Masquerade

by William Kienzle

  “What happened,” Mangiapane continued, “was that the rabbi was sitting at the table when he took the drink. The Doc says he must have gone into instant convulsions . . .” The detective referred to his notes. “Then he probably clutched the table and the cloth was dragged off the table when he slipped off the chair and onto the floor. Doc says he was dead within four or five minutes.”

  “What was the rabbi drinking?” Koznicki asked.

  “Frangelico,” Mangiapane said, and immediately returned to his notes. “Doc says whoever put the stuff in picked the right kind of booze: Both the Frangelico and the cyanide have an almond odor. So the guy wouldn’t think anything odd about the aroma of the Frangelico as he opened it and poured it. Oh”—he began reading his notes verbatim— “and Doc says the condition of the body also suggests cyanide. He says the lividity is the clue. The guy looks all red. Doc says the poison paralyzes the enzymes in the body that allow the transfer of oxygen from the blood to the cells. The body is full of oxygen, but the oxygen is unused.” Mangiapane looked particularly pleased with himself.

  “Is there any chance any of the other bottles have been poisoned?” Koznicki asked.

  “Doc doesn’t think so. There’s no special odor to any of the rest of the booze. But he’s takin’ it all downtown for tests. And, of course, he’ll do the autopsy on the rabbi. But, like I say, he’s pretty sure.”

  “Hmmm,” Koznicki said, “I wonder—if Dr. Moellmann is correct—I wonder how the killer knew to tamper with just the Frangelico specifically.”

  “I have an idea,” Koesler said. “Last night after dinner, Krieg offered each of us a drink from his supply. Of all the choices possible—and I think he’s got one of everything and probably back-up bottles of each—”

  “He’s right, Inspector,” Mangiapane interjected, “not only one of everything but the best of everything.”

  “Yes,” Koesler agreed. “Well, Winer chose Frangelico. And, now that I think of it, he was followed by the Reverend Krieg. So, even anyone who hadn’t known beforehand, could, if he or she paid any attention last night, have noted that Winer and Krieg favored the Frangelico. It just so happened that I was standing off to one side, and since I was not conversing with anyone, I was able to observe what everyone else was drinking.”

  “Excuse me, Father,” Mangiapane said, “but Krieg wasn’t the one who was murdered; Winer was.”

  “The supposition at this moment, Sergeant,” Koznicki said, “is that the Reverend Krieg was the intended victim and that Rabbi Winer was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time drinking the wrong liqueur.”

  “Oh . . .”Mangiapane felt foolish.

  Koesler wanted to explain and, at the same time dispel, Mangiapane’s embarrassment. “You weren’t here, Sergeant, when I was telling the Inspector what’s been going on here over the past couple of days.”

  For Mangiapane’s benefit, Koesler recounted in some detail the interaction that had taken place, omitting only that which Tully and Mangiapane had learned when they had responded to the false alarm last night.

  “So, you see, Sergeant,” Koesler summed up, “while there has been a great deal of animosity shown by the writers to Krieg, it has been Krieg’s overt aim to get any or all of the writers under contract to his publishing house.

  “Although I can’t really envision any of these religious people actually committing the sin of murder, from everything that’s been said, a plausible case could be made that one or another of them might actually try to kill Krieg.

  “And, as for the possibility that Krieg might be involved, the last thing in this world that he would do would be to kill one of the writers he was trying to sign.”

  Mangiapane had followed the discussion attentively; he now proceeded to summarize. “So,” he said, “the idea is that someone put the poison in the Frangelico thinking that Krieg would drink it—based on the fact that that was his liqueur of choice last night. But, before Krieg gets to the bottle, Winer takes a drink, and that’s all she wrote.” He seemed content.

  “It was not a bad plan, as I see it,” Koznicki said. “The killer might think that he had a fail-safe scheme. After he—or she—poisoned the Frangelico, he—let us simplify things—would figure that he would be present after meals when one would expect liqueur to be served. If anyone other than Reverend Krieg approached or accepted the Frangelico, the killer would be able to take some action—drop the bottle, or “accidentally” spill the contents of the glass or some such. But, as you said, no after-dinner drinks were offered due to the argument. Then, if it so happened that the Reverend Krieg would stop off for a nightcap alone and drink the poison”—Koznicki spread his hands—“so much the better. But what the killer did not foresee was that someone else would drop in unexpectedly, use the extra key and, unfortunately take the fatal drink.”

  “And that,” Koesler said, “is what must have happened. Rabbi Winer must have come back downstairs from his room later in the evening. I can well imagine that he might have had trouble getting to sleep. Of all of us, he undoubtedly had the most hectic day. He probably thought that a drink or two would calm him down and help him get some sleep.”

  “So,” Mangiapane continued the scenario, “he comes in. He’s the one who checked before dinner to see whether the cabinet was unlocked. He’s the one who was specifically told about the whereabouts of the duplicate key. So he goes directly to the key, unlocks the cabinet, pours himself a small glass of Frangelico, sits at the table, and . . .

  “He probably downed the glass in a gulp, went into convulsions, clutched at the cloth, and pulled it with him as he fell to the floor. And that’s how we found him.”

  “And,” Koznicki concluded with a tone of regret, “the one who poisoned the liqueur was not there to intervene.”

  “And so he became a murderer,” Mangiapane said.

  Koznicki looked up as from a reverie. “He or she was a murderer from the outset. Except that the real victim was not the intended victim. Which means, of course . . .” He gave no indication of completing the remark.

  Koesler completed it. “. . . the intended victim—Krieg—still lives. Will the killer try again? Or, now that everyone has been alerted, will the deed be aborted or postponed?”

  “Good and relevant questions, Father,” Koznicki said. “I do not think the person we are dealing with is the type to be permanently dissuaded because of one failure. There must have been sufficient motivation. It required too much deliberation—courage, if you will—to dare the deed in the first place. I think there will be another attempt. We must be vigilant.”

  “Excuse me,” Mangiapane said, “I’ve got to get back to Zoo.”

  Koznicki and Koesler were left alone with their private thoughts.

  “I specifically wanted Lieutenant Tully on this case,” Koznicki said finally.

  “He’s your best, isn’t he,” Koesler said.

  “There are many fine officers in the Homicide Division.”

  Koesler smiled. “But he is your best, isn’t he?”

  Koznicki smiled back. “Yes.”

  “Do you anticipate this case being that difficult to solve?”

  “I have no idea. Only time will provide that answer. It is not the difficulty in itself that will be the problem. It is the victim. It is,” Koznicki made a small but encompassing gesture, “the setting.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “There may be a great number of murders in the city of Detroit, but we do not as a rule kill members of the clergy.”

  Koesler’s eyes widened in understanding. “The image!”

  “Precisely. The city administration will be most eager to have this case closed as quickly as possible. The media will have a field day with this story. A visiting rabbi murdered in a Catholic college at a workshop given to the study of religious murder mysteries!”

  “Of course. Put those ingredients together and the story almost writes itself. So that’s why you assigned the case to Lieutenant
Tully.”

  Koznicki nodded. “He will have all the help he needs or wants.”

  “This is sort of like that case years ago, when we first met, isn’t it? Remember: when those priests and nuns were being murdered by that demented man who left a rosary as his calling card.”

  Koznicki grimaced. “How could any of us forget that? But, yes, there is a similarity. Again it was a case of who was being killed—priests, nuns, save the mark! Then as now, the city’s reaction was to do everything possible to expedite a solution. And, again, Father, due to the nature of this case, I would very much appreciate it if you would give us the benefit of your observations—in a most unofficial capacity of course. If that is not asking too much?”

  “Of course, Inspector. But I don’t know that I’ll be of much help.”

  “Nonetheless, if you please?”

  “Certainly.”

  Koznicki was not playing a hunch. Over the years he had come to rely on Father Koesler in cases such as this. Whenever Catholicism was introduced into a murder investigation, Koznicki could depend on Koesler to provide a unique contribution toward the solution.

  Koesler had the background. He’d been a Detroit priest for the past thirty-five years. He had ties to and easy familiarity with most of the priests and many of the nuns of the Archdiocese of Detroit. He was at home in the old Church as well as the new. He kept up with theological developments. Thus, when there was an understandable gap in the knowledge of things Catholic on the part of the police, Koesler was able to fill in that gap nicely.

  Beyond that, Koznicki had learned that, despite the priest’s demurrers, Koesler had an uncommonly keen eye for detail. His observance of Krieg’s choice of Frangelico as an after-dinner drink was an excellent example. Koesler’s powers of observation had been demonstrated in any number of investigations over the past several years.

  Besides these very good reasons, Koznicki wanted Koesler in the inner circle of this case for the simple fact that the two enjoyed each other’s company.

  Mangiapane returned. “Father, Zoo . , . er . . . Lieutenant Tully wants—uh, would like you—in the room across the hall—uh, now.”

  “Okay,” Koesler glanced at Koznicki.

  “I will just come along too,” said the Inspector.

  Tully had not requested Koznicki’s presence. But Mangiapane well knew the department’s pecking order. “Yes, sir!” he said fearlessly.

  14

  Of those who’d been invited, Koesler was the last to arrive.

  The room held himself, Koznicki, Mangiapane, Tully, Janet, Marie, David and Martha Benbow, Augustine, and Krieg. This was the first Koesler had seen of Krieg since the murder. His appearance left little doubt that he’d been badly shaken.

  Koznicki immediately motioned Tully into the corridor, although not out of Koesler’s line of vision. He could see that the Inspector was addressing Tully in what, for Koznicki, was an animated manner. Koesler guessed the two detectives were bringing each other up-to-date on what they had discovered to this moment.

  While they conversed, Koesler, affecting nonchalance, studied the others in the room. To a person, everyone appeared to be very struck, as well they all might be, at the murder of a confrere, even though they had known him but briefly. The silence was total and strained.

  By far, Krieg seemed the most affected of all. He was so pallid he looked as if he might faint at any moment. And gone, completely gone, was any vestige of the patented smile. The smart money had it that Krieg had just escaped a sudden and unexpected death. And his escape was no more than an accident, a fluke. If Rabbi Winer had not known there was an alternate key to the cabinet, if he had not suddenly gotten a thirst for a nightcap, the Reverend Klaus (“Blitz”) Krieg would now be headed downtown. Not to the Westin Hotel but to the morgue. It was enough to give any person pause. And it certainly had reached Krieg.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Koesler noticed movement; Koznicki and Tully reentered the room. Their expressions gave inscrutability new definition. Koznicki remained in the background. Tully seated himself on an undraped table. Although this, another comparatively small dining room, was filled with tables and chairs, there was no sign it had been used for dining—or any other purpose—for a long while.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Tully began, “what appears to have happened is that a bottle of Frangelico liqueur was poisoned. The substance used appears to be cyanide. There can be no doubt that whoever poisoned the liqueur intended to kill someone. We believe the intended victim was Reverend Krieg.”

  At the mention of his name, Krieg’s complexion grew even more ashen. Koesler had not thought this possible.

  “We don’t know,” Tully continued, “exactly when the liqueur was poisoned, but we can narrow it down a bit. Since two of your group—Reverend Krieg and Rabbi Winer—drank from that bottle last evening, we know there was nothing wrong with the liqueur at that time.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Benbow said, “but how do you know that? Is there a hidden camera someplace in that room?”

  For a moment Tully enjoyed the luxury of wishing that room had been outfitted with a hidden camera. It would make this a much easier investigation if all the police had to do was run the film and watch the murderer poison the liqueur. But life, particularly a policeman’s life, was tougher than that. Besides, Tully was in no hurry for a society where Big Brother watched everything everyone did at all times.

  “We have the testimony of an eyewitness, reliable, who saw Krieg and Winer pour and consume drinks from that bottle. There may have been others who saw the same. The point is, one survivor is all we need to know that, at least at that time, the bottle was free of poison.”

  “Just a minute, Lieutenant,” Augustine said. “What about the possibility that an amount of the poison insufficient to cause immediate death was used? That way it could have a cumulative effect. The rabbi might have gotten a small amount of cyanide last night. Then tonight, the second drink—or maybe he had several—would have killed him. If that were the case, the liqueur might have been poisoned even before last night.” Augustine seemed inordinately proud of the point.

  Tully, expressionless, regarded the monk for a few moments. “I know of no way anyone can measure a dose of cyanide that will kill only on the second drink—or not on the first. You’re probably thinking of cases where arsenic has been added to food in very small quantities over a considerable period of time.

  “Anyway, we will be testing the liqueur to see how much poison was in it. Judging from the coloration of the body, it was a healthy dose. Although”—Tully almost but not quite smiled at his inadvertent use of the word “healthy” to describe a fatal dose of poison—“a little cyanide goes a long way.”

  Augustine seemed to physically retreat within himself.

  “That brings us to tonight. Sometime between last night’s dinner and late this evening someone poisoned the liqueur. It was not unrealistic to expect that later last evening, or after dinner this evening, or surely sometime during this week, Reverend Krieg would have another drink of his favorite liqueur. If someone else were to reach for the Frangelico as an after-dinner liqueur, whoever poisoned it would be able to block its use—by ‘accidentally’ spilling the contents or dropping the bottle, for instance. Obviously, no one, least of all the killer, anticipated that anyone besides Krieg would return at night and, in effect, break into the cabinet.”

  “Just a minute, Lieutenant . . .” The interruption this time came from Janet. “You seem to be saying . . . you’re implying that one of us here is the guilty party. And I resent that. I deeply resent that!”

  “Somebody put poison in a drink. It had to be someone with motive, capability, and opportunity.”

  “Yes,” Janet replied, “but we are not alone on campus. There are many students boarding here temporarily during the conference.”

  “We know that,” Tully said. “They’re in . . .” He checked his notes. “. . . the Florent Gillet Student Residence. But of the
six campus security guards, two were assigned to this building, Cadillac Hall, and three were at the Student Residence. And all of them agree that no one left the residence this evening. And no one entered Cadillac Hall tonight except Reverend Benbow, who took a walk and then returned. No one left the campus after Krieg’s assistant drove out in the limo, presumably after the Reverend dismissed him.”

  Krieg nodded weakly.

  “Besides, we’re also looking for motive. And from what’s been said among yourselves over the past couple of days, it seems as if there might be plenty of motive right here in this room.”

  Tully might have added that he did not fathom the intensity of the writers’ animosity toward Krieg. But he was going to make it his business to damn well understand what was at the core of it just as quickly as possible.

  “Now,” Tully continued, “the Medical Examiner tells us that Rabbi Winer died sometime between 8:00 and 10:00 this evening. I would appreciate it if each of you could tell me where you were between those hours. Let’s start with Father Koesler.”

  “Me!” Koesler was clearly startled. “But you know—”

  “For the record, Father. Everyone.”

  “Well, I was . . . I was at the movie.”

  “From beginning to end?”

  “From beginning to end. That’s right.”

  “Anyone see you there?”

  Koesler almost laughed. “I’d say so. Sister Janet was strong about making our presence known to the students so they could see that at least part of the faculty would be with them even when not required to be. So the three of us sat together at the front of the auditorium.”

  “The three of you?”

  “Mrs. Benbow, Sister Janet, and I.”

  “None of you left the theater at any time?”

  “No.”

  “Father Augustine?”

  “I went to my room right after dinner and stayed there until I was called down here after they found the body.”