Man Who Loved God

by William Kienzle

  “Same here,” the priest responded.

  Eleven

  Lieutenant Tully and his brother were in the car, heading back toward downtown Detroit. They drove in silence. Mostly because Father Tully was reluctant to speak.

  “So,” Zoo said finally, “how do you feel about your first homicide?”

  “It’s hardly my first. I’ve been at the scene of more of them than I want to remember. It’s my first experience in the investigative side of a killing. And that is fascinating.”

  Zoo smiled. “It gets to be routine. The thrill is in the chase. This one won’t be very thrilling. Just dogged investigative work: keep asking questions until you find someone with the right answer. It’ll happen; it just takes time.”

  Silence for a few more minutes.

  “Did I tell you much about that party I attended night before last?” the priest asked.

  “The one at Adams’s place? No, not much, as I recall.”

  The priest turned slightly so he could measure his brother’s reaction to his words. “I managed to meet everyone at the party. Outside of Tom Adams, I can’t say anybody else there wanted to meet me.”

  Tully snorted. “That kind of party, eh?”

  “I guess.”

  “What was the lineup?”

  “There was Adams. Then there were the three executive vice presidents and their wives. And the two candidates for the new branch. As the party developed, there was a double of odd man out—Joel Groggins and me. The rest of ’em had no trouble relating to each other. Groggins and I were left hanging … so we hung out together—”

  “Wait a minute. What about Mrs. Ulrich? She wasn’t in that tight inner circle.”

  A good sign. He’s listening to me carefully. “No, she’s not,” said the priest. “But that didn’t seem to bother her any. She made a late entrance and sort of took over … maybe not as the life of the party, but as a significant guest.”

  “Okay. So you and Groggins—he’s the construction guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. So you and Groggins were sort of walled off.”

  “Yes.”

  “And his wife is the Nancy we just spoke to in the bank.”

  “Yes.”

  “So?.”

  “So, while nobody else seemed to want to make conversation with us, he and I talked all through the meal.”

  “I don’t want to rush you, but I’m going to be dropping you off at the rectory. Does this story have a point?”

  “The point is Groggins gave me a brief sketch of each of the main characters and their interactions. There was an air of tension in that room and Groggins’s accounts made the friction pretty clear.

  “Alonzo, it boils down to this: The vice presidents—and necessarily their wives—felt threatened by the real possibility of being fired.”

  “Fired! Why? What for?”

  “It all stemmed from the creation of this position of manager of the new branch. The two final contestants both volunteered for the job. The thinking was that Adams would want to reward whoever made a success of the job. The only feasible reward would be an executive vice presidency. And that meant that one of the present executive VPs would be elbowed out.

  “Hmmmm.”

  “You could feel something in that room. Fear—fear that could lead to violence.”

  “I think …” Zoo began cautiously. “I think I know where you’re going.”

  “Is it too much to presume? In the light of what happened this morning, I mean? Is it too farfetched to think that someone at that party was responsible for the death of Al Ulrich?”

  After several moments, Tully sighed deeply. “You know, Father Koesler’s help and advice concerned religious matters. He didn’t really get involved with police work.”

  “I was sure you were going to say that. For this moment, I’d like to escape from Bob Koesler’s shadow. I’ve asked myself the question over and over. And as far as Father Koesler is concerned, I’m sure that if he’d been in my shoes the other night—heard what I heard, seen what I saw—he’d be telling you exactly what I’ve just told you.”

  The lieutenant thought this over. “I’m sorry, brother. I was out of line. I guess it all stems from your taking Koesler’s place. Then all that talk about how you want to help me like he has.

  “Well, let me tell you, I may just go the rest of my life without needing the help or expertise of any religious person. Maybe yes, maybe no. And I gotta admit that I’ve been a little jumpy about you thinking you’ve got to help me. But I shouldn’t have overreacted.

  “Just keep one thing in mind, Zachary: police tend to follow the most obvious solution in a criminal investigation. Right now we’re working on the assumption that this attempted robbery/murder was committed by a guy who was stupid or drugged enough to think he could break into a bank vault with a sledgehammer. We assume he’s still in the neighborhood. Or, if he’s running, if we ask the right questions often enough, we’ll still pick him up.

  “But what you learned at last night’s party could be significant. If our first lead dries up, we might have to look at that party. In that case, you’re saving us a lot of time by giving me a rundown now. So, go ahead, brother: Tell me about Mr. Groggins and his insights and his gossip.”

  Now that he knew he had his brother’s undivided attention, Father Tully swiveled to face forward, forgot about the traffic, and concentrated on his story.

  “The way Groggins told it, each of these executive VPs is very nervous and equally determined that he will not be the sacrificial lamb. But if each thinks the new manager has a chance to unseat a current VP, that could be a motive to murder whoever was chosen … couldn’t it?”

  Lieutenant Tully made a hmmmm sound, which segued into what could have been taken for “Maybe.”

  “But,” he countered, “what good would it do to waste a bank manager if there are other candidates in the wings eager and willing to step in? Case in point: Nancy Groggins. She’s the runner-up to Ulrich, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there she is right now, taking over for Ulrich. Seems to me she might just as well have been the first choice.”

  “But,” said Father Tully, “our story has just begun. Who knows what comes next? Maybe Mr. Adams will have second thoughts about keeping this hazardous branch open. Maybe this buys time for whoever planned Ulrich’s murder. Maybe-—please God no—Nancy Groggins is the next planned target.

  “And,” the priest continued, “if one of the VPs is responsible for this, obviously he isn’t the person caught by the bank’s camera. That would have to have been someone paid to commit the murder.

  “And, if this is true, then no robbery was intended. The killer was paid to commit murder. And the ludicrous attempt to hammer the vault open was—what do they call it in mystery novels?—a red herring. Whoever set this all up wants the police to be looking for someone stupid enough or drugged enough to think he could open a heavy vault with a hammer. Whereas his goal was accomplished as soon as he shot and killed Allan Ulrich. The rest of it was just to throw you off the track.”

  Zoo was happy his brother hadn’t said “throw us off the track.” At least he wasn’t including himself in the investigation process. “Okay, if we pretend—’cause that’s all we’re doing with your scenario just now, pretending—if we pretend that one of the executive VPs stands to be dumped by rewarding Ulrich, which VP is most vulnerable? Does anybody know who Adams’s prime target would be?”

  Father Tully pondered. Initially, he had not dared hope that his brother might agree to consider this hypothesis to its natural conclusion. “Well,” he said finally, “Groggins did provide me with a brief sketch of each VP. None of them is a leadpipe cinch to be expendable. But the way I understand it, this is the lineup:

  “There’s Martin Whitston, in charge of commercial lending. He’s a no-nonsense manager. He knows what he wants and he gets it. He even looks the part: if you asked central casting for a powerful character brimming w
ith self-confidence, they could send you Martin Whitston without benefit of makeup.

  “Then there’s Jack Fradet, the comptroller. A bean counter. But essential to the organization. He’s got what’s frequently referred to as ‘the overall view.’ He can tell whether the bank as a whole is developing, declining, or holding steady. He looks bookish. Out of everyone at the party” —he turned and grinned—“outside of Groggins and me, that is—Jack Fradet seemed the most out of place. He shouldn’t be at a party; he should be at the office on a tall stool at a tall desk, his feet not touching the floor, posting numbers in a ledger.

  “I was told that Jack Fradet is highly trusted. In effect, he knows where all the skeletons are buried. Adams Bank and Trust has been almost his only employment. I think he has every intention of being buried in one of the bank’s vaults.

  “Finally, there’s Lou Durocher. He’s Tom Adams’s prime protégé. It seems as if Adams decided something along the lines of Henry Higgins. Just as Professor Higgins takes a woman of no social grace off the street and transforms her into a lady—a ‘princess’—just so, Tom Adams took Lou Durocher, a man with very little self-confidence, and tried to build a new backbone. So far, I guess, it—the experiment—hasn’t worked out all that well.

  “Basically, Mr. Durocher is in charge of mortgage and lending, and isn’t accomplishing what he needs to. He’s prone to make mistakes—mistakes that are awfully easy for even his subordinates to see.

  “Nor can he hide his defects behind any sort of false front. His gestures are sort of tentative. He’s a bit shifty-eyed.

  “Alone among the wives, Mrs. Durocher—Pat—is the only one who is the antithesis of her husband. Lois Whitston is a go-getter. Marilyn—Mrs. Fradet—kind of disappears, like a shadow of her husband. Whereas Pat Durocher is sort of aggressive. Very outgoing, and seems to have a lot of self-confidence.

  “And” —Father Tully turned back to his brother—” that’s about it.”

  Zoo smiled. “You were very busy at that party. I don’t think a trained spectator—even a cop—could’ve done better.”

  The priest shrugged. “It wasn’t that difficult. Practically nobody paid any attention to me. Outside of Joel Groggins, no one at the table said one word to me. So Groggins kept busy—since no one was talking to him either—by giving me thumbnail sketches of the guests. While he was doing that, I was free to sort of study them and the way they related to one another.

  “Once Groggins started talking about the reward that was practically set apart for the new bank manager, it was just natural to try to guess who would be axed to make room for the new kid on the block.

  “Now, with Al Ulrich dead, I can’t help but wonder which one of these VPs would be the logical suspect. It would have to be the one who was most certain that he was going to get the ax … no?”

  “What’s your guess?”

  “That’s the rub … Adams’s corporation seems to be doing quite well—for its size, that is. Moving someone out of a top management position simply to reward a faithful employee doesn’t sound like good business to me. Why would you bust up a winning combination?

  “Of the three, two VPs are doing exceptionally well. But it’s conceivable that Al Ulrich—or, now, Nancy Groggins—could replace either Martin Whitston or Jack Fradet very nicely.

  “To me, the weak link is Lou Durocher. He’s not living up to the demands of his position. I think an objective spectator would necessarily put the finger on Durocher.

  “But that would mean that Tom Adams would have to abandon his experiment. It might even go against his concept of his religion. And that, I am positive, Adams would be most reluctant to do.

  “Finally, the bottom line is that this is Tom Adams’s call. And after the flipflop he pulled in going from his selection of Nancy as new manager to an overnight switch to Ulrich, I haven’t a clue as to how his mind works.”

  “Maybe,” Zoo said as they pulled up in front of St. Joe’s rectory, “somebody knows exactly how Tom Adams’s mind works.”

  “Somebody? Who?”

  “If your theory is correct, the person responsible for Al Ulrich’s death.”

  Twelve

  Barbara ulrich perched on the edge of a straight-back chair. Appropriately, she wore black.

  All was quiet at McGovern and Sons Funeral Home on North Woodward in Royal Oak. The establishment’s appointments, down to the deep pile carpets, were chosen for the absorption and muffling of sound. Further, besides Mr. McGovern, no one was visible but Babs and Marilyn Fradet.

  Good old Marilyn. Married to a bank comptroller who probably thought of his wife in terms of her chemical net worth of some ninety-two cents.

  Marilyn alone, of all the bank’s hierarchy and wives, had come to Barbara’s side when news of Al Ulrich’s tragic death was broadcast.

  Of course life went on. Nancy Groggins, as Al’s successor—temporary or otherwise—was undoubtedly up to her ears in the grand opening. And the others: Lou, Martin and Jack, plus Tom Adams of course, were being questioned by the police and interviewed by the media.

  But here it was, late afternoon on a beautiful spring day, and none of them had so much as called to offer condolences.

  On the other hand, all of the above were well aware of the fractured state of the Ulrich marriage. Maybe it was foolish to expect a call.

  It was nice of Marilyn to come along—even if she was precious, little company.

  The two women were seated across the desk from Charles McGovern. They had just settled on the wording of Al’s death notice.

  Death notices are far more expensive than people realize. As at so many other times in life when businesses have one.at their mercy, the papers overcharge for this “service.” Al Ulrich’s death notice would run in Sunday’s combined edition of the Free Press and News on a one-time-only basis. Actually, as a prominent banker whose name had become far more familiar through his appointment as first manager of a controversial branch, he would merit an expanded and complimentary write-up on the obituary page. Finally, since this prominent banker had been murdered, he was front-page news, his death the leading story on TV and radio newscasts.

  By and large, Al Ulrich’s death was well noted.

  How did Barbara feel? A new definition of mixed emotions.

  In direct antithesis to her mother, Babs had wanted a husband who would not so much as look at another woman with lust in his heart. She’d found one who didn’t even look at her with lust in his heart.

  That hadn’t always been true.

  Al and Barbara had had a months-long torrid affair that might have been called art engagement. They called it a torrid affair.

  He was climbing the corporate ladder at Adams Bank and Trust. She was in public relations. They met at a cocktail party hosted by her company.

  He was dark, hirsute, well built, with a dangerous, erotic look in his eyes. She was—well, physically perfect.

  Gradually, as the minutes went by, they shut out everyone else. It seemed so natural for them to end the evening at her place.

  They sensed this was not a one-nighter. Both were sexually experienced. They took their time. No more alcohol. They kissed lingeringly, deeply. The trail of discarded clothing was like an arrow pointing to the bedroom.

  That night set a pattern for months to come.

  Then, one Saturday in June, they were married. He was Mr. Virility in his black tux. In her white gown she put Elizabeth Taylor, that once and future bride, to shame.

  Early in their honeymoon she made it clear there would be no children. Not under any circumstances.

  He was bewildered.

  Why hadn’t this literally vital consideration been thrashed out before they married? Why are so many serious matters overlooked in nearly every engagement?

  People are in love. Prone to dismiss serious details, confident that a love so strong can solve any emerging problem. No need, to bring up anything that might prove troublesome. Love conquers all.

  U.S. divo
rce statistics argue against love’s omnipotence.

  With the Ulrichs, children, or the absence of same, became the bone of contention. It proved formidable.

  He refused to make love at the whim of a calendar. Nor would he interrupt the progression of sex to slip on a protective sheath. Let alone endure a medical procedure that would sterilize him. Barbara, for her part, was as adamant in refusing to consider standard methods of birth control.

  As time passed, their respective decisions solidified and a transformation occurred.

  Al Ulrich had always been devoted to his job. He now became completely dedicated to both his job and his employer. Barbara, for him, had become an extremely attractive ornament clinging to his arm at important social functions.

  Barbara did not fancy becoming an object.

  Again, there were options. Divorce was the simplest. But Ulrich’s attachment to the bank and to Tom Adams was intensifying. This dedication was such an obsession that it became his entire life. It would not have mattered who his wife was. She would be his badge of respectability. If his spouse were Barbara or someone—anyone—else, it made no difference.

  Barbara had found if not the philanderer she had sworn to avoid, nor a mate dedicated to her, at least a consort who was going places. He was a rocket that would catapult her into a society where she would feel right at home.

  So, if not a divorce, then an unchanging continuation of the status quo.

  Barbara collected her lovers one at a time with no particular plan. One led to another. Only in retrospect did she realize that she had the complete collection of Al’s superiors as paramours. She never adverted to the fact that she was duplicating, at least numerically, her mother’s track record.

  How did she feel now that her peculiar version of a husband was dead—murdered?

  Mixed emotions.

  It was at very least odd to terribly tragic for any comparatively young person to be snatched from life. And whatever else might be said, Al’s death had been a profound shock.

  There was one certainty: when her child was born, Al would not be around to deny paternity.