Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  “You got any guesses?”

  “Not really. If I had to drop a name, it would be that loony chairman of the Tridentines—whatzisname …” Cox consulted his notepad. “Roman Kirkus.”

  “Why him?”

  “Just that he’s the most conspicuous character I’ve come across in this crazy case.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve all known people who come alive for the media. Pull out a pencil and pad and identify yourself as a reporter and this type grows about ten inches: Oh, boy! I’m gonna get my name in the papers.’ But this guy Kirkus is almost entirely a creature of TV. He sort of slouches through a meeting—like he’s lost interest in it. But let them turn on the lights and aim a TV camera at him and, bang, he comes to life. Add to that his professed philosophy—a little to the right of Attila the Hun—and he could fit the bill.”

  “Well, keep him in your back pocket. You never know when that story will pop again.” Kane picked up a pile of letters from the corner of his desk.

  “What happened?” Cox eyed the stack. “All my fans write in at the same time?”

  “National Rifle Association. Fitzgerald had a column on gun control the other day.”

  “Yeah, I remember it. The NRA! I knew it had to be my fans or the NRA.”

  “These have already been entered in the VDT.” Kane handed the letters to Cox. “Get in touch with some of these people. See if you can get an original idea. Then phone some of the gun control people for balance.”

  “That’s different: doing an NRA story without an assassination or even a significant shooting. And we haveFitzgerald to thank.”

  “Only partly. The follow-up is Larry David’s idea.”

  “The executive ed? Why the command from on high?”

  “As you will see when you go through these letters, these people are threatening to withhold advertising.”

  “It is all very clear now.” Cox bowed exaggeratedly in the general direction of the executive editor’s office, then riffled through the letters as he returned to his desk.

  “Hey, Lennon! C’mere a minute!”

  Ordinarily, Pat Lennon would have ignored such a summons, particularly since it came from Pete Sands, the clown of the newsroom. But since she was only going to get a drink of water, she detoured to Sands’ desk.

  “You dabble in religion from time to time, don’t you, Lennon?”

  “As infrequently as possible.”

  “Well, you might be interested in the fact that the new Syrian bishop, who has not even officially taken over his Detroit diocese yet, granted me a telephone interview.”

  Lennon pursed her lips and nodded. She was impressed. No one else in the Detroit media had yet been able to speak with, let alone interview, the new bishop.

  “Wanna hear it?” Sands prodded.

  “Sure.”

  Sands’ neighboring desk partner appeared to be interested at this point and moved his chair closer.

  Sands depressed the rewind button on his tape recorder. The tape whirred madly to automatic cut-off. He pushed the play button. There were several scratchy sounds before a man—clearly Sands—began to speak.

  “Bishop,” Sands began, “now that you are coming into the Detroit diocese for the first time, I was wondering—and, by the way, thank you very much for this interview —”

  “’sallright,” said a deep masculine voice with a heavy foreign accent.

  “I was wondering, now that you are, in effect, sort of starting over—anew, as it were—I was wondering whether you expected that you might experience any change in your sexual fantasies?”

  Lennon’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t —”

  She was interrupted by a nervous cough from the bishop. “Uh … ” There was a long pause, then, “Jello.”

  “Jello?” Sands sounded surprised.

  “Gelatin!”

  “Gelatin?”

  “In the bathtub!”

  “In the bathtub?”

  “Yes. You fill the bathtub with Jello. Then you get in.”

  “I see,” said Sands. “And do you do this alone, bishop?”

  Lennon, who had forgotten to close her mouth, reddened. “You didn’t ask a bishop—!” She was again interrupted by another nervous cough.

  “Uh … ” Another long pause. “No; usually there are two, maybe three, secretaries. But sometimes—alone. Of course, it is more fun with secretaries. Not more than three, though.”

  Suddenly, the two recorded voices broke up in guffaws. Simultaneously, so did Sands and his desk partner. The live and taped sounds were identical.

  Lennon eyed the two. Her mouth closed into a wry smile. “Did you guys write a script?”

  “No,” Sands replied, “I just turned on the recorder on the spur of the moment, and interviewed Roger here off the cuff. Pretty good, wouldn’t you say? I mean, for extemporaneous?”

  “Not bad. When can we expect to catch the two of you on the ‘Comedy Shop’?” Lennon tried not to encourage this sort of thing. As she continued her quest for a simple glass of water, the boys were still snickering at their own prank.

  Bob Ankenazy joined her at the water cooler.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you: Anything new with that seminary story?” Ankenazy filled his Styrofoam cup with water and watched, mesmerized by the bubble of air rising through the tank and popping at the water’s surface.

  “Nothing much. The investigation is continuing, but very low-key. The police are trying to beef up security at St. Joseph’s. Of course, they’re still looking into the attacks at Sacred Heart. But the cops seem to think that if there are going to be any more attacks the scene has shifted to St. Joe’s.”

  “What do you think? Will there be any more attacks?”

  “I’m not so sure. My intuition combined with a bit of logic tells me that whoever is responsible for these assaults isn’t finished. There doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to them. I have a feeling there’s a larger plan here somewhere.

  “On the other hand, now that the police have seen to it that both seminaries have more security, maybe the assailant will be discouraged.”

  “The cops haven’t any leads, have they?”

  “No, not really. About the best bet is that crazy bunch of Tridentines.”

  “You think it’s some sort of conspiracy?” Ankenazy refilled his cup and once more found the air bubble engrossing.

  “No, not a conspiracy. But I think it’s very possible that one of them is the assailant. They’re such a spooky bunch. Their paranoia is almost contagious. Every time I leave one of their meetings, I feel like putting more locks on my apartment door. And some of them seem so at ease with the idea of violence. Every so often, the subject of the seminary attacks comes up at their meetings. They just seem comfortable with—even in favor of—the attacks on those priests.”

  “Have you picked out a likely suspect?” Though he was smiling, Ankenazy was not laughing at Lennon. Experience had taught him to trust her journalistic instincts.

  “If I had to pick one, it would be that creepy Conrad Nap. He seems addicted to violence as some people are hooked on smoking.”

  “Any proof?”

  “Nope. Just a hunch.”

  “Well, this story’s on a back burner now, right?”

  “Yes, why?” She knew why: There was another assignment in the wings.

  “Leon London has been … uh … urging me to give you another assignment.”

  “London! What’s he doing on my case?”

  “Nothing special. He was just aware that the seminary story was petering out and wanted you to get on something else.” Ankenazy could not bring himself to explain to Lennon that since she was easily the most attractive female in the building, everyone was either consciously or subconsciously on her case.

  “Before I suggest something,” Ankenazy continued, “do you have anything started?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Aware that assignments from above were usually dull, Lennon almo
st always had a story that interested her under way, or, at least researched.

  “It’s a pretty topical subject for the beginning of March: a bathhouse.”

  “A bathhouse!”

  “Yup. The last of thirteen bathhouses that once operated in Detroit. It’s called the Oakwood, and it’s near the old Dodge plant on the east side.”

  “I know where it is.” Ankenazy seemed surprised. “But it’s for men only; how did you come across it?”

  “It used to be male only. In the past year, they’ve begun a women’s night.”

  “So you’ve already been there?”

  “Yes. First they slather you all over with oil … ”

  Ankenazy allowed himself the luxury of picturing Lennon’s body slathered with oil.

  “…then you go into a steam room where they bake your brains. That is immediately followed by being immersed in ice-cold water. One of their patrons committed suicide that way.”

  “How?”

  “He kept taking these hot and cold treatments—they can’t recall whether it was four or five times—until his heart gave out.”

  “He bathed himself to death!”

  “Exactly. The place has a fantastic history. Detroit’s old Purple Gang used to hang out there.”

  “We can get shots?”

  “They agreed as long as we don’t photograph any of the customers.”

  “O.K., go ahead.”

  “What about London?”

  “I’ll handle London.”

  “Hey, Bob! Ankenazy!” Pete Sands hollered across the newsroom. “C’mere a minute. I’ve got something you ought to hear!”

  Lennon lingered at the water cooler so she could witness Ankenazy’s expression when he heard one of his reporters question a Syrian bishop about his sexual fantasies.

  The students and staff of St. Joseph’s Seminary couldn’t help noticing the changes. Immediately after the attack on Father Gennardo, the halls of St. Joe’s began to be regularly patrolled by uniformed Detroit police officers. They had shortly been replaced by men from a private security firm.

  Not only were all students, faculty, and staff required to wear an identifying tag on their outer clothing while on the premises, the front and rear main doors were guarded by uniformed security officers who monitored the parking areas as well as entrances to the building via closed circuit television.

  Mere weeks ago, the seminary’s policy had been, for all practical purposes, open-doored. Now, security measures, while not foolproof—many windows and some doors were impossible to secure—were nonetheless impressive.

  Also impressive were the three people standing and conversing in the seminary’s inner courtyard, the very place where Father Gennardo had been shot. The tallest, and by anyone’s measure the largest, of the three was Inspector Walter Koznicki, a stranger to virtually all students and staff. A few recognized him from his infrequent appearances on TV newscasts or from his photo in the papers. During formidable or bizarre homicide investigations, the local media eventually gravitated to the Inspector.

  The other two, Sergeants Patrick and Morris, were no longer strangers to the seminary population. Almost all of them had been interrogated by one or the other of the officers. And everyone, student and staff alike, was amazed that the two detectives knew each of them by name.

  “Yes, Inspector,” Patrick was replying to a Koznicki query, “we’ve run a check on both Conrad Nap and Roman Kirkus. Kirkus is clean as far as felony charges. A few traffic tickets. He appears to be quite an aggressive driver. Nap, on the other hand, has several disorderly conduct convictions, usually causing a disturbance during a religious or social rally or parade or the like. Once he pushed a priest down the steps of an east side church. He has a permit to own a gun. A .22 caliber automatic. We wanted to check it against the slugs we found in this courtyard, but Nap claims the gun was stolen recently and hasn’t been recovered.”

  Koznicki nodded. “Then they remain our likeliest candidates?”

  Patrick and Morris nodded.

  “Are you satisfied with security?”

  Morris shrugged. “I guess you’d have to say it’s the best the seminary seems able to afford.”

  “Which company?” Koznicki feared the worst.

  “Woods Security.”

  Fears confirmed, Koznicki shook his head.

  “Mostly rejects from police academies,” Patrick commented. “A few pros, but not enough.”

  “The equipment is not bad though,” said Morris. “The closed circuit TV surveillance is pretty sophisticated.”

  “If they stay awake to watch it,” said Koznicki cynically.

  “One thing we’ve got going for us is that Marge and I now know everyone here—students, faculty, and staff.” Patrick was understandably pleased that they had accomplished so much in so short a time.

  “Yes.” Morris turned to look at some students crossing the courtyard. Classes were changing. “There, for example, is Eileen Schaaf, probably enroute to ascetical theology class.”

  “So,” Koznicki smiled as if he were the parent of two gifted children, “you know everyone!”

  “Who the hell is that?” Patrick nudged Morris and pointed at a man who had just entered the courtyard and stood seemingly appraising the surroundings.

  “And who’s that with him?” Morris referred to the stranger’s companion.

  “You do not know who they are?” said Koznicki. “And they are not wearing identification! How did they get in here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Patrick through clenched teeth, “but I’m going to find out in a hurry.”

  Patrick and Morris strode purposefully toward the two strangers. They were a study in contrasts. The taller, who appeared to be several inches short of six feet, wore a vicuna coat over a bright green silk suit. His dark brown patent leather shoes reflected up toward his green Homburg. He appeared not to have lost his baby fat.

  The other, a slip of a man at about five-feet-five, slouched at his companion’s side. His brown corduroy suit looked as if it had been slept in, not once but many times.

  The taller man seemed absorbed in viewing the courtyard. The shorter man seemed ready to drift off into a needed nap.

  “Who the hell are you?” Patrick challenged.

  The smaller man looked up indifferently. “Who the hell wants to know?”

  “I’m who the hell!” Patrick spat it out while removing a wallet from his jacket pocket. He displayed his identification. “Detective Sergeant Dean Patrick, Detroit Police, Homicide Division.” It was enunciated meaningfully.

  “Oh,” said the smaller man, “that’s who the hell.”

  “This,” said the taller man, pointing to his companion, “is Herman Deutsch, the director and writer. And I,” he almost bowed, “am Bruce Lauther, the executive producer.”

  “Director and producer of what?” Patrick was losing what small shred of patience he had worked up.

  “Why the movie, of course. The made-for-TV movie.”

  “What made-for-TV movie?” It was Morris’ turn to lose patience.

  “‘Assault with Intent,’” Lauther explained, “a docudrama of these dastardly assaults against Detroit’s innocent clergy!”

  “I still don’t like it, Bruce,” Deutsch commented.

  “Not here. Not now,” Lauther quietly admonished.

  “It’s a lousy title,” Deutsch insisted. “It should say ‘Murder’ or ‘Mayhem’ or ‘Blood’ or something violent. ‘Assault with Intent’ doesn’t make it. It doesn’t scare … it just doesn’t scare.”

  “Herm,” Lauther turned to his director, “everyone understands that ‘Assault with Intent’ is the beginning of a statement. Everyone is familiar with the phrase ‘assault with intent to commit murder.’”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Patrick’s growl was almost a shout. “How did you turkeys get in here? Where are your I.D. tags?”

  “Yes, how did you get past the guard
?” Morris demanded.

  “Guard!” Deutsch snorted.

  “By the very simple procedure of explaining to the guard just who we are and what we are about,” said Lauther.

  Morris glanced at Patrick, then raised her eyes to the heavens. “I’ll take care of the guard.” She headed for the main front door.

  Koznicki, who, of course, had heard the entire exchange, approached and introduced himself.

  “You must understand, gentlemen, that in the light of the shooting that occurred here, we are very concerned about security. Could you explain how you come to be here and what you intend to do?”

  “Certainly.” Lauther extracted business cards from his wallet and gave one each to Koznicki and Patrick. “Until recently, I was vice president in charge of production at a major TV network in Los Angeles. Naturally, the whole country is aware of your distressing situation here in Detroit with the attacks on priests in your seminaries. To be brief, I sold the idea of a docudrama on this tragedy to a rival network. While the iron is still hot, as it were.”

  “While the iron is still hot, indeed. You realize, of course, that this case is still under investigation,” Koznicki emphasized. “We do not know, at this time, who is responsible for these assaults, nor, in fact, do we know whether there may be more. How do you expect to make—what did you term it?—a ‘docudrama’ when the real-life scenario has not been played out?”

  “Ah, yes.” Lauther patted his stomach. Koznicki wondered idly whether the producer could pat his stomach and rub his head simultaneously. “Well,” Lauther continued, “we have obtained the services of an outstanding forensic psychiatrist to assist us in the workup and understanding of the characteristics of the assailant as well as his motivation.”

  “A local shrink.” Deutsch’s disgust was undisguised.

  Koznicki and Patrick exchanged glances.

  “Not Dr. Fritz Heinsohn!” exclaimed Patrick.

  “The same,” Lauther confirmed. “We feel most confident in his ability.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Patrick muttered.

  “I see,” said Koznicki. “Well, whatever else you may be planning, I hope you do not intend to use these premises as a setting for your … docudrama.”