Sixteen

Saturday and Sunday had been what all the Tullys hoped for during Father Zachary’s visit: a peaceful time to grow in the knowledge and love of one another. The Koznickis were with them for Saturday brunch. For the remainder of the weekend, outside of the Masses presided over by Father Tully, it was family time.

Now it was Monday and the priest had a eulogy to deliver.

 

Father Tully took a seat at the rear of the chapel, an excellent vantage for people watching.

He had arrived at McGovern Funeral Home some twenty minutes before the service for Al Ulrich was scheduled to begin. He would have been earlier still but for the phone call from the pastor of St. Joe’s. Father Koesler had been away from his parish almost one whole week. He could not quite let go.

Ostensibly this morning’s call was to relate yesterday’s adventures in the good company of Father Koesler’s priest classmate in Ontario. In actuality, the call was about St. Joseph’s parish in Detroit. But Father Koesler didn’t want to appear so openly possessive as to make it obvious that he missed his parish and was checking on how things were going.

But back to the adventure. Yesterday—Sunday—Father Koesler and his priest buddy had toured the rebuilt stockade of Ste. Marie Among the Hurons.

The Jesuit mission, established in 1639, had lasted a mere ten years—during which time some Indians were converted to Catholicism and some Jesuits were martyred. Many of these martyrs were famous among parochial school students—among whom was Robert Koesler when he was a lad and people got away with calling him Bobby.

It had been an evident thrill for Koesler to visit the martyrs’ shrine, as well as the fort, which had been burned to the ground when the Jesuits retreated, and much later rebuilt according to the original specifications.

To be honest, Father Tully was more than a little vague about the North American martyrs. Koesler gave a brief rundown featuring Isaac Jogues—the most famous of them all—and Fathers Brebeuf, Lalemant, Garnier, and Chabanal; as well as two laymen, René Goupil and Jean de la Lande.

Koesler omitted any detail of the terminal agonies of these dedicated saints. Although he did mention a humorous prayerful invocation found in a book titled St. Fidgeta and Other Parodies. The invocation, logically inserted in the Litany of the Saints, prayed, “From the Sisters who tell us precisely what the Indians did to Saint Isaac Jogues and his companions; good Lord, deliver us.”

Actually, schoolboys lapped up the macabre details of the torture and slaughter of these saintly priests. However, once the lads matured to become students in the seminary, where the martyrology was read to them immediately after lunch, the effect could be a bit nauseating.

During their visit to the old fort, Fathers Koesler and Rammer spent much of their time in the chapel, a long, narrow building constructed principally of logs. A plain wooden table served as the altar. Ornate vestments, complete with the old fiddleback chasubles, ready to be donned, hung on nearby hooks. On the altar sat a chalice that appeared to have barely survived a couple of wars.

Also on the altar lay prayer cards—two small, one large. These supplied the Latin prayers when the celebrant found it inconvenient to read the missal.

Regular Mass had not been offered in that chapel, for almost 350 years. Yet all was in readiness to begin again.

Koesler was most impressed with the realization that these vestments, implements, missal, and prayer cards had been in use a century or so before this present crude chapel was built. They were the exact same paraphernalia and trappings that had been in use in the era of his own ordination. They had remained in common use until a few years after the Second Vatican Council. Now, occasionally, with special permission, they were still used.

For Fathers Koesler and Rammer, the visit to the chapel in Huronia was a refreshing occasion for nostalgia. This was obvious from the warmth in Koesler’s voice as he concluded his account of that visit.

At that point, the conversation took an expected turn. “How are things in Detroit?” Both men knew what specific section of Detroit Koesler referred to.

“Goin’ good. Just like you said, I get out of the way and Mary O’Connor keeps things running.”

“Great! How’d the weekend liturgies go?”

“Nobody walked out till I was all done with Mass.”

“Sorry. Silly question.”

“That’s okay. I know how you feel. As I told you before, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing that’s come up is the shooting of Al Ulrich.”

“Al … Ulrich?” Koesler couldn’t place the unfamiliar name.

“He’s not one of your parishioners. I told you about him: the one who was slated to be manager of that new branch of Adams Bank?”

“Oh yes. Tom Adams—the one you gave the award to—his bank. That’s too bad. Poor man.” Koesler had no reason to know Ulrich and, indeed, had never met him.

“I’m supposed to give a eulogy for him at ten this morning.”

“Hey, I’d better get off the line and let you get going.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got some time.” Better now rather than having Koesler call back later in the day with some newly remembered detail. “Wasn’t there anything about the murder in the Canadian media? It was big here ….”

“No, not a word. I’ve been through that before though. Lots of times when we think we have a major story, the foreign press doesn’t give it any coverage at all. But you were involved in this one, as I recall.”

“I thought I was. I met Ulrich at that award dinner party. The rest of the cast of characters were there too. And I got to meet them.”

“The rest of the cast, of characters? What characters?”

“The upper echelon of Adams Bank. Especially the three executive vice presidents who stand to gain from Ulrich’s death.”

Koesler started to chuckle. ‘“Stand to gain’? Are you developing a list of suspects? You really don’t have to play cop just ’cause you’re at St. Joseph’s, you know. It doesn’t come with the territory.”

Tully bristled, partly because he had already been made to feel an intruder in this investigation. And now Koesler seemed to be making fun of him. “I know. I know. I know. I’ve been through all this with my brother. I’ve backed off and I intend to stay backed off. Besides, the thought of being of service to the Detroit Police Department never would’ve occurred to me if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Me?! What did I have to do with it?”

“Just that when my brother learned that not only was I on the scene, but that you were gone … far, far away in a distant land” —Tully made Koesler’s vacation spot sound like the prelude to an episode of Star Wars—well, I was only trying to reassure the lieutenant that we belong to the same outfit, you and I … that he shouldn’t consider suicide simply because you had left town for a little while.”

“Well, I am surprised,” Koesler said. “I didn’t realize I’d had that sort of impact on your brother. I’ve just helped out a little from time to time—usually when there was some Catholic ingredient in an investigation. But you and I went over that when we first met—”

“I know. But as soon as my brother learned you’d gone, it was as if Detroit’s only doctor had left the city and an epidemic of some sort was about to strike.

“Believe me, Bob … please, please believe me: I am not now, nor do I expect to be an expert religious resource for the police department—in this or any other city.”

“Good. That’s a good resolution.”

“But” —Tully’s tone was impish—“I do have a solution for this murder case that is completely outside the police investigation.”

“You’re incorrigible!” Koesler laughed and hung up.

 

Sitting in the chapel of McGovern Funeral Home, Tully smiled as he recalled the conversation. Immediately he composed himself and reverted to a serious mien as he returned to his people watching.

A good-sized crowd was gathering. As he expected, he knew almost none in the group. Then a tall, slender black man, bald, with neatly trimmed facial hair, swept down the aisle, trailing a couple of men who had to be bodyguards. It was a safe guess that this was Donald Aker, mayor of Detroit.

Father Tully experienced a momentary flush of pride in being of the same race as this dynamic leader who believed so completely in his once-beleaguered city.

The mayor paced himself expertly as he moved toward the bier and the widow. He greeted those within reach. He smiled, but a restrained smile befitting the gravity of the moment. Pound for pound, thought Tully, this was as skillful a working of a room as he’d ever witnessed.

It seemed as if the mayor spent considerable time comforting the widow. In reality he was in and out in no more than a very few minutes.

He and his entourage exited the same way they’d entered—the mayor continuing to work the room as he moved out. Undoubtedly he was headed toward the bank that, but for a gun, would have been opened by the now deceased. Today was the official opening. Within minutes, Mayor Aker would be working a crowd at the newest branch of Adams Bank and Trust, where a minute of silence would be observed in memory of its martyred manager.

Then, as if in a rite of pageantry, a procession entered at the chapel’s rear. All were stylishly attired in dark mourning garb.

First came Joel Groggins, unaccompanied. He shook hands with the widow, who, even if not dressed as expensively as the others, easily was the most attractive of the many attractive women present. Groggins touched Mrs. Ulrich’s arm as he spoke with her.

Father Tully guessed Groggins was needlessly explaining his wife’s absence. Naturally, Nancy’s presence was required at the bank she’d inherited from Al Ulrich.

Next came Lou and Pat Durocher. Pat’s face was shadowed behind the black mesh of a semi-veil. She and Barbara turned their faces at an angle from each other and kissed air.

While Pat paused to view the body in the open casket, Lou said something to Barbara, in response to which she nodded vigorously. Tully couldn’t know or even guess what had been said. But he noted that Lou Durocher seemed somehow rumpled without actually being rumpled. Could he be nursing a hangover?

Then came Jack and Marilyn Fradet. Marilyn, considerably more at home with the widow than Pat had been, put both hands on Barbara’s shoulders, and they stood facing each other. Whatever Marilyn said caused Barbara to smile.

Marilyn viewed the body briefly, then moved to a reserved chair.

Jack, again evidently uncomfortable out of working attire, seemed awkward as he stooped to whisper something. It had to be only a whisper because he leaned almost against Barbara’s ear while speaking. Barbara turned her head in his direction and whispered something in return. Jack then seated himself next to his wife. He made no effort to view the body.

Next, Martin and Lois Whitston took their turn.

Lois gave Barbara a reserved hug, patted her shoulder, said something briefly, glanced hastily at the body, and went to her chair.

Martin addressed Barbara vigorously. His voice was clearly more audible than his predecessors’. Tully could see some of those seated nearby lean forward as if trying to listen in.

Barbara hastily grabbed Martin’s arm, cutting off any further speech. Quietly she said a few words. He nodded, left her side, and moved to the casket. He appeared to be praying. Maybe he was, thought Father Tully. Just because the priest assumed Whitston had no religious affiliation didn’t mean Whitston couldn’t pray—or even that he had no religious affiliation.

Finished, Whitston seated himself.

Last came Tom Adams. Of everyone here, Adams seemed most moved by this death. He was the antithesis of the robust host of his award dinner. Then he’d been very much in command; now he seemed somewhat lost.

As Whitston left Barbara, Adams made no immediate move to come forward. It was several seconds before he finally stepped up to her.

Now it looked as if the widow was consoling the mourner rather than vice versa. Adams’s shoulders shook. He appeared to be fighting back tears. It was most affecting.

A memory stirred in Father Tully. The award dinner: Tully recalled watching Barbara Ulrich slip some sort of missive to each of the men in this hierarchy. Jack, the comptroller; Lou, the mortgage man; Martin, in commercial lending; and Tom, the CEO.

Now the same cast had shared something with Mrs. Ulrich.

Tully wondered about that. Especially since Barbara suspected that one of them had arranged for her husband’s death—a suspicion she’d shared with the priest. He had advised her to follow his brother’s admonition: to let the police do the police work. He fervently hoped that she would take his advice.

What must be going through her mind? What passed between her and her suspects just now? Did it have something to do with the notes she’d given to them at the dinner?

He glanced at his watch. A few minutes after ten. Mr. McGovern closed the doors, a signal that the service, such as it was, would begin.

Father Tully stepped up to the bier. He looked briefly at the corpse. Traditionally, those who attend viewings make comments that run from a simple, “My condolences,” to the least common denominator, “He looks so natural,” to the ridiculous, “He never looked better.”

As far as Tully was concerned, the American Indians, among other peoples who lived with nature, had the best method of dealing with human remains: wrap them in a hammock, suspend it from two tall trees, and allow the birds and other animals to fold the deceased back into nature.

That method was not likely to become popular in today’s society.

Personally, Tully thought the mortician had done a workmanlike job on Al Ulrich. He looked, in slumber of course, just as he had when the priest had met him for the first and final time last week.

Father Tully anticipated no problem in delivering this eulogy. Once he had introduced himself, a priest only lately arrived from Dallas, everyone would accept that he’d had little opportunity to know Al Ulrich other than fleetingly. It was easy to be credible while speaking vaguely about a deceased whom one had known only in passing.

He would make no apologies for being a Catholic priest who had been invited to deliver this eulogy. At the same time he did not want to exclude those in this gathering who were not Catholics—Protestants, Jews, or even merely unaffiliated theists.

He would point out that Jesus, for many the most important person who ever lived, sought the company of those whom polite society avoided. He was there for those who needed Him no matter who these needy happened to be.

When the self-righteous dragged before Jesus a woman taken in the act of adultery, he prevented the mob from executing her. His closest companions were the blue-collar workers of that day: fishermen, a tax collector.

There was no class consciousness in His life in any sense. He could be found at table with anyone from the very wealthy to the poorest of the poor.

The next point needed to be presented cautiously. Tom Adams was not Jesus Christ. But it was his decision that was putting a financial facility at the service of those who tended to be forgotten, overlooked, ignored.

Nor was Al Ulrich a messiah. But he had volunteered to lead this effort. He sought the position.

While neither Adams nor Ulrich was any place close to divinity, nonetheless what they tried to do and what they did was good by nearly anyone’s standard.

That was Father Tully’s outline.

He turned to the assembled group. They were looking at him expectantly, attentively.

All except Barbara Ulrich. She seemed lost in thought.

“Good morning. My name is Father Zachary Tully. I am a Josephite priest from Dallas, Texas. I was asked to say a few words this morning.

“I did not know Al Ulrich well. We met but once. And that was last week. However, I am very well aware of what Al Ulrich and” —he inclined his head slightly in the CEO’s direction—“Tom Adams were attempting to accomplish in the midst of Detroit’s inner city.

“Their enterprise was not unlike at least part of the mission of Jesus Christ.”

To this point, Barbara Ulrich heard Father Tully. Then his image grew faint and her attention began to lapse.

It was all coming back to her.