The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

  “So the process,” said Koznicki, as he took over the explanation once again, “is just about in place. The customer—again, the lieutenant’s brother—phones the AACB, located in Redford, requesting that a trap for all future calls be placed on the line.

  “Father Tully gives the Police Report Number to the AACB and follows the instructions he is given to log calls for the investigation.

  “Finally, the AACB provides specific call information to police for the investigation. The police will contact Father Tully as soon as the next threatening call is made.”

  Koznicki was inwardly pleased that he could still rattle off the details of an investigation “by the numbers.”

  “Do you think,” Anne Marie directed her question at her husband, “this will do it? Are you positive? It’s Zack’s life we’re talking about.”

  “Right now,” Tully responded, “it’s our best shot. I’d bet my last buck that the guy will call again. He’s called so many times in the past. And the important thing is, he’s been getting away with it.

  “He may or may not send another pasted-up letter. If he does, we’ll be ready to use every means we’ve got to identify him: fingerprints, the type paper used for the letter and envelope, and so on. That’ll take more time. But we’ll do it.” He looked at his wife reassuringly. “Don’t worry, hon; we’ll get this guy one way or the other. But my money’s on the telephone trap.”

  “How about my father?” Rick asked.

  “Your father,” Tully said, “is another thing entirely. He hasn’t received any threatening mail or phone calls—or so he says. The only contact we know about is that one call he got earlier this afternoon. The one that delayed the procession. But he says he couldn’t identify the caller.

  “What I’m hoping is that the guy who’s been harassing my brother is the same one who’s responsible for today’s bomb. If that’s so, and we catch the guy who’s been calling and writing my brother, we’ll also get the guy who’s after your dad.

  “Meanwhile, we’re going to do everything we can to protect both men. As I said, neither of them is going to stand for being locked up and treated like a household plant. But we’ll do our best.”

  Wanda rose from her chair and took the towel from Anne Marie’s now dry hands. The two women headed back to the kitchen. Wanda had paid little attention to what was said after Anne Marie asked about the effectiveness of the phone trap. From long experience as the wife of Walt Koznicki, she already knew the answer.

  Wanda and Anne Marie were no strangers to each other. Before Zoo Tully married his first wife, he had been like a son to the Koznickis. That affiliation repeated itself after his first wife divorced him, as well as later, after his significant other left him.

  Then he married Anne Marie, and he seemed to finally be doing what the Koznickis hoped he would do: learning from experience. One of the major changes of lifestyle Wanda had noticed was that Zoo apparently no longer shared the details of his work with his wife.

  It was just the reverse of Wanda’s relationship with Walt. They shared quite totally with each other. It was more than a merely matter-of-fact nonholding back; rather it was that each wanted the other to know what was going on.

  They shared the dangers as well as the triumphs. Thus, were Walt to mention a phone trap, Wanda would immediately know what was involved and the chances of success. Whereas Anne Marie had been pretty much in the dark until a few minutes ago when the impromptu team of Walt and Zoo had explained it all.

  Now the general feeling was that this dinner gathering was over. The guests shifted in their chairs, and references were made to what a busy day tomorrow would be.

  In the midst of the valedictories, Anne Marie’s voice took on an urgency that was, at that moment, unique. “Zoo, honey, can you take a look at the disposal?”

  Tully chuckled. “That’s about the best I could do: look at it.”

  “I thought you were good at this sort of thing. We’ve known each other long enough so I was sure you were good with your hands.”

  For one fleeting moment, an off-color remark rose to Tully’s lips. He caught himself. “You weren’t paying that much attention, sweets. My MO for fixing things is to discover that the machine or appliance is out of gas. Or that the plug is out of the socket. But a disposal? Out of my league.”

  “That must be why you’re such good cops,” Wanda said. “Your job requires no mechanical aptitude whatsoever.”

  “Stop picking on me,” Walt joked.

  “Isn’t there anybody here who can help our hosts?” Anne Marie pleaded. All eyes turned to Father Koesler.

  “Don’t look at me,” Koesler protested. “We learned in the seminary that that’s why parishes have janitors.”

  “I think I might be able to fix it,” Rick Wheatley said in an unassuming voice.

  Koesler was reminded of the biblical account of the feast at Cana. Before Jesus had worked any of His miracles, He, His disciples, and His mother were invited to a wedding. The hosts had served their wine generously. So much so that the supply was running low. Noticing this, Jesus’ mother simply stated the fact: “They have no wine.”

  Jesus explained that His time had not yet arrived; it was too early for Him to intervene in such a situation.

  His mother was not one to take no for an answer. She told the waiters to do whatever her son commanded.

  There followed the first of Jesus’ miracles—and one of His most famous. He told the waiters to fill six large stone jars with water, then to take them to the chief steward and await the steward’s judgment.

  The steward’s comment after tasting the water-turned-to-wine: “Most people serve their good wine first. After the guests have had an abundance of that special wine then anything would suffice. But you have saved the best wine until last.”

  Or, as the late Fulton Sheen put it figuratively, “The water saw its creator, and blushed.”

  From the unlikeliest guest came the solution to a nagging problem. Rick probably was not going to make the disposal whole by means of a miracle. But it was in this company at least a minor miracle that someone with know-how could step forward to help.

  “I am afraid this is my fault,” Walt said. “That disposal has been acting up since we returned from our trip. I should have called the plumber.”

  “Just give me a couple of minutes,” Rick said. Then, feeling he might be perceived as cocksure, “I didn’t mean to give the impression that I can fix anything. There are a few things that stymie me. Or I may not have the right tools. But I’ll know once I take a look at it.”

  Those at the kitchen door stepped aside, creating a path for Rick. Koesler, thinking he might learn something of future use, took a step to follow him into the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, Father,” the boy said, “I work better if nobody’s looking over my shoulder.”

  The priest backed off. Good-naturedly he patted the young man on the back. “It’s all yours, Rick.”

  Those in the living room had time to engage in the briefest of small talk before Rick stuck his head through the kitchen door. “I need a hammer and a screwdriver, please.”

  “I’ll get them,” Wanda said. “Poor Walt here doesn’t even know where they are.”

  Everyone laughed but Walt Koznicki, who reddened and smiled ruefully.

  Now armed with the basic tools, Rick disappeared again into the kitchen, followed by no one. In just a few moments, the sound of the faucet going full blast was heard, followed by the clear hum of the happily purring motor. Everyone was duly impressed.

  “Mrs. Koznicki, have you been missing a bone?” Rick appeared, holding up a fair-sized, circular bone that had once been part of a generous cut of rib-eye steak.

  Wanda looked embarrassed. “It must’ve fallen down the disposal—”

  “And lodged in there,” Rick said. “I just fished around till I felt it. The disposal should work okay now.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Wanda said. “On top of everything, you’ve saved u
s from a repair bill much bigger than that bone.”

  Rick grinned. “You fed me tonight … and very well, too.”

  “It must be nice,” Wanda said, looking pointedly at her husband, “to have somebody around the house who can take care of such emergencies.” She smiled at Rick. “I assume you inherited your talent from your dad. It must’ve been handy for your mother to have him around … before the three of you children arrived, I mean. Or is it your mother who has the mechanical ability?”

  Rick grinned again. “Neither. We kid Mom and Dad about it from time to time. We tell Mom that we can understand how she could’ve brought the wrong baby home. But … three?”

  “You mean …”

  “My parents are like all of you. Oh …” Now his was the face that reddened. “I’m sorry: I didn’t mean to sound so smart-assy. Please excuse me.”

  His hosts and the other guests all laughed heartily.

  When the laughter died down, Rick said, “If you think I’m good with my hands, you should see my brother and sister. They can build or fix anything. I’m learning from them all the time.”

  “So,” Wanda said, “your folks are lucky … or at least they’ll stay lucky till you move out. Then they’ll be back on their own. Have they learned anything from their talented children?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re like …” He was about to add insult to injury, but he caught himself. “They’re like so many people who give up too easily But, yes, when I move out they’re going to be right back where they were before we three came along.”

  With that, the guests donned their outerwear and headed toward the front door. “Come on, Rick,” said Anne Marie, “we’ll take you home now.”

  “We’d better,” Zoo said to Rick. “Walt and I are the only ones who could get you through the surveillance team.”

  FIFTEEN

  “Don't change the channel. I wanna see this.”

  The bartender shrugged and took his hand from the remote control.

  It was late Sunday evening. Besides the man on the bar stool, there were only two other customers. The couple, at a table in the far recesses of the room, seemed to be having an odd conversation: The man was steamed; the woman appeared disinterested.

  The bartender studied the couple almost clinically. Chances were that tomorrow a newspaper headline would announce yet another homicide in a city that once had the distinction of being known as the Murder Capital of the United States.

  If such were to be the case, if the newspaper headline was valid, cops would shortly be in here rounding up facts and witnesses. Just as well for him if he cooperated and gave the officers better than average information based on careful observation.

  From long experience—how many similar scenes had he witnessed over the years?—he figured she was the guy’s ex-wife or his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. He was trying to reconcile. She was having none of it.

  The bartender mentally constructed a likely outcome. She walks out on him. He follows her out. She starts walking nonchalantly down Washington Boulevard. He shouts after her. She continues to walk, without looking back. He pulls out a gun and fires several times. He is no marksman. He’s lucky—or unlucky—that one of the bullets hits her in the head, fatally.

  The bartender calls 911. The EMS gang gets here in a jiffy. They cart her off. Receiving Hospital pronounces her DOA.

  The bartender ends up being the prime witness. He accepts the role; it’s part of the price of admission.

  The bar, Jim’s Place, is depressing. The odors of alcohol, cigars, and cigarettes permeate the room. The cleaning lady will be here in a few hours. She’ll sweep, dust, mop a little. The odors and much of the grime will remain.

  What this place needs, thinks Jim Davis, owner and mostly sole barman, is a crowd.

  That’s what used to happen here on a regular basis back in the seventies and before. When downtown Detroit was alive and kicking.

  At five, six o’clock, people from the office buildings had joined people from the majestic Hudson’s flagship store and those who staffed Washington Boulevard’s Airline Row for Happy Hour before heading home in a relaxed alcoholic glow.

  Downtown was where all the first-run movies were shown. Downtown had good—even great—restaurants. Downtown was where friends met friends under the Kern’s clock, the oversized timepiece hanging from the third major store after Hudson’s and Crowley’s.

  Whether those halcyon days would ever return and rejuvenate the city on the Detroit River was anyone’s guess. Jim Davis was just marking time until he could retire with Social Security and Medicare. But his memories were vivid. Jim’s Place had been an intimate bar on swanky Washington Boulevard, Detroit’s antecedent version of Los Angeles’s Rodeo Drive.

  Now Washington Boulevard resembled a scene from the apocalyptic movie On The Beach: drab and deserted. Where classy shops had once displayed highly desirable attire for both men and women, now there were only boarded-up windows and third-rate merchandise. And whoever had erected those revolting monkey bars should have been forced to climb them endlessly.

  On those occasions when the slogan City of Champions was valid because the Lions, the Tigers, the Pistons, and/or the Red Wings took a divisional title or a championship, there was a run on downtown.

  But such occasions were sadly rare.

  Davis would point out that Sunday nights were not typical because, of course, you couldn’t measure downtown business by Sundays. Workdays and Saturdays were definitely better than Sundays. Not that much better. But better.

  The man at the bar was unknown to Davis. That meant that this was probably his first visit. Davis recognized each and every one of his clientele. A memory for names and faces was a profitable talent in any business, and perhaps more so for bartenders.

  The TV news update that the stranger wanted to see ended. It was commercial time.

  “This your place?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “That your name: Jim?”

  “Uh-huh. Yours, stranger?”

  “Uh … Rybicki. Stan Rybicki. How come you said ‘stranger’?”

  “You ever been in here before?”

  “Uh … no. But there must’ve been … I don’t know—what? This place must be about forty years old.”

  “Yeah, about forty years.”

  “Forty years! There must have been hundreds … thousands of customers in here. You expect me to believe you remember everybody?”

  “I got you right, didn’t I, Stan?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess you did.”

  Silence. Davis polished a glass that didn’t need polishing. It was something for his hands to do. Smokers, particularly those who’ve broken the habit, need something to do with hands that no longer finger a cigarette. It didn’t much matter to Davis that he no longer smoked. If what they said about the dangers of secondhand smoke inhalation was true, his customers would give him cancer almost as surely as he could do it himself.

  There would be many periods of silence that both Davis and Rybicki would find comfortable. This was one such silence.

  “Maybe I missed it,” Rybicki said. “Did that TV guy say there would be more updates later on?”

  “If he did, I didn’t hear him. You interested in something special?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The early news comes on at ten.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence.

  “You don’t get downtown often?”

  Rybicki snorted. “Why?”

  “Oh, nuthin’ special. Just that you knew I was here for forty years. But I don’t remember ever seein’ you before. Is all.”

  “I used to work down here.”

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “The chancery building.”

  “The chancery building?” Davis grew animated. “That’s practically across the street. Headquarters for the Catholics in Detroit. Well, more’n the city—the whole archdiocese. Takes up about six counties.”

  “That’s it.”


  “Were you a priest?”

  Rybicki almost choked. “You think everybody who works there is a priest?”

  “You kind of look the type.”

  “What does the type look like?”

  “I don’t know exactly. The combination: white hair; portly; red face; easy way with liquor.”

  “I think it was just ’cause I mentioned the chancery. Good ol’ 1234 Washington Boulevard. One of downtown’s most famous addresses. It’s true: Most of the jobs there belonged to priests, or monsignors, or bishops. But there’s always a few jobs held down by ordinary guys like me.”

  Silence.

  “How long you work there?”

  “About twenty years.”

  “I must be losing my touch. You worked across the street for half the time this bar’s been here and I don’t know you!”

  “Not to wonder. I just didn’t come in here. Or any other bar.”

  “You work and go home?”

  “You got it.”

  Silence.

  “You work this place by yourself?” Rybicki asked.

  “I got a guy for lunch and dinner Monday through Saturday. Sundays you could fire a cannon in here”—he spread his hands and inclined his head toward the almost empty room—”and not hit anybody.”

  “Dinner. You got dinner?”

  “Burgers and trimmings. That’s it.”

  “Could you whip me up one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Medium and everything on it.”

  “You got it.”

  Davis disappeared into a room behind the bar. Soon the evocative aroma of frying meat and sizzling onions wafted out. Davis did not reemerge. Evidently he preferred tending the burger through to the bitter end.

  Rybicki glanced at the couple at the far end of the room. His impression was that the woman was about ready to leave. She was sipping the last of her wine.

  The man was crying. Noiselessly, but crying nonetheless.

  Rybicki frowned. Men shouldn’t cry … at least not in public. It was creepy. He had the urge to march over to their table and give the guy a shot upside the head. That’d give him something to cry about.