“Manj,” Tully said, “get this place on the phone, now, I don’t care what the local time is. We want, we need some information about Father Gregory Ward. Press all the buttons!”
“Got it!” Mangiapane enlisted the aid of everyone, particularly officers with some foreign-country phone experience. In a relatively short time, he had one of Father Ward’s colleagues on the line.
Inspector Koznicki was connected with a befuddled priest. After a brief introduction and explanation, Koznicki had the priest describe Father Ward. With growing signs of concern, Koznicki wrote, “medium to short build … full head of dark hair with usual heavy shadow … always claimed that he took after his Italian mother … explained his swarthy features and coloring … good eyesight, never wore glasses.” And last but by no means least, the colleague remembered that Father Ward’s flight was scheduled to either stop over or change over in Ireland and in Boston.
Next stop, the officers who had contacted Herdecke were rattling the connection with Dublin. There, they tracked down Superintendent Sean O’Reardon, who was most willing to provide information.
Koznicki explained the situation as it now had developed in Detroit. There was the possibility of a switch of identities either in Ireland or in Boston. Koznicki was putting his next to last buck on Ireland.
It rang a bell.
It could not be otherwise. On the day in question the body of an unknown male without any identification was found in Dublin Airport.
O’Reardon recalled that he had not believed the dead man to have been a tramp.
And, oh, yes: The cause of death was a broken neck.
Yes, O’Reardon would contact Herdecke and through them locate Father Greg Ward’s family and arrange for a positive identification.
There it was.
Now only the package needed to be tied.
Not only was the bogus priest their murderer, he had killed before. He was dangerous and, even though to date as far as they knew he had killed only by hand, he might very well be armed. Chances of getting a firearm of some sort through Irish airport security were remote. Getting one in the states? In Detroit? He would have no problem.
Mangiapane drove; Koznicki, Tully, and Koesler were quietly thoughtful passengers. Plenty of backup followed. Koesler was ordered to remain in the car once they reached the seminary. This would be a dangerous situation, they explained.
Many of the uniformed officers called in for this duty were those whose previous assignment had been security for the seminary. They were familiar with the building and, on arrival, they closed off all entrances and exits.
Mangiapane checked with the security guard at the main entrance. He reported that, while there had been some traffic in and out this morning, no Father Ward had checked out.
Anything was possible. The bogus priest might have attempted flight dressed in civilian clothing. He might be in some remote area of the seminary. He might be … anywhere. Then, again, he might be in his assigned room. After all, he had no reason to suspect that anyone had broken his cover.
First, the police would try the obvious.
Koznicki, Tully and Mangiapane, along with several other officers, took the stairs toward “Ward’s” room.
Silently they positioned themselves along the walls of the corridor on either side of the door. A door that seemed to have taken on a silent menace.
Through a series of signs the officers made sure each knew what his or her responsibility was.
Convinced they were ready, Koznicki, standing to one side of the door, pounded on it. The force of his hammering shook the old but sturdy door in its frame.
“Police!” Koznicki said in a loud, commanding voice. “Open the door!”
No sound came from the room. Was it empty? Impossible to tell. They were certain only that there was no way out of that room other than through this door. Outside the windows was a drop of more than thirty feet to a cement and tile pavement. And there were officers waiting down there, just out of sight of the windows.
Koznicki looked at his assembled officers. They returned his gaze. He nodded, indicating he would try again.
“Police!” Koznicki shouted more loudly as he hammered the door. There could be no possibility that anyone in that room would not hear and understand. “Open the door and you will not be harmed!”
The police, weapons at the ready, waited.
This time they did not have to wait long.
An earsplitting blast came from within the room. Bullets splintered the door. The first volley was followed by two more. They had to be coming from a large-caliber semiautomatic weapon.
After the third burst, there was a moment of silence. Mangiapane spun from the right and Tully from the left. Mangiapane kicked the now all-but-destroyed door and it collapsed. Both officers now were in the center of the door space, crouching low and firing salvo after salvo.
Finally there were only echoes.
Either the impact of their bullets had carried the man out of one of the windows or he had jumped, taking shards of glass to the ground with him.
The sound of gunfire continued to reverberate through the ancient corridors.
The scene, in and out of that room, became the growing center of attention of nearly everyone within earshot of the gun battle. It seemed as if every window in that area of the second floor was filled with officers staring at the body crumpled on the ground.
People—workers, guards, guests—stepped tentatively from various parts of the building. All were shocked. Slowly the growing circle advanced toward the body with an attitude of near reverence.
It seemed much longer than it actually took for officers to take charge and secure the scene for the tech experts who were even now being contacted.
Father Koesler, obediently self-confined to the car, had waited with anxiety, not knowing what to expect. All he knew was that something he said had started all this. He felt some responsibility for what might happen.
When the shooting began, he was so startled he hit his head on the roof of the car. It seemed the noise would never end.
Then came the body through the window as if it were being pulled on a wire. Although logic told Koesler otherwise, events seemed to be taking place in slow motion; he knew he would never lose the image in his mind. It would be indelibly etched there.
Koesler would have left the car but for two considerations: He had promised to remain inside, and he did not want to enhance the memory of what he had just witnessed.
In time, Inspector Koznicki emerged from the building. Slowly, thoughtfully, he came to the car in which Koesler sat. He got behind the wheel but didn’t switch on the ignition. Both men sat in silence.
Finally, Koznicki looked at Koesler and smiled—not an untroubled smile. But it unlocked the door. “Where are Lieutenant Tully and Sergeant Mangiapane?” Koesler asked.
“They will go in another car. There are reports to be made.”
“Oh, thank God! I was afraid one of them had been hit.”
Koznicki glanced sharply at Koesler, as though the thought of the danger they had shared had not occurred to him until this moment. “No. Thank God. They were the ones who answered fire. That is why they must submit reports. Routine. No, thank God! No one was hurt except the man who so far has no name.”
Koznicki started the car, but had to wait in position as other police vehicles entered the seminary grounds. Koesler was grateful the car heater had been turned back on.
At last Koznicki was able to move out. He suggested dropping Koesler at St. Joseph’s. That was acceptable.
Koznicki, as usual, was lavish in his praise of Koesler’s help in breaking this case. Koesler realistically minimized his role. All he had done was to recognize that a Church music program did not much reflect its presumed programmer. Lots of people could have done that. In fact, the very same point had been made by Dave Wallace who was complaining about it. Very probably Wallace would have concluded mat it was, at best, strange that what was chosen was not o
nly such poor music, but also that there was a total absence of any classic composition in the program.
And, Koesler added, he certainly would never have gone into detail concerning these matters if that elevator ride had not been so long and everyone else had not been so quiet.
But Koznicki insisted on heaping credit on Koesler’s reluctant shoulders.
Then Koznicki went on to fill in some gaps. About how Tully had noticed the physical similarities between the two priests who were victims of the serial killer. And the striking resemblance that mirrored the physical characteristics of the man calling himself Father Gregory Ward.
During this explanation, Koesler was particularly attentive.
“Unfortunately,” Koznicki said as they neared St. Joseph’s, “we have no identification for the alleged murderer. However, the Irish police now have a tentative identification of a man found in the Dublin airport last Sunday. Their John Doe was found with his neck broken and totally bereft of any identification. Once we exchange faxes with Ireland, we can move on to an ID for our man. For our man must surely have come from Ireland.
“But, the motive! The motive! If he wanted to kill the Holy Father—and we assume he did—why would he kill two priests who were panelists in the symposium? To create a diversion? Why two who bore physical resemblance to each other? And to him? Or is that merely a coincidence? Did he have any other intended victims? And if so, would they have shed light on this resemblance?”
As Koesler was about to leave the car, an announcement came over the police radio.
“Did you hear that!” Koznicki exclaimed. “Now that changes everything.”
Absently, Koesler exited the car, thanking Koznicki for the ride.
For a few moments, Koznicki wondered at Koesler’s casual reaction to a major news bulletin. Perhaps it was a reaction to all that had gone on during this uniquely busy morning. So Koznicki continued on toward headquarters.
Koesler had heard the news all right. But he was too preoccupied with other thoughts for it to register.
Continuing in his distracted state, he began walking toward the church rather than the rectory. He lowered himself into a pew at the rear of the church. He knelt and thought and prayed. He sat and thought and prayed. He walked the aisles and thought and prayed.
Finally, he seemed to come to a private and unsatisfying conclusion.
As he walked to the rectory, his expression was clouded but resolute. Several phone calls later, he had located a priest who would fill in for him at the noon weekday Mass.
And then he began a purposeful walk. He did not seem a bit happy.
34
Father Koesler paid little attention to the slow-paced chaos of the anthill that was Cobo Hall. Long before his arrival the wrap-up and the take-down had begun. Things were being dismantled and stored. Maintenance men were everywhere doing busy things. Behind the scenes, lawyers for the city and lawyers for the Church were arguing over rental deposits.
Through all this he walked resolutely toward the room that was to have housed the liturgy panel. They hadn’t yet taken the sign down.
Inside, workers were folding, packing, and storing everything but the walls. A few of the folding chairs were still standing. On one of these sat a lone figure in a black overcoat and hat. He seemed to be contemplating something that transcended all the activity about him.
Koesler walked over and sat down sat beside him.
After several moments, Father Smith turned to look at Koesler. Smith’s eyes were red-rimmed. He had quite obviously been crying.
“Have you heard the news from the seminary?” Koesler asked.
Smith nodded.
“And have you heard the news from the Vatican?”
Again Smith nodded.
“This is no place for us,” Koesler said. “C’mon.”
As if he had nothing to say about the suggestion, Smith rose slowly and, it seemed, painfully, and followed Koesler. They made their way to the main door. Koesler hailed a cab, and they entered for the brief ride to St. Joseph’s.
As they entered the rectory, they passed the Jesuit who had agreed to take Koesler’s place at the noon Mass. His look said: There are two of you! So why did you need me? Koesler knew the question would never be addressed, let alone answered.
They went up the stairs to Koesler’s room. He shut the door behind them and took Smith’s hat and coat and put them with his own.
They sat opposite each other. Nothing was said for several moments. Smith’s eyes teared again. He made no move to wipe the tears away.
“So,” Koesler opened, “you know the Holy Father has canceled his trip at the very last minute.”
Smith shrugged. Suggesting that he knew but didn’t much care.
“And you also know about the death of … your son.”
Smith bowed his head and said nothing.
“You tried to tell me in so many ways—” Koesler stopped. “This is going to be pretty heavy and I’m not entirely sure where it will end. Would you like a drink?”
Smith shook his head.
Koesler was about to pour himself some port, then thought better of it. He gazed at Smith. Finally he spoke.
“It started,” Koesler said, “at the Koznickis’ party. You made a pointed reference to a wake you’d attended where one irrepressible mourner remarked that the deceased was a dead ringer for her father. If I’d been a lot more insightful, I might have looked at the men who were panelists at the symposium, as Lieutenant Tully did much later. At least three of the panelists were physically similar. The youngest of the three was pretty nearly a dead ringer for you. I assume Lieutenant Tully did not include you in the group of look-alikes because your picture was not in his handbook.
“I should’ve been more attentive to your double meaning of dead ringer when you made it clear early on that you were responsible for the selection of the panelists. Monsignor Martin may have set the philosophical groundwork for the symposium but you selected the people. And among those you selected were at least two who completed the resemblance circle.
“Then you made a point of telling the story of the Detroit Gulf War veteran who was murdered here after surviving the war … the special angle being that his wife arranged for someone else to commit the crime.
“There was no particular reason to tell the story in my presence. I was familiar with all the details. You wanted me to know that just as she was responsible for what went on while doing nothing herself, so you were responsible for what went on with the panel while doing nothing yourself.”
“Well,” Smith said, “of course I didn’t know—had no way of knowing—that Dermot was going to murder anyone. I only wanted you to be able to know that even though Martin issued the invitation, it was I who was responsible for the makeup of the panel.”
Koesler nodded. “And finally, unless I missed some other clues you were dropping, there was the matter of the Magdalens. I had never heard of them. But you told me of this custom in the recent history of Ireland that took … what was the word you used?… inconvenient females and shipped them off to select convents where if they were pregnant out of wedlock they stayed for the delivery and compulsory adoption of their babies. And, since for whatever reason they were confined there they were a serious social disgrace to their families, they regularly were kept in the convents at menial work.
“That’s what happened to your child’s mother, isn’t it? Is she still there?”
A long pause.
“She died in the convent long ago.” This simple statement was the first indication that the conclusions Koesler had reached were correct.
“One more sign you did not contribute,” Koesler said, “came when Inspector Koznicki mentioned that on the day ‘Gregory Ward’ arrived here, a man with no identification was found with his neck broken in the Dublin airport. The present hypothesis is that the person we know as Father Ward murdered the real Father Ward and assumed his identity. They’re checking into that now.”
Smith slowly raised his head until he was looking straight into Koesler’s eyes. “He killed in Ireland!” Smith agonized. “Oh, God! Oh, God!”
Koesler allowed time for this unexpected and unwanted new information to sink in.
Then he said, “When Inspector Koznicki mentioned Ireland, another peg fell into the proper hole.
“From his picture and from what I was able to see of him, your son appeared to be in his mid-forties. Which would place his birth at about the time you were ordained. But you were not ordained here in Detroit, your diocese. You were one of the brilliant students sent abroad to study. You studied the last few years in the seminary and were ordained overseas. My guess? In Ireland. That’s when all this started, isn’t it?”
Smith’s rigid visage relaxed markedly as his memory focused on “the beginning of it all.”
“As you said”—Smith’s voice was unsteady—“some of us were sent away to study. Some before ordination, some after, some both before and after.
“We were young. We were younger than our years. You know that as well as I. In our early twenties and still asking permission for everything from making a phone call to staying up ‘after hours,’ to having a cigarette. Maybe, in foreign countries, we were a bit more autonomous than you. We, the special study people, were in Louvain or Rome or Ireland or lots of other places for study in greater depth. I was at UCD in Dublin.
“I was twenty-four when I met Moira. She was five years older. We were virgins, of course. Neither of us knew much about the opposite sex. We took long hikes through the countryside. We invented a series of excuses for our respective superiors—my rector, her parents. We fell in love with each other’s mind. We fell in love with each other’s otherness. Moira introduced me to what it was like being a woman. And I returned the favor. Slowly, but, I guess, inevitably, our love became physical. We were delighted to experiment with each other, learning how to give and accept pleasure.
“That was marvelous. That was magnificent. That was excitement, playfulness, joy. That was pleasure other people our age were enjoying in marriage. They were in bedrooms, in beds. We were in hay in cowsheds. But that was a small price we were more than happy to pay.
Call No Man Father Page 28
