Man Who Loved God

by William Kienzle

  He jumped, startled when the driver’s side door opened and someone slid into the car. He relaxed when he saw it was a uniformed Detroit policeman.

  The priest offered his hand. The officer, eyes on the outside action, didn’t notice the gesture. The priest cleared his throat.

  “Oh … hi, Father. I’m Patrolman Teasly, Bob Teasly. Inspector Koznicki sent me.

  “I wasn’t going to leave the car,” the priest said defensively.

  “Nothin’ said about leaving the car, Father. I’m just s’posed to make sure nothing happens to you. That was the inspector’s idea. He thought maybe I could tell you exactly what’s goin’ on.”

  “Okay … uh, Bob?”

  “Yeah, Bob is okay.”

  “So, what’s going on?”

  “You really Zoo’s brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure don’t look it. And nobody can get over Zoo havin’ a priest for a brother.”

  “Put your last buck on it.”

  “My, my. Wow.”

  “So, what’s going on?”

  “Well, Father, it all started this mornin’ when that bank was broken into and the manager killed. Some of the narc guys called in some markers and got a name. They put out an all-points. The kid’s name is Lamar Burt. “Then a 911 came in: wife abuse. Turns out the lady’s a live-in, they ain’t married, but her man is Lamar Burt. Our precinct crew responded before we matched the two, but the dispatcher reached our guys before they got here, and told ’em the murder suspect, and the abuser were the same guy. Lucky he got ’em in time or we coulda had a couple of officers down.

  “The first crew kept the place under surveillance while they called for backup—plenty of backup ’cause once Lamar got the idea of what was goin’ down outside, he opened up—uh, started shooting.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Luckily, no—not yet, anyway. What’s goin’ on right now is bargaining. We got a phone connection and our negotiator is trying to talk sense into the suspect. There’s no out for him: we got him one way or the other. We’re just tryin’ to find some things to concede that’ll get him to come out peaceably.

  “Right now, I think we’re tryin’ to get him to let his lady go. He’s holding her hostage.”

  “What’s that … over there?” The priest indicated a mobile trailer parked on the lawn not far from them.

  “That? Oh, that’s SRT.”

  “What’s that?”

  The patrolman smiled. “Special Response Team—that’s the department’s version of SWAT. Anytime we get a barricaded gunman, this team is called in.”

  They watched in silence. After a few minutes, the patrolman started whistling softly. “Pretty impressive, eh, Father?”

  “Yeah. Looks like they’re wearing enough body armor to go to the lists.”

  “The what?”

  “The lists. You know, in the olden days, the knights would put on their armor, be lifted onto their horses—which also had armor—and accelerate headlong toward each other with huge lances. The object was to unseat the other horseman. It was a tilting tournament—you know: jousting.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it in the movies. Like in Camelot?”

  “Right. And Sir Lancelot not only unseated one of his opponents, he killed him and then brought him back to life.”

  The patrolman shook his head. “I sure hope it doesn’t come to that now.”

  “What?”

  “If the shooting starts again, somebody’s gonna be dead … but’ I don’t think anybody’s gonna bring ’em back.”

  “You think this is going to end violently?”

  “I sure hope not. As long as they’re talkin’ most likely nobody’ll start shooting.”

  Even as they spoke, the police negotiator shrugged, shook his head, and put down the phone. The priest and the patrolman looked at each other. “What now?” Father Tully asked.

  “We’ll have to wait. I’ve seen ’em come out like babies, cryin’ and rollin’ around on the ground. And I’ve seen ’em come out like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

  Fourteen

  The quiet before the storm.

  No one could predict a storm, but it surely was quiet. Everyone—police and spectators—stood or crouched motionless. Everyone either knew or sensed that communications had broken down. And everyone knew that the breakdown was not on the part of the police.

  The next move had to come from within the house. There wasn’t a sound.

  Suddenly, the front door slammed open. The frail body of a young woman was flung out the door. She tumbled down the stairs and lay motionless on the ground. She could have been dead, or she could have been paralyzed with fear.

  Silence again.

  A young man leaped through the doorway. He had a wild look about him—and a gun in each hand. He squeezed about two rounds from each gun before an SRT volley cut him down.

  Father Tulley saw none of this. Just as Lamar Burt appeared at the door, Patrolman Teasly pushed the priest down and covered Tully’s body with his own.

  It was over in seconds. Teasly helped the priest up. “Well, it was Butch and Sundance.”

  “Wow!” Father Tully studied the scene. All was pretty much as it had been before the shooting. Except that officers began to move. Members of the SRT came forward cautiously. It was unlikely that the suspect—or anyone—could have survived their enormous firepower. But they took no chances.

  When they reached the body, an officer knelt and felt for a heartbeat. He looked to the officers on either side and shook his head.

  It was over.

  Officers swarmed into the house. Others tended to the young woman.

  “It’s okay to go out now,” Teasly said to the priest. “But stay back by the car here. The techs have a lot of work ahead.”

  “Thanks.” The priest brushed off his black suit, and exited the car.

  Everyone had been frozen in place by the gunfire. Now that the climax was behind them, life began again—for everyone but Lamar Burt.

  The police began what for them was routine work. Members of the media were casting like fly fishermen for comments and the inside story. Some bystanders were clearly distressed. One elderly man was vomiting. Some, bored after the excitement was over, wandered back to their homes. Others appreciated the show almost to the point of applauding. A few paid off or collected on quickly transacted bets.

  Lieutenant Tully turned and, for the first time, spotted his brother. Approaching, he said, “What are you doing here?” Then he saw Koznicki. “Don’t tell me, you’re here with him,” he said to his. brother.

  Koznicki, Tully, and Rughurst met at the car. Father Tully, because he was already there, made a fourth.

  “You okay?” Zoo asked his brother.

  “Fine. I just gave that poor man conditional absolution.”

  “You what?” Zoo was more amused than surprised.

  Even Inspector Koznicki found some humor in the priest’s remark. “I fear there were multiple conditions in your forgiveness, Father.”

  “What is it, this conditional whatever?” Zoo inquired.

  “I don’t know what he’s done,” the priest explained. “I don’t know if he’s sorry for whatever wrong he did. And I don’t know whether he’s still alive. But with all those questions hanging in midair, I gave him absolution.”

  “If it worked, I’m godda—uh, sure he needed it,” Rughurst added.

  One by one, a series of officers made their way to what amounted to a command center, with a special agent of the FBI, an inspector and a lieutenant, both of the DPD’s Homicide Division.

  “This Lamar Burt,” the first officer reported, “he’s got a full house rap sheet. Everything from loitering when he was a kid, to robbery, robbery armed, carjacking, attempted murder. He’s been inside better than half his life. He is—was—twenty-seven.” The report ended, the officer departed, to be shortly replaced by another officer.

  “We found a stash in the house … looks t
o be better than seven or eight G’s. We’re talking to the woman. She’s been with him off and on for about five years. They’re both crackheads. Sometimes it gets a little hairy. Like today, he was bouncing her off the wall. She thought he was going to kill her. That’s when she called 911. She didn’t know he was wanted—not till we showed up and he started shooting.”

  “Was he with her this morning?” Koznicki asked.

  “No. He left real early this morning. She said he’d been casing some place … he wouldn’t tell her what or where. He got back here midmorning. He was really pissed. Whatever he’d tried to pull off evidently hadn’t worked. He was furious. He snorted some coke and then started on her.”

  “She got any idea where the cash came from?” Rughurst asked.

  “No, sir. She never knows how much he has in there or where it comes from. It’s really like a bank to him. He withdraws and invests. She tried to get hold of it once, just to see how much he had. He nearly broke her arm. We told her about the nearly eight thousand dollars in the beanbag now. She wasn’t impressed … she’s sure it’s held more, but seldom less.”

  “No way of telling whether there was a recent big deposit?” Rughurst asked. “Maybe five grand? Maybe for a hit? Somebody took out a contract? Anything like that?”

  The officer thought for a moment. “I don’t think anybody asked her that specifically. I’ll check that out and get right back to you.”

  A third officer approached. “No surprise, he’s got an arsenal in there. But one of the guns he was firing when he jumped out of the house just now was a nine millimeter—same caliber used in the bank killing this morning. It’s on its way to ballistics.”

  “Great.”

  The second officer returned. “I asked her. She thinks he’d of told her if he had a contract. Far as she knows, he’s never had a contract. But she was kinda spacey. I think she’s talkin’ now because she’s scared shitless. She’d tell you anything she thought you wanted to hear whether she knew the answer or not.”

  The three officers looked at each other. “Well,” Rughurst said to Koznicki, “what d’ya think?”

  The inspector glanced at Zoo. “There are no witnesses to the shooting in the bank this morning. We do have film showing a portion of the perpetrator’s body. We will check that. I would not be surprised if Lamar Burt is still wearing the same clothing he wore this morning.”

  “We got solid leads that name Burt as the perp,” Zoo said. “He didn’t open up on us just because his woman called 911.

  “I think,” Tully added, “it comes down to the gun. If we can match any of Burt’s weapons with the bullet that killed Ulrich, I think we got our guy.”

  “What about the possibility that Burt was hired—that there was a contract on Ulrich?” Rughurst said.

  “There is no suggestion of that in any part of our investigation,” Koznicki responded. “There is a considerable amount of money in the house—but no indication where it came from. His woman states that, to her knowledge, Burt has never been offered a contract. She thinks that if he had been, he would have told her.”

  “So, then, what d’ya say? Does this wrap it up?” Rughurst didn’t want to hang around.

  Koznicki looked at Lieutenant Tully. Tully nodded.

  “Subject to all of our hypotheses proving true,” the inspector said, “we are satisfied. This should close the case.”

  Rughurst compressed his lips and nodded curtly. “Done!” He headed out.

  Lieutenant Tully turned to his brother. “Listen, I’m sorry about dinner tonight. I can’t possibly make it. You can go along with the others. There’re just a lot of loose ends here that have to be tied up.”

  Koznicki studied his watch and murmured, “It is getting late. However …”

  The ball appeared to be in Father Tully’s court. Obviously the only reason any of them would meet for dinner would be for his benefit.

  “You’re right: It is getting late,” the priest said. “We didn’t count on all this when we made our plans. On top of which, tomorrow’s Saturday and I should be planning the weekend liturgy. Tonight would be the best time to do that.”

  “Listen,” Zoo said brightly, “why don’t we plan to get together tomorrow morning, say about nine for brunch. Anne Marie should, be free. How ’bout you, Walt?”

  “That would suit me perfectly, as far as I can tell now. Would you be free then, Father? Would you be done with your liturgical planning?

  “I’d better be. Or the ghost of Father Koesler will haunt me. Besides, the Saturday Mass is late afternoon.”

  “Then it’s a date,” Zoo said. “… or at least as far as a homicide detective can promise.”

  Koznicki turned to Father Tully. “Your brother has much to do here, Father. If it is agreeable with you, I will drive you back to the rectory.”

  “I’d be grateful.”

  As Koznicki and Father Tully began their drive, the priest was acutely aware of the modulation of his adrenal glands. Headed to the scene of today’s confrontation, Father Tully had been in his own personal fast lane—hyperconscious of his surroundings, the neighborhoods they had whizzed through, the traffic lights they ran.

  Now, everything had eased up into normal time passage. His breath came at a much more relaxed rate.

  Out of the blue Koznicki chuckled. “These past few days have been a rather intense welcome to Detroit, have they not, Father? This is not the manner in which we welcome all our guests, especially clergymen.”

  “I know that, Inspector. This was supposed to be a sort of vacation for me. Somewhat different from the more traditional vacation your friend Father Koesler is enjoying—or enduring, as the case maybe.

  “I was sent here by my religious superior to present an award and, also, to meet my family for the first time. That was all I was looking forward to. There was so much catching up to do I thought there’d be no time for anything else. I wasn’t counting on the freeway shooting of a police officer. And I certainly had no thought that I’d witness a barricaded gunman actually get killed.”

  Koznicki grew solemn. “No one wanted to see that confrontation end the way it did. Our officers are very carefully trained and selected for the chief virtue they must exhibit in such situations.”

  “Patience?”

  “Exactly. The temptation when dealing with desperate and frightened people is to run out of that precise virtue. Our patience must Outlast their impatience.

  “Today’s experience was a good example of that dynamic in reality. Mr. Burt was the one who broke the line of communication. That young man started down the road to a fatality when he hung up the phone. Tragic!” Koznicki’s tone softened. “But tell me, Father, did you really absolve the young man?”

  “Yes. It was almost a reflex response. I recall well the priest who taught us moral theology. He was a Navy chaplain in World War II. He was stationed on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. He told us that once, during the last phase of the war, a kamikaze dove for his ship. And—in my teacher’s own well-chosen words—I gave conditional absolution to the sonuvabitch before he hit the deck.’”

  Koznicki laughed aloud.

  “I’ve got to say,” the priest continued, “I’ve never heard a more generous act of forgiveness. I mean, when someone is trying to sink your ship and kill you … to pick that time to pray for forgiveness for him … well, I thought that was darn near heroic.

  “But I did gain some insight today. That response of forgiveness does become a bit of a reflex action. He wasn’t as focused as a kamikaze pilot, but that young man could have killed someone in his wild shooting. I guess a priest’s training as well as his daily experience places the soul over the body in importance. That’s just the way it goes.”

  The inspector entered the parish parking lot and stopped at the side door of the rectory. The priest was about to leave when he sensed that Koznicki had something more to say.

  “Father, I have no idea what your previous experience with the police has been. A
nd I certainly do not wish to give you the impression that everyday police work is as demanding as today’s episode with a, barricaded gunman.”

  “I know that, Inspector.”

  “The point I want to make, Father, is that even if such bizarre behavior is blessedly unusual and comparatively infrequent, still, a policeman’s time is not his own. Engagements and appointments are made to be broken.”

  The priest looked puzzled. The inspector was preaching to the converted. Long before he’d come to Detroit, Father Tully had had plenty of contact with police departments in many U.S. cities. These departments differed from one another in sometimes subtle, sometimes evident ways. But in general, cops were busy people. Father Tully was more than willing to concede the inspector’s point.

  “Even though police work literally never ends, some are more dedicated to it than others.” The inspector paused, seeming to weigh his next words. “Father, I do not know how much you know about your brother’s divorce. But I assume, as a priest, you must wonder—”

  “Inspector …” Father Tully reclosed the car door and turned to face the officer. “I didn’t have the vaguest idea what I’d find in Detroit. All I knew was that my brother was here and that he was on the police force. I didn’t know where he lived, whether he was married, if he had children—or even what he looked like.

  “Since I’ve come, Anne Marie sort of brought me up to date on things, including his first marriage and this present one as well. My brother shared a bit of history with me. So I think I know. But I’m grateful to you for volunteering to clue me in.”

  “Yet,” Koznicki persisted, “there is one condition that you may not know of, but is very pertinent.”

  The priest leaned back with an encouraging smile.

  “While it is true that police work is never-ending, not all individuals are equally dedicated. I, perhaps, know that better than Anne Marie and even than Alonzo. He does his work in what, to him, is a very ordinary, run-of-the-mill fashion. He expects his fellow officers to equal his dedication. In that expectation he is almost always disappointed. His dedication is more complete and more compelling than that of any other officer I have ever known.