Weekend services at St. Joe’s comprised a Mass at 5:00 Saturday afternoon, and four additional Masses on Sunday.
Father Koesler got help with this schedule catch-as-catch-can. Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary, spent much of her time during various weeks phoning around in search of the rare surplus priest. Jesuits were always a good bet through the auspices of Sts. Peter and Paul, the nearby Jesuit parish. With the advent of Father Dunn, now, and for at least U of D’s first semester, St. Joe’s would have the luxury of an extra resident priest.
However, the resident was not a barrel of help his first Sunday. Oh, there was no trouble with his presiding over a couple of Masses. The problem was he had prepared no homily. So Father Koesler had to preach not only at his own two Masses but also at Dunn’s. And, as any priest who strove to deliver decent homilies could attest, it wasn’t the number of Masses offered but the number of sermons given that wiped one out.
Thus Koesler had spent virtually this entire Sunday morning in church. Searching for a silver lining for this fatiguing cloud, he had ample time to study Father Dunn’s characteristics.
A slenderly built man of perhaps five feet nine or ten-some five inches shorter than Koesler-Dunn had a full head of dark blond, carefully groomed hair parted in the middle, set off by a matching mustache. He had a strong voice that probably could project without amplification. He seemed comfortable wearing the full complement of liturgical vestments and-somewhat rare these days-wearing a cassock beneath the vestments. By and large, he seemed the sort of priest Koesler could relate to more easily than the creations of the early postconciliar Church.
With one exception: Father Dunn wanted to be a cop.
Even worse, he seemed determined to grow up to be Father Koesler, whom he perceived as having made police officer before him. And, judging from last night’s conversation, there was no way of convincing him otherwise.
Koesler wondered about that. Everyone he had known in the seminary, of whatever vintage, had wanted to be a priest. And that was it. Oh, here and there one might find a seminarian whose sights were aimed at a monsignorship or, more ambitiously, a bishopric. But those aspirations were still within the parameters of the priesthood.
Where on earth did this desire of Dunn’s come from? Certainly there was nothing wrong with wanting to be a police officer. But such a desire had nothing to do with the priesthood-or at least nothing that Koesler could think of. The few times that he had worked with the police had not been comfortable experiences for him. Granted, there was a certain thrill to peeling back the layers of a puzzle to solve a mystery. But he could live without that sort of excitement-easily.
Koesler wanted only to be a priest. How could he bring home this fact to Father Dunn? That young man was digging a shallow grave for his vocational dreams if he couldn’t realize he now had everything he needed for an eminently fulfilling life.
Even more troubling to Koesler was the young man’s apparent attitude toward the secrecy requisite in the sacrament of confession.
Koesler had been disconcerted by what Dunn seemed to be suggesting last night. That either of them should even consider revealing in any way what both had heard confessed yesterday Koesler found repulsive. And his sentiment had absolutely nothing to do with the man who had confessed the murder of a priest. If anything, Koesler hoped the police would get him. But not with Koesler’s help. And not with Dunn’s either.
Koesler had heard, and Dunn had overheard, a man confess a sin and, at the same time, confide a secret. That secret, Koesler knew, was sacrosanct. Through the ages, the seal of confession had been challenged by hypothetical as well as factual questions and compelling circumstances. But the seal had to withstand every challenge and remain inviolate or its entire substructure would crumble.
However, Koesler feared that last night’s brief discussion over what should be done about the confession of murder was far from concluded. He wished it were, but Dunn gave every indication that he was not convinced. It was this suspicion that late last night had impelled Koesler to consult some of his theology books and further ponder the matter. The more he researched, the more he was convinced his stand was valid.
The essence of the matter was plainly stated in both the old (A.D. 1917) and the new (A.D. 1983) Code of Canon Law.
The most recent statement Koesler found in Canon 983, which stated, in part, “The sacramental seal is inviolable, therefore, it is a crime for a confessor in any way to betray a penitent by wordor in any other manner or for any reason.” And Canon 984: “Even if every danger of revelation is excluded, a confessor is absolutely forbidden to use knowledge acquired from confession when it might harm the penitent.”
Imagine that: The violation of the seal is termed a “crime.” And one need not look far to find the punishment for that crime. Canon 1388: “A confessor who directly violates the seal of confession incurs an automatic excommunication reserved to the Apostolic See.” And anyone else-as in Father Nick Dunn-who violates this secrecy is “to be punished with a just penalty, not excluding excommunication.”
It was Communion time. Koesler washed his hands, almost compulsively.
This, the 1:15 P.M. Mass, was the final liturgy of Sunday. Dunn had also officiated earlier at the 10:30. Koesler, besides preaching at Dunn’s Masses, had celebrated the 8:30 and noon Masses. It had been straightway determined that Koesler would continue to offer the Sunday noon Mass as it was in Latin and Latin was Greek to Father Dunn.
After Communion, the Mass was quickly completed. Koesler and Dunn took up positions outside the front threshold to bid the congregation farewell and chat with anyone who wished to bend their ears. Several of the predominantly elderly group briefly greeted and welcomed Dunn. Father Dunn seemed such a nice young man. They hoped he would be with them on a more permanent basis. But they were told at the outset that he would be in residence at St. Joe’s only while he was going to school.
Koesler caught sight of the woman who had confessed to him yesterday, the former nun from 1300 Lafayette. This morning she had taken Communion for the first time in the number of months she’d been attending Mass here. She hadn’t yet registered as a parishioner. Koesler hoped that would happen. But he was not about to push it.
Soon the flock was gone and the two priests stood quite alone on the sidewalk outside the main doors of the church.
Koesler took the collection basket to the rectory while Dunn closed and locked the church. They met again minutes later in the spacious rectory kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind, Nick,” Koesler said, “but we don’t have a housekeeper on Sundays. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, though. So help yourself.”
“That’s okay. I don’t usually have much for breakfast or lunch.” Dunn began foraging through the refrigerator.
“Good, ” Koesler said. “I’ll make a pot of coffee.”
“Great. By the way, do you have any plans for dinner?”
Koesler usually ate in on Sundays and self-served the entire day unless he accepted an invitation from one or another of his friends. Or, occasionally he dined out with some other priests. Now he realized that his young resident was on his own in a strange city. “Why don’t we go out and get something later? There are some nice restaurants in the downtown area, and a few are even open on Sunday.”
“Sounds good to me.” Dunn had found some sliced lean roast beef and some lettuce. It would make a delicious sandwich. No quarrel there.
Koesler busied himself in and around the sink and the oven. Dunn constructed his sandwich, seated himself at the large dining table, and began paging through the weekend combination Detroit News and Free Press, the Siamese twins of a joint operating agreement.
After placing a mug of steaming coffee at both places, Koesler sat down at the table opposite Dunn. He took a few of the back sections of the paper and began paging through them.
Dunn glanced at his coffee. It was still steaming. He’d let it sit a while after adding a smidgen of milk.
After some minutes and several rapidly turned pages, Dunn said, “Oh, by the way, Bob, I took the liberty of phoning St. Waldo’s this morning.”
Koesler looked up, his brow knitting. “Oh?”
“Uh-huh. Actually twice. I called at about 9:00 and then just after noon.”
For no good reason, Koesler found himself annoyed that the calls had been made while he had been out of the rectory offering Mass in church. Dunn’s action put him in mind of a willful teenager defying parental rules. “And what did you discover?”
Dunn sensed Koesler’s budding displeasure. “Well, the first call reached an answering service. The second time I got through to the rectory by implying that this could be at least a developing emergency. Of course, when whoever it was at the rectory answered the phone-some woman, maybe the secretary or housekeeper-she wasn’t at all happy with me.”
“I don’t blame her.”
“Well, people in rectories ought to be available.”
“We could argue the point, but what did you find?”
“That Father Keating wasn’t there.”
Koesler made a brief study of Dunn, who seemed inordinately pleased with his discovery. Which discovery, Koesler concluded, only further indicated that what they had heard yesterday was probably true: The poor man was dead-murdered. “You actually asked for Father Keating?”
“Uh-huh. And from the tone of her voice, I could tell something was wrong.”
Koesler was not at all sure of the accuracy of Dunn’s instincts. “Tell me, what would you have done if when you asked for Father Keating, she had put him on the line?”
Dunn grinned. “I’d’ ve been pretty surprised. I don’t think I would have believed it was the real Father Keating. I would have figured they had somebody pretending to be Keating in the interim.”
“Pretending?”
“Sure.” Dunn seemed extremely confident. “We don’t know what’s going on out there at St. Waldo’s. Maybe they’ve gotten word that Keating’s been murdered and they’re covering it up for the moment.”
“And why would they do that?”
“Maybe the police are there. Maybe the police told them not to talk to anybody until they can get the investigation under way.”
“Nick, you have an overactive imagination. But now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it. In fact, whether you mind or not, I don’t want to talk about it … ever again”
Silence. A rather uneasy silence.
Dunn sipped his coffee. The temperature was about right. But the taste!
He must’ve tasted worse coffee, but couldn’t think where. The seminary? Maybe; but, if memory served, even that was not as disagreeable as this stuff. Should he say something to Koesler? No, better not; he wasn’t off to all that good a start with the pastor as it was. No use muddying the waters. He wished he had not thought of mud. He gazed into his mug. Did the coffee really resemble mud, or was it just that it tasted so bad that it blighted everything else? He watched Koesler turn the pages of the paper all the while sipping his coffee. Was it possible that he’d prepared two separate brews? Was it possible Koesler had no taste buds?
Meanwhile, Dunn continued to scan the first of the many sections of the paper Koesler had handed him.
He was amazed at the bulk of this Sunday newspaper. It must be as large as the Sunday New York Times!
Father Dunn was not far wrong. Had he been in the Detroit area a few years earlier, he would have witnessed one of the last of the great wars between two big-city newspapers. Then, at the conclusion of a battle to blend the management of both papers-allegedly for fiscal survival-the United States Supreme Court ruled that there was no legal reason to prevent the News and the Free Press from merging their administrative offices while still competing editorially. The resultant product was not altogether acceptable from nearly anyone’s point of view. But it did make for a humongous Sunday paper.
Both priests continued to read while exchanging sections of the paper. Suddenly Nick Dunn gasped.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe it! This is too much! It just can’t be! I don’t believe it!” Dunn wheeled the paper toward Koesler and pointed to a photo.
Koesler studied the picture, wondering what he was supposed to. discover.
“Oh, I forgot,” Dunn said, “you didn’t see him.” He tapped his finger on a figure in the photo. “Him! He’s the one-the one who went to confession to you yesterday. I’m sure of it!”
Koesler looked more closely at the picture. It hadn’t reproduced all that clearly. But, upon scrutiny, there was little doubt: It was he. Once again, Koesler reminded himself that Dunn didn’t know that he had seen the man who had mistakenly walked into the open confessional.
The photo ran with a companion story under the heading: “Sons of Italy Honored at Charity Fete.” The caption read: “Salvatorean Father Mario Gattari, S.O.S., presents commemorative plaques to brothers Remo and Guido Vespa in appreciation of their outstanding service to the Salvatorean Mission Society.”
There was definitely a resemblance between the two, but Koesler was sure Guido was the one who had blundered into the wrong confessional yesterday and eventually confessed killing Father John Keating. If corroboration were needed, Father Dunn’s nimble index finger was tapping precisely on Guido’s pictured head.
“What I can’t figure out, ” Dunn said, “is why he’s getting a plaque. I know Detroit is big on murders, but I didn’t know that killers were given prizes! And by a Catholic missionary outfit? Who in hell are the Salvatorean Fathers, anyway?”
“They’re … they’re a … uh … an … Italian missionary group …” Koesler spoke in a half-mesmerized state. If anything, he was more surprised and puzzled by this picture than Dunn was. “I think they work in Africa. They’ve got an office here … mostly to solicit vocations.”
“But why would they be giving an award to this guy? He’s a hit man, isn’t he?”
“Donations, funding drives, contributions. If you haven’t been exposed to this yet, you will be. There are some Catholic awards-like this one-that are given to the big spenders, or big collectors, that type of VIP. It doesn’t matter that the. …. uh …” — Koeslerglanced again at the paper in search of the name-“the Vespas aren’t very practicing Catholics. Shoot, it doesn’t matter that Guido Vespa hasn’t darkened a church door more than a couple of times in his entire life. The thing is the Vespas must have given a pile of money to the Salvatoreans. Or the Salvatoreans hope this award will prime the pump, as it were, and that the Vespas will give a bundle. It’s got very little to do with saints and sinners.”
“But” — Dunn was grinning from ear to ear-“we know the whole story! We know the priest has been killed! We know who did it! We even know where the body is buried, for God’s sake!”
Koesler regarded the other priest intently for a few moments. “And what do you suggest we do with all this knowledge?”
Dunn thought seriously. “Well, ” he said finally, “I don’t suppose we can just tell anybody-the police … the media.” He looked at Koesler as if the statement were a question.
Koesler slowly shook his head.
Dunn continued to think. Then, “Wait a minute. You can do something about this even if I can’t.”
“I can?” Koesler’s tone was skeptical.
“Sure. For one thing, I’ll bet the cops are going to ask you for help again. Just like you said yesterday, they come up with a case that has a peculiarly Catholic background, they need help with the Catholic angle, and they call on you-tried and true. Except this time you already know which closet the skeletons are in. So you just sort of steer them to the answer. They will be amazed. You will never have been better!”
Koesler shook his head with deliberateness. “You must, you really must have studied the seal of confession in the seminary. And since you’re out only three years, it wasn’t all that long ago.”
“So?”
“So you must know that the confidentiality of information learned through the confessional is inviolable. There are no exceptions.”
Dunn shook his head. “What I do know is that there aren’t any rules that don’t have exceptions. All those absolutes of the pre-Vatican II Church are gone.”
Koesler well remembered the long string of absolute rules that he had grown up with, that he’d learned, that he had pretty well observed, for not to observe them was to sin. He remembered them far better than Dunn possibly could. Dunn had heard of the absolutes. Koesler had lived them.
“Yes, I’ve watched the absolutes crumble …” Koesler almost sighed. “It was a cultural shock for most of us old geezers. I doubt you’ll ever know what it was like living in those days that stretched back for centuries. I think it was McAfee Brown who wrote that if the Catholic Church ever changed a doctrine radically-say, that birth control was good instead of bad-the official statement would have to begin, ‘As the Church has always taught …’ Simply because we have no way to say ‘oops.’”
Dunn chuckled.
“Not being able to say ‘sorry’ means for one thing that you’re dealing with a bunch of absolutes. However” — Koesler’s voice took on an uncompromising tone-“the absolute protection of secrecy in the confessional is one of the absolutes that stuck around.”
“Come on” — Dunn’s tone was cynical-“no exceptions?”
“Okay, ” Koesler responded after quick reflection, “one exception: If the penitent comes to the confessor afterward-if the penitent takes the initiative-the two of them may discuss what was confessed. No-one more exception: If the penitent releases the priest from the confidentiality. But that, Father Dunn, is that!”
Dunn recognized the implication of Koesler’s use of his title, especially since it was Koesler who had suggested they operate on a firstname basis. It took him back to when he was a misbehaving boy and his mother would address him as “Nicholas!”
“To be perfectly frank, ” Dunn said, “I don’t see it. I don’t agree. Look, that guy yesterday-what’s his name? — Guido Vespa-I heard him use the word ‘contract.’ This was a contract murder. Now I know I don’t have as much experience in this stuff as you do, but I’ve seen my share of Godfather movies. And contract killings are committed by hit men. Men who kill for money, or just because they are employed to kill people.
“Look at the opportunity you’ve got! You can single-handedly put a hit man out of business, help send him to prison. You’ll be saving lives, all the lives that guy would have taken if you hadn’t put him away. I think that’s ample reason to at least … fudge … the seal of confession.
“Besides, you wouldn’t have to just come out and tell the cops that you heard this in confession. You wouldn’t have to even mention the confessional. If they ask you for help … you help them. Just sort of steer them in the right direction.” He turned his hands palms upward on the table. “Simple?”
Koesler regarded the young man in a moment’s silence, then glanced at the still nearly full coffee mug. “Your coffee’s cold. Let me get rid of that and pour you a fresh cup-“
“No!” The force of Dunn’s reply was enough to halt Koesler’s move from his chair. “No, ” Dunn repeated more composedly. “Don’t trouble yourself. I just remembered, I was going to cut back on the stuff.” Dunn leaned forward. “Well, what do you think: Doesn’t my idea sound great?”
“Your idea …” Koesler decided to try a different approach. “There are various kinds of secrets, Nick,”
“I know that.”
“Just a quick review to make sure we’re talking about the same thing, okay?”
Dunn nodded. He did want coffee. But not the hemlock in the pot on the counter.
“Okay.” Koesler proceeded: “There is information that by its very nature is confidential. As, for instance, an individual’s sexual orientation. Somebody you know is gay but you also know he doesn’t want that revealed. Or there’s the secret that someone tells you and asks you not to tell. He’s depending on you to keep his secret; otherwise he wouldn’t reveal it to you.
“Then there’s the professional secret-doctor-patient or attorneyclient. All of those secrets are precious to the individual who is affected by each of them and so, to varying degrees, that person’s desire that such a secret be honored and protected must be honored.
“Anyone who is trusted with any of those secrets may have to weigh the importance of keeping the information to himself against, say, the common good. Possibly the professional secret may be the most crucial of all of them. Is there any time or circumstance when a doctor, say, is obliged to reveal the confidential information about his patient?”
“I suppose. Sure.”
“Maybe, ” Koesler said, “a man with AIDS is sexually promiscuous.”
“Of course, the doctor would have to tell. His patient is risking the lives of all those people.” Dunn quickly added, “But that’s just what I was saying: The doctor has to forget about his professional restraint because of … well, exactly what you said: the common good. And you have to steer the police to this hit man or he’s going to kill again … and again. You’d even be an accessory, no?”
“I don’t think so.” Koesler rose to pour himself another cup of coffee. If Koesler had taste buds they must have expired, thought Dunn; maybe that’s what happens as you grow old: body organs die one by one.
“The difference” — Koesler returned to his chair and his theme- “between the professional secret of the doctor and the confessional secret of the priest is not in the nature of the secret but in the person to whom the secret is entrusted.”
“Oh, come on now, Bob-you’re not going to pull that old cultic-character-of-the-priesthood, are you? Where the priest is somehow superhuman? Priests have come down off the mystic pedestal long ago. Definitely since the Council.”
“Well …” Koesler smiled. “Yes and no. I know priests are off the pedestal, more or less. And that’s both good news and bad. But that’s not the point here. The point here is the person to whom the information was given.”
“Huh?”
“Look, Nick, I don’t want to get too doctrinaire, but I’ve got to be sure you and I are on the same wavelength. We believe that Jesus is the son of God and so He had the power to forgive sin.”
“Don’t go too fast, Bob.” Dunn’s sarcasm was evident.
“I know, I know … but be patient; this is going somewhere, Koesler advised.
“Now, we also believe He gave this power to forgive sin to His apostles. He told them that when they forgave sins, the sins were forgiven. But if they would not forgive sins, those sins remained unforgiven. Since there was a dual responsibility-to forgive or deny forgiveness-it seemed appropriate to determine the state of the penitent’s conscience and what sins had been committed. And so, there’s confession.
“The method of hearing confession developed over the centuries. Probably it was the Celtic monks of the sixth century who incorporated the private confession to a priest with forgiveness without public penance, denunciation, or any public or legal consequences. With that, each person’s sins became a private matter.
“A little later on, the confessional booth was introduced in Spain to get rid of some abuses. Whatever. In any case, once you got sins privately confessed and forgiven, along with a private place as the setting, you also got anonymity for the penitent-and unconditional confidentiality. And that was the practice until, in the mid-sixteenth century, the Council of Trent rejected the claim that there ever could be an adequate reason for violating the seal of confession. And that’s the way it’s pretty much been ever since-total, absolute, and unconditional.”
Dunn looked askance. “‘Celtic monks’? ‘The sixth century’? ‘Trent’? You looked those up. You don’t have that kind of detail at your fingertips!”
“You’re right: I did look it up. Last night after this first came up and we apparently disagreed on an issue that I consider of prime importance.
“Put it this way: I didn’t want to lose this argument on some flimsy technicality.”
“Have we gotten where you’re going yet?” Dunn asked. “I still don’t see any compelling reason why the seal can’t admit an exception. Everything else does.”
“I could take exception to your ‘Everything else does, ’ but for the moment, let’s stick to confession.
“Now, a gentleman we know as Guido Vespa-thanks to your identification” — Koesler still did not wish to acknowledge that he himself had seen the man-“came to confession yesterday. He confided in me-and, although he didn’t know it at the time, to you too-that he had committed murder. He told me this not because I am a doctor, a lawyer, or any other public professional, but because I am a priest. And, in the last analysis, not even because I am a priest. You’ve heard of the expression in loco parentis?”
“‘In the place of the parent, ’” Dunn correctly translated. “Somebody who is not the parent of a child is empowered to act as if he or she were the parent-in the place of the parent. But wait a minute-“
Koesler smiled. “You know where I’m going now, don’t you? Mr. Vespa told me what was bothering his conscience because-as he was taught to believe-I was taking the place of Jesus. I was taking the place of God. Not in loco parentis, but in loco Dei. He definitely would not have told me-or you or any other priest-if he had not implicitly believed he was going through a person who was able to forgive his sin. Because that person had received his commission to forgive sin from Jesus, the son of God.
“Me.
“Vespa believed that I have that power because Jesus gave it to the apostles and they passed the power on through their successors. He believes that because that’s what we taught him. If he were really wearing his eyes of faith, he would not be confessing to me-he would not even be seeing me. He would believe he was confessing to God. If God wanted to reveal the sin, He could. But I don’t believe God ever would.
“And that, in a nutshell, my dear Father Dunn, is why there are no exceptions to the seal. Not because there is a law against revealing a confessed sin. Although there is such a law, both in the old and the new Code of Canon Law-which, by the way, the Church is so firm about that violating the seal is one of only five remaining sins still punishable by excommunication reserved to the Holy See.
“And, yes, I looked that up, too,” he added parenthetically.
“But it’s not law that makes us keep these secrets inviolate; it’s because when we hear confessions, we are eavesdropping. The penitent is not talking to us. The penitent talks to God. And the penitent would not have said a word to us in that setting if he or she had not been led to believe that we were standing in for God. In loco Dei.
“And besides all that, the rule of thumb for the confessor is that he do nothing-nothing-that would make confession odious, repugnant, offensive to the penitent. That’s why, by the way, the priest can’t even bring up outside the confessional any sins that have been confessed-unless, that is, the penitent wants to talk about them and brings the subject up spontaneously. The confessional, Nick, is a world set apart. It’s a haven for the sinner with God.”
Koesler’s silence indicated his explication was completed and that he now awaited Dunn’s reaction.
There was no reaction.
“Well …” Koesler finally prompted.
“I don’t know, ” Dunn said at last. “I’m going to have to think about it. Maybe it’s just a reaction to all those unforgiving absolutes of the past-but I’ve got a problem admitting that anything admits of no exception at all. I’m going to have to think about it. That’s the best I can tell you.”
“Okay, you think about it. But,” Koesler admonished, “while you’re thinking, don’t do anything. Don’t speak to anyone about what you heard-not even to me anymore. Don’t do anything that would in any way link the murder of Father Keating to the man we heard confess that sin.”
“Okay, ” Dunn agreed, after some hesitation.
Koesler nodded. “Now I’m going to rest up a bit and get ready for dinner later on. Six all right for you, Nick?”
Dunn nodded.
“Then I’ll meet you here.” Koesler left the dining area for his room upstairs. He was exhausted, not only from his marathon of sermons this morning, but also from the extensive apologia for the sacrament of confession. As he stretched out on his bed, his last conscious thought was a wish that Guido Vespa had whispered as Koesler had more than once urged. If only Vespa had followed Koesler’s direction, Dunn would not have overheard and Koesler would have been spared this argumentation and contention. On the other hand, maybe it was a blessing that he was able to head off this young priest before he violated the seal and would have to go to the Pope himself for absolution.
In the final analysis, Koesler did not need any complication from any other source. It would be plenty hard enough for him to keep this secret. He could not let anyone-including Dunn-know just how hard. All that Dunn said was true enough: Vespa was a career killer, and to keep silence was to leave him free to kill again.
But there were no exceptions. There were no exceptions.
And so, on to a troubled nap.