Man Who Loved God

by William Kienzle

  This opened another field of speculation. At the recent award dinner, she’d revealed her pregnant state to the four candidates. The notes she had delivered had intimated that Al could be a problem. Was it possible? Could one of them …?

  It was time, Mr. McGovern suggested gently, to select a casket.

  Barbara shook her head. “Casket? He’s going to be cremated.”

  McGovern nodded. “But for the viewing—and before the service …?”

  “I forgot about that. I don’t know what kind of service we can have. We don’t have any religious affiliation.…”

  McGovern smiled. “We’ve found that a service helps all the mourners through a difficult time. We can arrange something” non-denominational that will be quite nice. Of course whether you want the body present is entirely up to you.”

  Marilyn Fradet cleared her throat. If she hadn’t made an occasional sound the other two might well have forgotten her presence.

  “Babs, don’t you think it would be sort of expected? I mean, to have a service and have the body present? I’m sure Tom Adams will be there. Everyone knows he’s very religious. And he and Al were so close ….”

  Were they ever! “You re right, of course, Marilyn.” Barbara turned toward McGovern. “Okay, let’s take a look.”

  “Certainly.” He led the two women into an adjoining room.

  McGovern had had years of experience with the bereaved. They came in every variety from truly emotional wrecks to the casually untouched. This widow was just to the left of the untouched. Either that or she was holding herself together heroically. His trained senses told him that Barbara Ulrich might have mourned for a matter of minutes. But all that nonsense was over now; she would play the role. The untrained onlooker will believe she is crushed and is bravely standing fast. But he would know the truth. And so, undoubtedly, would the clergyman. Experience and a practiced eye, that’s all it took.

  The room was filled with caskets. Most gleamed either from polished metal or stained wood surfaces. There were soft linen or silk interiors with pillows. Someone with a macabre sense of humor might have mistaken this for the scene of a terminal slumber party.

  Barbara’s gaze fixed on a box that seemed out of sync with the rest. It looked as if it were made of reinforced cardboard. Perfect for burning, she thought, and undoubtedly inexpensive, or relatively so.

  But if there was going to be visitation and if the body was there for viewing, she knew she couldn’t get away with such a practical casket. Spare me, she thought, from the Cadillac of the industry.

  Semidistractedly, she heard McGovern quoting prices and extolling the strengths of the various boxes. As far as she could tell, he didn’t even mention the cardboard casket.

  “This one seems good,” Marilyn said to her.

  Fortunately, she had indicated one of the mid-range caskets.

  Barbara approved.

  All that was left to settle was the time of the funeral and the visiting hours. The funeral would be three days hence at ten in the morning. Visitation from three to five and seven to nine the day before the funeral. Any other details, such as the service and the clergyman, McGovern would handle.

  Barbara thanked Marilyn. She hadn’t done much, but she was the only one who’d bothered to call, let alone show up to help.

  Barbara drove toward their—no, scratch that—her downtown condo apartment.

  She’d have to get used to being single again. Now that she considered it, she thought it might be fun. With the car in gear, her mind shifted into neutral. In an abstract state, Barbara once again fixated on those notes she’d so cleverly slipped to the four potential fathers.

  Besides revealing her pregnant condition and the charge of responsibility to each, she’d mentioned Al. What she’d meant by that was vague, even in her own mind.

  What if Al hadn’t been killed?

  She would have had her baby. That was a given. Outside of a spontaneous miscarriage, there was no way in the world she would have an abortion. Never again would she gaze at a destroyed baby that she had carried.

  Well, then, what?

  Al would have done everything short of hiring a skywriter to tell the world—or that part of the world that might be concerned—that he was not, could not be, the father of this child.

  Then what? Somewhere, the baby had to have a father. Not four.

  Tom, Jack, Lou, and Martin—each individually knew full well that he could be the missing piece. If she had been successful in her careful scheme, none of them knew about the other three.

  At that point, she might have selected one and named him as father. The other three would think Christmas had come early.

  And which one would she pick?

  That didn’t require much thought. She certainly would have selected Tom Adams. Not only was he by far the wealthiest, he was also single—and with a very demanding conscience.

  She could have divorced Al. Or have let him divorce her. It made little difference.

  On top of that, although she wasn’t entirely clear on this, there was something in Catholic Church law about annulments. As she understood it, this was Catholicism’s version of civil divorce. The big thing about it was that it cleared the way for a Catholic to. marry again in the Church.

  She knew that Tom Adams had gotten not only a divorce from that bitch he’d married, he also had gotten an annulment. Which freed him.

  What about her?

  If memory served, she thought Tom Adams had said something about the various reasons one could be granted an annulment. Yes, she thought, parenthetically, the lesson had been delivered one time by Tom as postcoital pillow talk. And one of those reasons had to do with children: something about if one married partner refuses to let the other have a child … that, or something very much like that, is grounds for the declaration of nullity.

  And that would certainly have applied to her and Al.

  That meant that she would have been free in Church law as well as civil law to marry again. The way would have been clear for her marriage to Tom Adams. And wouldn’t that have been sweet!

  Yes, had Al lived, that would have been the scenario.

  But Al was gone.’

  Now what?

  She hoped she wasn’t getting greedy, but …

  Al was gone. Evidently it would take time to get used to that. But it wasn’t painful.

  So now, when her baby came, Al would not be around to wash his hands of the child.

  However, each of the four had been told he was the father: Her notes had delivered the glad tidings.

  With Al out of the way, Barbara could—with four important exceptions—let the world believe that the late dearly departed Allan Ulrich did not live to see his son or daughter. Sad.

  But a happy momma.

  Why not? With four wealthy men supporting one sorry widow and one lonely child.

  She was smiling. She’d have to be careful of that. She was, after all, a devastated young woman whose mate had been taken from her. His death was terribly premature and she would miss him more than a person could bear.

  It would be difficult to project this pitiful state. It called for an award-winning performance. Because once she carried it off Barbara was in a win/win situation.

  There was no way she could lose.

  Thirteen

  Father Tully looked forward to a pleasant evening.

  He would walk the few blocks from St. Joseph’s rectory to police headquarters, where at four-thirty this afternoon he was to meet his brother’s superior officer, Inspector Walter Koznicki.

  The inspector was to give the priest a tour of headquarters, during which they would get to know each other. Then at about six, they would be joined by Alonzo and Anne Marie Tully and they would all dine at a downtown restaurant.

  From what he’d seen of downtown Detroit at the end of the business day, Father Tully felt justified in being a bit apprehensive. His consolation was that two of their party would be wearing guns.

  A
ctually, an abnormal fear of the city was really uncalled for. It was merely his way of entertaining himself as he walked.

  The priest was not afraid of Detroit—day or night—though he preferred not to hang around alone on a dark corner of the city. And he would have been happier if no one carried a gun.

  Headquarters—1300 Beaubien—was an impressive structure. A sizable block of brick and marble, its statement was that it had been here a while and it would stand for the foreseeable future.

  He climbed the steps to the lobby and entered an anthill of uniformed police and others whose casual familiarity with the place and each other indicated they were plainclothes officers.

  He received many cordial nods as he made his way to the elevator. This he attributed to his clerical collar. So far in Detroit, he had worn clericals more often in a few days than he would in his Dallas parish in a month. But the man for whom he was pinch-hitting seemed to favor the uniform. It was far easier, he admitted, to follow suit … an unintentional pun.

  The elevator introduced him to the fifth floor; signs directed him to the Homicide Division, where a helpful officer ushered him to the inspector’s office.

  He could tell that Inspector Koznicki’s smile of welcome was genuine. The priest had volumes of experience with plastic smiles. This was not one of them. Koznicki was sincerely happy to welcome the brother of his favorite officer. The happiness was multiplied since the visitor was a priest. Inspector Koznicki was very much a practicing Catholic.

  They sat across the desk from each other.

  The setting put Father Tully in mind of Gulliver’s Travels.

  It was an ordinary office with ordinary furnishings. But the man whose office it was seemed many times too big for it.

  Koznicki was not huge in a freakish way. He was—in the same sense as John Wayne—larger than life. And, at least in these circumstances, as friendly as a St. Bernard.

  After opening pleasantries, the priest detailed his relationship to his newfound relative. The inspector was impressed with their unusual discovery of each other after so many years. And how vastly different were their backgrounds, given each had the same father.

  The inspector explained that since several matters demanded his immediate attention he would have one of his officers show Father Tully around.

  The priest marveled at how he was attracting “B” level guides. First a bank officer had been detailed by Tom Adams to show him the city. Now Inspector Koznicki was about to deputize someone to show him the department.

  But first, Koznicki wondered, was there any word from his friend Father Koesler?

  It seemed to Father Tully that the Detroit Police Department—at least in the persons of Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Tully—missed Father Koesler as much as Father Koesler missed Detroit.

  Father Tully recounted this afternoon’s call from the once and future pastor. “Father Koesler is staying with a priest classmate in Collingwood. I gather that Leo Rammer will do anything to keep from playing golf, which pleases Bob... I guess his game has gone.to rust.”

  “I think,” Koznicki said, “he never was very serious about the game. Lately he has played most infrequently, if at all.” He chuckled. “Listen to me. ‘Lately’! It has been years.” He smiled again. “It is funny how the time seems to compress as the years pile up on one. I am surprised Father even took his clubs with him.”

  “A mistake, I think. Each thought the other had kept at it. I think they’re both glad neither wants to hit the links.”

  “Besides not playing golf, what else is Father doing?”

  “Sightseeing, it seems. Yesterday they took in a boat cruise in the Muskoka-Georgian Bay area. He says—well, I guess Canada claims—there are thirty thousand islands in that bay. Says it’s the largest concentration of islands in the world. I didn’t ask if he’d counted them.”

  Koznicki smiled broadly.

  “While they were in the neighborhood, they took a look at something the locals claim is unique. It’s called Big Chute. I’m not too clear on what it does, but I gather it substitutes for locks that move boats from one waterway to another. Seems they ran out of money at that point to build a conventional lock, So some engineering geniuses devised this mechanical lift that moves both back and forth. It’s based on some sort of cable or pulley technique.

  “Anyway, I think the main purpose of Bob’s call was to find out if I was keeping his parish in the condition to which it is accustomed.”

  The inspector nodded. “Did you tell him about that sorry business at the bank? Your being in Detroit does have something to do with the Adams Bank, does it not?”

  “That’s right. I came here to present the St. Peter Claver Award to Mr. Adams. I did tell Bob about the murder of the branch manager. Of course Bob knew about the branch opening. And he knew of Tom Adams, although they’d never met. And even if he hadn’t gone on vacation, he wouldn’t have known any of the principals in that tragedy. It was just an accident that I’d met all those people.

  “But I’ll tell you this: I am very impressed with Tom Adams. He puts his money where his ethics are—”

  Koznicki answered the phone before it could ring a second time. One thick eyebrow raised. He handed the phone to the priest. “For you, Father.”

  “Hello, Father Tully here.”

  “Fred Margan here, Father.”

  The voice wasn’t familiar, but he recalled the name. It was the guide Adams had appointed to show the priest the city. “I remember you.”

  “It was my pleasure, Father. You certainly have heard of the tragic death of our man, Allan Ulrich?”

  “Yes. I am sorry.”

  “Thanks. Father, I’m calling for Mr. Adams. This has really hit him hard. He would have made this call, but he is just laid low.”

  “I am so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Mr. Adams wondered if you could say a few words at the funeral. Neither Al nor his wife had any real religious affiliation. So the widow has no one to call on. And since Al and Mr. Adams were so close in life, Mr. Adams is doing all he can to help. And he wondered … if it isn’t too much to ask …”

  “No, I’ll do it, of course. I don’t know where or when the funeral’s scheduled—”

  “It’s Monday morning at ten, from the funeral home. I’ll pick you up at your rectory at nine-thirty if that’s all right with you.”

  “See you then. In the meantime, my condolences to Mr. Adams—and to the widow, if you see her.”

  “Sure. And thanks.”

  Father Tully returned the phone to the inspector. As he explained the call, Koznicki nodded in understanding and agreement.

  “Well,” the inspector said, as he stood, “I guess it is about time for your tour. I hope it will not be boring.”

  “Hardly!”

  As the inspector reached for the phone to summon the priest’s guide, there was a staccato knock at the door. Before Koznicki could acknowledge it, the door opened and a detective leaned in. “Sorry to interrupt, Inspector, but I thought you’d want to know: some guys from narcotics have nailed the guy we think pulled off that bank job this morning.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Holed up in a house on the east side—Newport. He’s armed and he’s got a hostage.”

  “There are officers on the scene?”

  “More by the minute.”

  “We will go.” The inspector grabbed his jacket.

  “May I go with you?” Father Tully spoke on the spur of the moment.

  Koznicki hesitated.

  “I’ll stay out of your way. But I would like to follow this through.”

  “Very well, Father. But you must stay out of harm’s way.”

  As they left the police garage, the inspector half turned toward Father Tully. “If you listen carefully to the radio you will know what is going on at the scene. It will be somewhat garbled and there’s some static, but listen and you will understand.”
/>   True to his words, the air was filled with voices, some agitated, some calm and authoritative. Without doubt, the situation had to be filled with tension and danger.

  They arrived at the scene in minutes. The neighborhood had turned out as if this were a traveling circus performing live now for the spectators’ entertainment. The police had cordoned off an ample area around a nondescript two-story house, and were directing onlookers even farther away from the action. The area was ringed by uniformed officers, as well as members of the Special Response Team.

  Before joining his troops, Inspector Koznicki again warned Father Tully not to leave the car.

  There was no reason for the priest to leave the car. It was parked close enough, although within an area of safety, that the priest could follow much of the action without peril.

  He spotted his brother half kneeling behind a police car. Someone was with him, someone familiar. It was the FBI agent—what had Zoo called him?—Rug … Harold Rughurst.

  Seeing the two together reminded Father Tully of the differing theories about this crime. His brother and Rughurst had pretty much agreed that the perpetrator was someone off the streets and probably on drugs. He had shot Ulrich in much the same manner a hunter might casually kill an in-season animal. And as an indication that this was indeed the case, the poor fool had tried to break into a bank vault with a sledgehammer.

  Father Tully’s scenario was considerably more complicated. In his scheme, one of the bank’s executive vice presidents, for self-protection, wanted Al Ulrich dead. He did not or could hot do the deed himself. So he hired someone to do it and to make it look as if the motive had been robbery, when what actually was intended was murder.

  Whichever theory might be valid, the answer lay with the young man in that house. Soon, if this confrontation ended peacefully and successfully, everyone would know that answer.

  Father Tully scrutinized the crowd. Some seemed highly agitated, as if wondering, How could something this violent be happening in my neighborhood? Some were quite unconcerned, as if they were watching an unexciting television program. Some seemed to be celebrating the action. They were laughing and joking. Father Tully could picture them betting on the outcome.