I like your sermons and the things you write in the paper and I just …I’d rather talk with you if you could give me just a few minutes.” Her voice was strained and shaky with emotion.

“Well, O.K. then. What’s it about?”

“I’d rather not say over the phone, Father. Could I come and see you? I know where your office is, and I drive.”

“All right. When do you want to come?”

“Well, this is my day off. I could come this afternoon if that would be convenient with you.”

“Two o’clock?”

“That would be fine.”

“All right. There’s a parking lot next to our building. Use that …this is not your Grosse Pointe neighborhood. By the way, can you tell me your name?”

“Nancy Baldwin. I’ll see you at two.”

Nancy Baldwin. The name rang a bell. Could she be Father Pete Baldwin’s sister, the nurse? And, if so, why wouldn’t she see Pete instead of him? Koesler was still wondering about that as he entered the editorial office.

Sister Ann Vania, a tall, handsome woman in her middle thirties, was preparing the second graders of St. Alban’s parish in Dearborn for their first communion. Sister Ann (she had been known as Sister Paschal before her order decided to return their real names to the sisters as part of post-Conciliar renewal) was religious coordinator at St. Alban’s. As such, she was responsible for the religion program for the entire parish. As a professional administrator, she seldom got involved in actual teaching. But second graders and their first communion were a special delight to her, and she would delegate their training to no one.

“Michael, can you tell us the story of the Good Samaritan?”

“Yes, Sister. There was this guy who was goin’ somewheres. And some bad guys jumped him and beat him and mugged him and cut him up and…”

“That’ll be enough of the violence, Michael. Go on with the story.”

“…they wouldn’t help him. And then this Summertan…”

“Samaritan.”

“Yes, Sister …Samaritan came by. And the guy thought this Samaritan was his enemy. But the Samaritan helped him.”

“Very good, Michael. And do you know what the moral of that story is?”

“No.”

Sister Ann sighed and suppressed a giggle. “Does anyone? Andrea?”

“The moral is that everybody is our neighbor and that we should love everybody. Even people who want to hurt and kill us.”

“Do you think you could love somebody who wanted to hurt and kill you, Andrea?”

“Yes, Sister.”

Sister Ann didn’t think she could go quite that far herself. Fortunately, she knew of no one who wanted to hurt or kill her.

It was two o’clock. Father Koesler had been helping proofread for the past four hours, with a break for a sandwich and coffee, and he’d forgotten his appointment. Judy Anderson, the receptionist, bobbed briefly into the editorial room. “Your appointment’s here, Father.”

Appointment …appointment ... ah, yes, Nancy Baldwin. “O.K., thanks Judy.”

As Koesler moved from the editorial room to his adjoining office, he pulled his black suit jacket from the coat rack and slipped it on. Since he was already wearing his clerical collar and vest, he was now in full uniform and ready to face whatever.

He opened the door leading from his office to the reception area, and there was Nancy Baldwin. He recognized her immediately, though he had not hitherto known her name. Ten o’clock Mass on Sundays, toward the middle of the church, left side. Somehow, most regular Massgoers formed the habit of occupying the same place at the same Mass every week.

She was shaking the late winter snow from her imitation fur coat. With her was a small, bundled boy, perhaps five years old.

“Nancy Baldwin, I presume.”

“Hello, Father.” She smiled.

“Hi, God,” said the little boy.

In his twenty years as a priest, Koesler had been called many things. But not until now, “God.” He stood staring at the boy, speechless, then glanced at Nancy. “Yours?” he asked.

“Oh no, Father. Billy’s my nephew. I’m babysitting today. I’ll explain the ‘God’ bit in a minute. I know this is an imposition, but is there someplace we can leave Billy while we talk?”

“I think I know just the place.” He leaned into the editorial room. “Irene…” He turned back to Nancy. “Even after five of her own, Irene Casey is still a sucker for little kids.”

“Irene, this is Nancy Baldwin and her nephew Billy. Would you please show Billy some of the fun we have putting together a weekly newspaper?”

“I recognize you from your picture in the paper. It’s nice meeting you, Mrs. Casey.” Nancy extended her hand.

“Pleased to meet you, too, Nancy. Come on, Billy. It’s never too early to start a journalism career.”

Some people just have a natural way with kids, Koesler thought as Billy trotted off after Irene. If I had invited the kid to come with me, he’d probably have hit the floor kicking and screaming.

“Won’t you come into my parlor?” Koesler waved his guest into his office. “May I take your coat?”

Nice trim figure, he thought as he hung up her coat. Carefully pressed pleated skirt, white ruffled blouse under a blue cardigan, small metallic cross on a thin gold chain. Nice legs, nice bottom, small breasts, short wavy hair. He had the intuitive impression she was the proverbial “nice Catholic girl.”

“Father, what we talk about, can it be a secret?” She removed a handkerchief from her purse and began winding it through her fingers.

“Sure. If you want to go to confession, that’s a very special kind of secret. If you just want to just talk to me, that’s a professional secret. In either case, I won’t tell anyone whatever it is we’ll talk about.”

“Oh, good.” A brief, nervous smile crossed her lips.

“Are you a nurse at St. Mary’s Hospital?”

“How did you know?”

“I won’t tell anyone what you tell me. And I can’t tell you what somebody else tells me.”

“You’re just full of secrets, aren’t you, Father.” There was a trace of bitterness in her voice.

Koesler was angry at himself. This, obviously, was what she had come to discuss, and he had led her into the matter prematurely. He’d been a priest long enough to know that people have their own time to talk about troubling things, and there was no hurrying that time.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Everything in life is not a secret. Your name came up in a conversation about Father Lord’s funeral. You were supposed to have said that his death might not have been due to natural causes.”

“It must have been my brother, Father Pete.” She was slightly flustered. Koesler didn’t know if he could recoup the moment and gain her trust. “But I didn’t actually say that to Pete. I tried to tell him about Father Lord’s death, but he got so excited he scared me and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Sometimes Pete hears what he wants to hear.”

“I see. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, Father.”

He let things be quiet for a while. She had to have a chance to think it out. She spent perhaps a couple of minutes—it seemed much longer—staring intently at the handkerchief she had tortured through her fingers. Finally, she raised her eyes to Koesler very calmly. Unsure if she were ready to tell her story, he said, “You were going to tell me about why your nephew called me ‘God.’ “

She laughed. “I never thought it would turn out that way. I live very near my sister and brother-in-law—Billy’s their child—and sometimes I take him with me to church on Sunday. To keep him quiet, I tell him that’s God up there at the altar and he shouldn’t disturb God. Only it’s usually you up at the altar. I didn’t think he’d put the two thoughts together. But when he saw you here today…”

“Gotcha.” Talk about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny! This was wild. But it was all in the interest of peace and quiet in church and, he thought, he’d drink to that.

They seemed to be on friendly terms again. The time appeared to be right.

“Now, would you like to tell me about it?”

“Yes, Father, I would. I’ve got to tell someone. And I want to tell you. Are you sure this will be between just the two of us?”

“You have my word.”

“Well, it really did happen. Someone disconnected Father Lord’s respirator. And that’s what killed him. It didn’t kill him much before he would have died anyway. But it—the lack of a life support system—caused his death.”

She paused. Koesler said nothing. Nor did he show any sign of emotion, though he was slightly shocked. He’d learned long ago that when people tell a priest—or, he supposed, a minister or a psychotherapist—something shocking, they knew damn well it was shocking and they needed no response, not even a raised eyebrow, to confirm their conviction.

Assured they both knew what she was saying, and encouraged by his silence, she continued. “I was the one who found him. Just the day before, he’d been moved to this private room from the intensive care unit. The head nurse on the floor—that’s me—was supposed to check him regularly. There was no need for a private duty nurse. God, Father, he was practically dead. We all expected him to slip away at any moment. We just tried to make sure he was as comfortable as possible, that he wasn’t in any pain. I’ll never forget it. I had just come back from the chapel—it was Ash Wednesday and we’d just received the blessed ashes. I went right to Father Lord’s room to check on him. Right away, I noticed there was no chest movement. And there was the smell of death in the room. Do you know what I mean, Father?”

Koesler nodded. He couldn’t define or even describe it. But long ago he had discovered, for instance, on entering a home where someone had just died, that there was indeed a very special odor of death. Once you experienced it, you never forgot it.

“I checked for his pulse. There was none. And then I saw the plug hanging loose by his bed. My first impulse was to reconnect it. But that would’ve been futile. He was gone. If he had been a younger person, I’d have called for emergency equipment. But Father Lord had been hanging on by a very fragile thread. It was just too late for anything.” She paused again, this pause clearly indicating she was finished with her story.

“And now, Nancy?”

“And now, Father, I don’t know what to do. And I feel just all torn up.”

“Does anyone else at the hospital know? I mean, for sure?”

“The only one I know knows for sure is Sister Mildred, the supervisor on my floor. I got her right after I discovered Father was dead, and showed her the disconnected respirator. She didn’t know what to do, either. We sort of agreed that someone in the hospital tried to do Father a favor and didn’t know he or she was committing a crime. Sister Mildred decided that, all things considered—Father’s condition and all—that it would be better to say nothing. She put the plug back in its socket. And that’s where things stand right now.”

“It’s not possible that Father Lord might have made one of those ‘living wills’ or that some authorized person, like his doctor, might have done this?”

“Not to the best of my knowledge. And I really would have been informed of something like that.”

“The police haven’t been called, nor have they investigated Father’s death, have they?”

“No. They don’t ordinarily investigate hospital deaths unless they’re called.”

Koesler hesitated. He knew what had to be done. And he was pretty sure Nancy knew also. She only wanted, he surmised, to be encouraged. But cautiously.

“Nancy, in effect, you’re living a rather crucial lie. The longer it continues, the worse it’s going to get, and the worse you’re going to feel.” Her face brightened slightly and the furrows in her brow smoothed almost imperceptibly. Yes, this was right and she knew it. “Right now, you’re aiding and abetting a crime. But I’m quite sure it’s not too late. If I were you, I’d go to the police and tell them the whole story. Undoubtedly, it would be good to clear it first with Sister …what’s her name?”

“Mildred.”

“…Mildred. But no matter how she reacts, I’d go to the police in any case. I’m sure they will not hold it against you. And I can’t see them sending a sweet little old nun up the river. But this is a crime, and it has to be investigated. Whoever did it, probably, as you suggest, had noble motives. Whoever it is, all things considered, I wouldn’t mind being the accused’s attorney. It wouldn’t take Perry Mason to get him or her off lightly.”

It was evident nearly all the tension was gone. Nancy had relaxed the rigid position she’d held throughout the interview. She replaced the now refolded handkerchief in her pocketbook.

“I can’t thank you enough, Father. I guess I knew all along what I had to do. I just needed someone to say it.”

“You’re welcome, Nancy. This is still going to be rough, and I’ll pray for you. It’s going to be a can of worms. But, sometimes it’s just necessary to open the can.”

“Yes, Father. Oh…” She rummaged through her pocket-book. “…there’s something I wanted to give you.” She produced a small black rosary. “This is the rosary Father Lord was holding when he died. It wasn’t his. His was a mother-of-pearl rosary. When we prepared his body for the mortician, we sent his rosary with him. He was such a holy man, I kept this—sort of like a relic. I’d like you to have it.”

“Thank you, Nancy. I’ll prize it.” He slipped it into his pants pocket where it clinked against the rosary he always carried. You can never have too many rosaries, he thought, though he was coming close.

He helped Nancy on with her coat. As she buttoned it, she looked into the editorial room. “Come on, Billy, we’re leaving.” There followed the pitter-patter of little feet.

Koesler accompanied them to the door leading to Forest Avenue.

“Good-bye, Father. And thanks again, more than I can say.”

“Good-bye, Nancy. And, good luck, God be with you.”

“Goo’bye, God,” said the almost forgotten Billy.

“So long, kid.” After all, it was in the interest of quiet in church.

Everything was about to hit the fan. Only, Koesler had no notion that this was not the beginning of the end but the end of the beginning.

St. Mary’s Mercy Hospital on Detroit’s northwest side was gigantic. Partly due to its location—it was in one of those increasingly rare neighborhoods that had not yet “changed” much, ethnically or racially—and partly due to its isolation—no other comparably large hospital was nearby—St. Mary’s was one of the few Detroit hospitals that was not considering consolidation. On the contrary, St. Mary’s had just added a new wing.

Mondays through Fridays at least, St. Mary’s functioned at full efficiency. Nearly all its beds were always occupied. Nurses, each with her distinctive cap displaying the coded information of her classification and place of graduation, hurried through the hallways, always appearing to be three patients behind, which was usually the case. Orderlies wheeled carts through the halls with an abandon that could cripple a visitor. Patients shuffled through the corridors clutching their hospital gowns at the revelatory rear. Internists, stethoscopes propped in pockets, ambled about as if they owned the place, which they virtually did. And surgeons skulked, head and shoulders bent, as if they had just supervised someone’s death, which sometimes they had.

In all of this, St. Mary’s was not unlike the public hospitals in Detroit. But St. Mary’s was a Catholic hospital and that showed in subtle ways. Morning and evening prayers were broadcast over the hospital intercom. And, most distinctively, there were the nuns patrolling the corridors and rooms somewhat more purposefully than any other personnel. The nuns came in various ages and sizes— and various garbs, largely depending on their age. Most of the older sisters still wore the ancient, full habit that so delighted conservative eyes. The younger the nun, the more the habit seemed to diminish. The very youngest sisters wore uniforms not dissimilar to the nurses, with an identifying veil worn off the forehead and, usually, a small crucifix either on a chain or pinned to the uniform.

With the hospital chaplain, the nuns formed something quite recent in Catholic hospital history—the pastoral team. Together they handled much of the spiritual counseling. They comforted the suffering, consoled terminal patients and their relatives, even joined in charismatic prayer. As a pastoral care department, the nuns joined the priest-chaplain in all spiritual activities in the hospital, with the sole exception of dispensing sacraments. That remained in the chaplain’s consecrated hands.

It was precisely this—trying to determine whether to anoint one of the patients with the oil of the sick—that was puzzling Father Blaise Donovan, St. Mary’s Franciscan chaplain. At one time, this rite had been known by the foreboding title of Extreme Unction. The name alone was able to scare a terminally ill patient from this world to the next. Now, it was more kindly called The Sacrament of the Sick.

At this moment, Father Donovan was trying to determine if he should anoint Mrs. Eulalie Harris, one of St. Mary’s few Catholic black patients. The problem was that Mrs. Harris’ parish priest had visited her in the hospital, and Father Donovan did not know whether the other priest had anointed her. He did not want to repeat the ritual needlessly.

“When Father Maher visited you, Mrs. Harris, did he anoint you?”

“Ah don’t rightly know, Fathah.”

“Did he pray over you?”

“Oh, yes, Fathah, he sho’ did. Long time.”

“Did he do anything else?”

“Oh, yes suh, Fathah, he sho’ did.”

“What did he do?”

“He greased me.”

Marvelous answer. If Father Maher had greased Eulalie Harris, there was no reason why Father Donovan should do it again.

Outside Mrs. Harris’ room, a nurse’s aide overturned a tray full of breakfast dishes. Startled, an orderly dropped a filled bedpan. Everything was proceeding normally.

Except on the administrative floor. There, everything had indeed become chaotic.

There was no logical reason for the enormous number of police officers roaming St. Mary’s administrative floor. In a city like Detroit, with its reputation for being the “murder capital of the world,” the death of an old man for whom no one really cared could scarcely be called the crime of the century, even if technically it seemed to be murder. There was only one explanation for all the cops milling about St. Mary’s. The Detroit Police Department’s massive response was in direct proportion to the splashy publicity the case had received, especially in the Free Press, where the story had broken just that morning.

Actually, only a small group of police, a crack team of homicide investigators, was actively doing the work. The others were there to complete the showcase of total involvement. Some of the extras in this drama were drinking coffee in a kind of unannounced competition to see who could drink more. Others were exchanging trade gossip. Others were evaluating passing nurses. Three points for a perky rear, three for firm breasts, two for a trim waist, and three for legs. Few of these headless anatomical studies reached a full eleven.

Earlier, statements had been taken from Sister Mildred and Nurse Baldwin, supervisor and head nurse, respectively, on the floor where Father Lord had died. It had been a trying experience for Detective Sergeant Daniel Fallon, a veteran of twenty years on the force, particularly when he interviewed Sister Mildred. Fallon was the product of twelve years in parochial schools and, like most who shared the experience, he had the unspoken impression that there were men, women, and nuns.

“Sister, how good or bad would you say the security is on your floor?”

“Are you suggesting, young man…” Sisters, if they were in the proper frame of mind, no matter what their age, were able to make grown men, no matter what their age, feel like little boys again. And Sister Mildred was definitely in the proper frame of mind. Detective Sergeant Fallon felt as if he were back in the fifth grade. “…that patients on our floor do not receive proper care?”

“Oh, no, Sister. That’s not what I had intended at all.”

“Because if you are, you are sadly mistaken. Sadly mistaken. Of all the floors of this hospital, no one gets better care than the patients on fourteen. No one. Read the hospital newspaper, if you will. Most of the published letters of gratitude from former patients are from the souls who spent time on fourteen.”

“I understand, Sister,” he had flushed. “What I meant was, what’s the possibility of an outsider—some unauthorized person-gaining admittance to your floor?”

“Practically nil, young man. Do you think we walk around up here with our eyes closed? Oh, no. The staff of this floor is among the most alert in the entire hospital.”

When the interview was concluded, Sister Mildred strode from the room calm, cool, collected, and shaking only at her inner core, where no one could see. Fallon, on the other hand, loosened his tie, mopped his brow, and wondered whether he’d ever get over this thing with nuns.

However, as a result of the statements made by Sister Mildred—when she wasn’t launching her own offensive—and Nurse Baldwin, who was nervously cooperative throughout, the police had established the time of death as being between 2:45 P.M. and 3:30 P.M., February twenty-third. At 2:45 P.M., Nurse Baldwin had stated, she had checked Father Lord before leaving for the hospital chapel, and all was well. At 3:30 P.M., she had returned to find him dead and the respirator disconnected.

The police homicide team had determined who among the hospital personnel could not account for their presence in the hospital during the time in question. Even now, those employees were being interrogated.

This would not be a difficult case, Fallon thought, compared with many he’d handled. Unless, of course, it turned out the murder had been committed by someone not on the hospital staff. In that case—and, as a firm believer in Murphy’s Law, Fallon sighed—this could be rough. And all those cops jawing their asses off out there would be very busy indeed.

Nelson Kane was experiencing one of his rare moments of near-perfect euphoria. He had propped his feet on his desk, a repose in which he seldom indulged, tilted back in his swivel chair, and was savoring the Free Press’ early edition page-one headline: “PRIEST MURDERED IN CATHOLIC HOSPITAL.” He was reminded of the line from Ben Hecht’s “Gaily, Gaily,” where an editor yells across a crowded city room at a fledgling copyboy, “Do you know what a sex maniac does? Sells newspapers!” That, he reflected, is a service also performed by Catholic priests who are murdered in Catholic hospitals.

Not only was the Free Press story a scoop, but it contained an exclusive interview with Nancy Baldwin, the nurse who had discovered the body. Joe Cox’s hunch had paid off. He’d gotten his interview with her just before she’d gone to the police. Since then, the cops had forbidden her to speak to anyone about the case. And they had frightened her enough so that she literally was talking to no one about it.

Kane’s reverie lasted only until he sensed that while the cat’s feet were on the desk, the mice were being indolent. He stood abruptly and, with that, the city room sprang into action.

At the Detroit Catholic, Father Robert Koesler was also staring at the Free Press headline. It was strange, he mused, how the media could almost create news. It was true that Father Lord’s death was technically murder. It was also true it had happened at a Catholic hospital. But the headline still seemed gross.

The paper’s account of events, particularly as Nancy Baldwin had viewed them, was fair enough. But it was anyone’s guess how many readers took time to plow all the way through the story. Most conversation would be limited to that screaming headline.

In the recent past, most priests had made news because of their civil rights involvement or antiwar protests. More recently, because they’d decided to leave the priesthood. It was really rare, however, for a priest to be murdered.

In addition, this was an old, tired priest who had been a step away from natural death. True, his life had been taken prematurely. But probably by someone who thought the deed was a kindness.

Koesler’s reflection was interrupted by Irene Casey. “May I interrupt you, Father?” Irene always began her interruptions by asking permission. Pulling a chair up to Koesler’s desk, she sat opposite him. She handed him a slightly deformed paperback. “I finished this last night,” she said.

Accepting the book with a smile, Koesler seemed to weigh it in his hand. It was Thomas Gifford’s The Cavanaugh Quest, only it was half again as large as it had been when Koesler had lent it to Irene. “Been reading in the bathtub again, eh, Irene?” In the Casey household, one of the few relatively guaranteed retreats, apparently, was the bathroom. Every time Koesler loaned Irene a whodunit, it was returned swollen from the tub’s vapors.

She blushed. “Listen, you’re lucky to get it back this soon. If I didn’t read it in the bathroom, I wouldn’t have time to read it anywhere, except maybe here. And you wouldn’t want me to read it on company time, would you?”

“Good grief, no. This is a newspaper. You’re supposed to write, not read. Did you like it?”

“Uh-huh. It would’ve been better if you lived in Minneapolis. But it did move at a good pace. But what do we need with Minneapolis murders? We’ve got our own Catholic murder mystery right here in Detroit.”

“I’m painfully aware of that.”

“Say, Father, that Baldwin girl in this morning’s Free Press story. Wasn’t she the one who was in here to see you the other day?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. You’re famous, even though they didn’t mention you in the paper. By the way, have you given any thought to how we’re going to handle the story this week?”

“Well, it’s still developing, Irene. I wouldn’t be surprised if the police find out who did it before Wednesday. But, in the meantime, you might call Father Leo Clark at St. John’s Seminary. He’s an up-to-date theologian with a special interest in medical-moral ethics. He’ll probably give us some good quotes on euthanasia. And I don’t think any of the other media would think of contacting him. He’ll be our exclusive interview.”

“Sounds good. Do you want me to ask Jim Pool to get started on that today?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? The story’s not going to change that much in the next few days.”

Irene Casey left Koesler’s office, and Koesler returned to his ponderous thoughts on news as it is improvised by the news media.

The homicide team was concluding its first day of investigation at St. Mary’s Hospital. They had narrowed the probable suspects to five employees who could not satisfactorily account for their presence in the hospital during the time in question. Two practical nurses, two orderlies, and a foreign intern. All had been advised to remain available for further questioning. All had been interrogated, finally, by Sergeant Fallon.

Fallon strongly suspected that one of the orderlies and one of the practical nurses had found a vacant hospital room and had enjoyed a quick roll in bed. Once they realized the alternate consequences of not being able to account for their time, he was sure they would confess to a slight case of lust. Fallon’s favorite suspect, at the moment, was the Filipino intern. He had seemed more remote than the others during questioning, and everyone knew that Asians had less respect for life than Americans did.

However, Fallon promised himself he’d begin bright-eyed and objective first thing tomorrow morning.

St. Ursula’s convent was clearly a white elephant. It was the most recent in a pile of old buildings that made up the parish facilities. It had been built only twelve years before to accommodate a maximum of fourteen nuns. That was before the supply of nuns had dwindled to a trickle in the wake of Vatican Council II, before the riot of 1967 had driven the white population—and thus most of the Catholics—out of Detroit, and before the U.S. Supreme Court had denied public monies for parochial schools.

Now, St. Ursula’s school had been leased by the public school system and the convent would have been closed entirely, except that two nuns continued to live there. Sister Marie Van Antwerp was on the Mayor’s Committee for a New Detroit and Sister Ann Vania was religious coordinator at St. Alban’s parish in Dearborn. Both nuns wanted to demonstrate some kind of commitment to the city and so had chosen to live in a core area. Sister Marie was in Washington, D.C. for a five-day seminar on urban planning. That left Sister Ann alone in the rambling building. Her fellow workers in Dearborn had tried to persuade her to stay in the suburb while Sister Marie was gone rather than live alone in the city. But she was unwilling to confirm their prejudices about the city by showing her fear of it. In the deepest recesses of her soul, she did fear the city. But she loved the people who had, in effect, been sentenced to live there. And she refused to abandon them.

It was about 9 P.M. when she returned to St. Ursula’s. As she parked in the parish garage that separated the rectory from the convent, she noticed that Father Koesler’s car was not there. She was disappointed. She had wanted to talk with him this evening about a lot of things that had been troubling her lately. Chiefly, she was beginning to doubt whether working in the lily-white suburb was what she might do best. She knew the people who lived there could no more help wanting a safe life for their families than most of the white and black people in Detroit could help being trapped by the city. She guessed she just wanted to be assured she was justified, and Father Koesler was good at reassuring. Perhaps she would see him tomorrow.

She had her key ready long before she reached the front door of the convent. She did not want to fumble and dally in the dark of the doorway. She let herself in and made certain the door was locked behind her. Most of the convent was closed off and unheated. Actually, only the two small suites used by Sister Marie and herself on the second floor were in use.

Nevertheless, she went first to the old convent chapel and knelt at the rear. It was, of course, no longer used, but the church furnishings were still there, and she liked to end her day where so many nuns before her had prayed.

Her mind went skeletally over her day. The plans that had been made for this Sunday’s parish liturgy, the decision to hire a new guitarist for the Folk Mass, and little Andrea, the first communicant, who was too young to fear anyone who might want to hurt or kill her. What a glorious, untested faith.

Just behind her and to her right, a board squeaked. She spun around, her heart pounding wildly. Nothing. Like all old empty houses, this one had developed its own noises and would speak when it willed. She was a fool, she thought. Of course she would remain in Dearborn when she was alone. There was a fine line between courage and foolishness and, she realized, she had crossed that line with her decision to stay alone at St. Ursula’s convent.

Crossing herself, she climbed the steps to the second floor, opened the door to her room, and turned on the light. There was heat, but not much. She turned up the radiator slightly, hung up her coat and hat, and sat in the room’s one chair. The Catechist magazine had been delivered earlier in the day, and this was her first opportunity to read it. She paged through it perfunctorily but was too distracted to absorb anything.

With a sigh, she decided to take a warm bath and go to bed. She flipped on the bathroom’s light switch and turned the water on in the tub. A warming steam filled the room. She returned to the bedroom, laid her nightgown on the bed, turned down the covers, and began to undress. She hung her dress in the closet, and dropped her underthings in the clothes hamper. As she stepped toward the bathroom, a board behind her and to her left squeaked. Again she spun around, heart pounding. Instinctively, she attempted to cover herself. Naked, she felt doubly vulnerable. But, again, nothing. This, she decided, would be her last night alone at St. Ursula’s. With that, she stepped into the tub and lowered herself into the welcome hot water.

She didn’t see him really. He was a blur she caught in the periphery of her vision. In a single step, he slipped around the side of the bathroom door. Just as suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders. He pushed downward, and her head was under the water. At first, her arms and legs flailed about to gain some leverage but found none. Then her hands went to his wrists, but she could not move his determined grip on her shoulders. Her feet braced against the wall beneath the shower head. She pushed against the wall but succeeded only in raising the lower part of her body out of the water. She could see his face distorted by the water above her as she gasped for air and found only water. The distortion was the last thing she saw. In only a few eternal minutes it was over. Her body slumped in death.

He stood erect and leaned against the wall, exhausted. She had been stronger than he had expected. In a minute, he began completing his plan. He slowly lifted her lifeless body from the tub until she was nearly upright, then, with both hands under her armpits, he slammed her head against a jagged tile on the wall, then let her body slip back into the water. He took a towel from the shelf and dried the upper portions of the bathroom walls and some of the pools of water on the floor. He was wearing gloves so there were no prints to clean.

He looked for a moment at the body. She was a tall woman who scarcely fit into the very normal-sized tub. He reached down and pulled her torso toward the foot of the tub until her head sank once more beneath the water. He was finished. But before leaving, he took a small, common black rosary from his pocket and put it carefully into the dead nun’s hand. And then he left through the first-floor window through which he had come in. A very ordinary case of breaking and entering.