As far as Koesler knew, no one had done a definitive study of that peculiar sign; indeed he was convinced that even those who make the gesture probably don’t advert to the reason they kiss their thumb. The closest Koesler could come to a rationale rested on a practice popular among those who frequently and piously recite the rosary. It is common for those who pray the rosary to begin by holding the crucifix in their right hand—with which they make the sign of the cross—and, on completing the sign of the cross, kissing the crucifix. It was Koesler’s hypothesis that those athletes who indulge in what has become for them a superstition don’t consciously think of what they’re doing. Why, after all, would anyone kiss his own thumb?
What has happened is that they grew up watching mother pray the rosary. They’ve seen her over and over again make the sign of the cross, and end by kissing the crucifix. But to the youthful observer it might not have been clear just what was being kissed.
So, today’s boxer, football, basketball, baseball player makes the sign of the cross—for luck, most probably—kisses the finger that would be holding a crucifix if one were present, and then goes out to beat hell out of the other guy or die trying.
Koesler almost smiled at the memory of uncounted hockey players going over the boards, making the sign of the cross, kissing the thumb, then whacking an opponent with the hockey stick. He almost smiled. But he did not. Instead he grew serious.
What was it? Something he had just been thinking of. They grew up watching mother pray the rosary. They grew up watching mother pray the rosary.
Thoughts tumbled into his mind. Unbidden, the thoughts came in no particular order. It was as if he had dropped the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle in the center of his brain with the accompanying urge to put them together so that the puzzle would make sense.
Klaus Krieg grew up watching his mother say the rosary? No, that wasn’t it. But something like that. What had the little boy watched his mother do?
Before Koesler could answer that, other pieces needed placement.
Instead of trying to find vestiges of Catholicism in what he’d seen of Krieg, Koesler tried to simply take an objective view of what he’d actually seen and heard Krieg do and say.
Gradually the jigsaw picture began to take shape. It revealed quite a different image than anyone had been looking at up to this time.
The question facing Koesler now: Would this picture hold up in the face of strong arguments against it? And he was not kidding himself: He was sure that even if he could join these fragments together so that they constituted a brand new theory of what had been going on here, he would face determined opposition. Indeed, opposition from the police who had been investigating the case. Opposition from the experts.
Koesler quite nearly quit at this point. Who was he kidding? He was no expert at solving crimes. The experts were upstairs now, questioning, challenging, solving the crime. And they were not even considering the scenario he’d seen with his mind’s eye as he put his own peculiar jigsaw puzzle together.
The trouble he faced now was that he was hesitant to test his theory. It seemed to him almost as if the theory were his baby, and he was afraid the baby was about to be declared ugly. But he could envision only two alternatives. One: swallow it; forget it. The police knew—or thought they knew—they were in the home stretch: They were homing in on the guilty party. They had hard evidence now that they’d found the remnants of the gasoline that, on the surface of it, was meant to blow Klaus Krieg sky-high. The temptation was strong to sit back and do nothing. It would be interesting to watch the remainder of this drama much like attending a movie. It seemed that the police were mere minutes away from a solution. But was it the solution?
Interesting question: Could it be possible for the police to solve this case incorrectly? What possible reason could there be for the police to be mistaken?
Two: The second alternative was to play out his hand as far as it would reach. The reason: It was probable the police lacked the insight he had as a Catholic priest and one who was interested in all aspects of religion. He owed it to his friend Walt Koznicki to test his hypothesis. He owed it to justice for the innocent as well as the guilty.
With any luck, it would require no more than a few phone calls. With a lot of luck, one call would do it.
Koesler walked to the general office. As he expected, Marygrove had a Catholic Directory of the Archdiocese of Detroit.
If nothing else, it had been a long time since he’d talked to his classmate, Father John Dunn. It would be pleasant to chat with him. And chat they would; John never used one word when he could think of two or three.
Koesler dialed 1-724-1135. Please God, let John be there and let this be the only call I have to make.
“You have reached Sacred Heart parish. This is the real-life Father John Dunn speaking . . .”
“It’s Bob Koesler, John—”
“Bobby! It’s so nice for us out in the boondocks when one of you big city slickers remembers us.”
“John, though we seldom write, we never forget. But, as it is, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can we get down to business?”
“Ah, ’twas ever so.”
“John, I need some information you may have in your records about an individual—maybe a family. It should be a baptismal record, maybe a marriage record.”
“Are you going to take care of the bill for all this?”
“Quit kidding.”
“All right, what’s the name?”
“Krieg.”
Silence. Then: “What is this, a run on that family this week?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the second call I got this week on the Kriegs.”
It was Koesler’s turn to be taken aback. “Who else?”
“I forget the priest’s name. Said he was with the tribunal in Windsor.”
Koesler did not know what to make of this. It was completely unexpected—and was certain to require more phone calls. But, sufficient for the moment the mystery thereof. “Well, John,” he said, “let’s get with this before it’s time for the World Series.”
“Say, Bob, what about those Tigers? Things look pretty bleak for them this time around. Puts one in mind of ‘The score stood six to five for the Mudville Nine that day. . .’”
Casey at the Bat! Well, it was small enough price to pay for finding Father Dunn at home and able to take nourishment.
23
When Father Koesler reached the classroom that was being used for the interrogation, he found it cordoned off by uniformed Detroit police. Evidently they had been instructed to allow him entree because, even as he hesitated, they opened a path for him.
He halted at the door of the classroom. A large two-way glass in the door permitted him to see into the room even if he could not hear what was being said. Whatever was going on must have been deadly serious judging from the expressions of those whose faces he could see. Sister Marie and Martha Benbow seemed to be in tears. The men looked as if they would be if it had been socially acceptable. He had arrived none too soon.
His knock at the door caused a look of surprise to supplant the intense grim expression everyone had been wearing. Lieutenant Tully appeared annoyed at the interruption. It was Inspector Koznicki who opened the door to Koesler.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your proceedings,” Koesler said.
“Quite all right, Father,” Koznicki said. “I fear we forgot you in the rush to begin this interrogation. Come right in.” He stepped back to let Koesler enter.
“If it’s all right with you, Inspector, instead of my coming in, I’d like to invite you to come out.”
Koznicki was clearly startled. “Come out? You want me to leave this interrogation?”
Koesler took a deep breath, then forged on. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. “Yes, Inspector, you, Lieutenant Tully, perhaps Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore. And ... the Reverend Krieg.”
This select subcast of characters did consent—after some hesitation— to as
semble in the office opposite the classroom. The police guards would ensure that the others, suspects all, would remain in their present classroom.
There was an air of expectancy in the office. Tully, Moore, and Mangiapane, as well as Koznicki, had, to a greater or lesser extent, worked with Koesler before. All knew that it was not like him to go out on a limb without good reason. It had better be considerably stronger than merely good to justify interrupting an interrogation that could and should close this investigation. Or so, at least, Tully thought.
Koesler easily dismissed the temptation to open with, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.” Instead . . .
“Something occurred to me,” the priest said, “that may make a considerable impact on this situation. It happened when you”—he nodded at Moore—“gave me Reverend Krieg’s—what shall I call it?—his curriculum vitae, as it were.”
Krieg, to this point, had appeared politely interested, even amused. Now, for just a split second, a look of apprehension crossed his face. The expression was noted by both Koznicki and Tully.
“Allow me to recapitulate,” Koesler said, “not because any of us is unaware of what’s happened, but because, to suit my purpose, I have to separate the facts—what we know happened—from an interpretation of those facts.”
Tully, particularly, felt this unnecessary, but said nothing. He had gone this far in including the priest in this investigation; he could see no reason not to humor him one more time.
“We began,” Koesler proceeded, “with four writers and a publisher invited as an ad hoc faculty for this workshop. The writers specialize in mystery novels cast in a religious setting. The protagonist in their books, in each case, is an extension of the author of each one: an Episcopal priest, a rabbi, a Trappist monk, a religious Sister. The publisher specializes in religious books. All five of these people are successful, in varying degrees in this general field.
“Now, it’s been established that Reverend Krieg wants—covets might be a better word—these four writers for his stable. And, to this end, he has offered each of them a contract to be published by RG. Press . . . all right so far?”
No one had any objection.
“I can well imagine,” Koesler continued, “that it would be flattering for a writer to be pursued by a publisher. But it’s a free country, and in keeping with that truth, there is nothing that says a writer must sign a contract with any specific publisher. All one need do is say no. Which, we are told, each and every one of these writers said to P.G. Press.
“On the other hand, it is nowhere written that a publisher need take no for an answer. And this, we are told, also happened. P.G. Press hounded—I think that’s the word—all four writers.
“Still, nothing terribly unusual going on. We’ve all had the experience of being pestered by salespeople who simply won’t give up. In fact, what we consider ‘pestering,’ to the dedicated salesperson is just a good salesperson doing his or her job.
“In this case, P.G. can say please. The writer can say no. P.G. can say pretty please. The writer can say a thousand times no. To some extent, just about everyone in this country has gone through this sort of verbal exchange at one time or another in one context or another.
“What startled every one of us on the outside looking in on this crossfire between writers and publisher was the vehemence of the writers in rejecting the publisher, and their evident antipathy—one might even say loathing or hatred—toward Reverend Krieg.
“Why, was the obvious question—why was everyone so emotionally riveted in his or her refusal to sign with P.G.? We are, after all, dealing with rational, dedicated religious people: a monk, a rabbi, a nun, and a priest. Here are people whom we should suppose have much more than average patience at their command. Here are people we would expect to be capable of politely refusing an offer—even if that offer were repeated too frequently. Yet even if we were to encounter one or another of the writers who might be lacking in a sustained ability to refuse politely ad infinitum we would not be terribly surprised. But, all of them? All of them? Each and every one of the writers was furious at P.G. Press and the Reverend Krieg. Why would that be?
“Then we learned that each of these writers had at least one deeply embarrassing episode in life that could spell ruin for career and/or vocation if the secret were to be revealed. You police suspected the existence of such skeletons. Your investigation uncovered these embarrassing secrets. It was then you discovered why the writers were so angry and why they were having such difficulty in making their rejections of P.G.’s overtures stick. The Reverend Krieg had uncovered these secrets and was threatening to reveal them unless the writers signed. He was making them an offer they could not refuse: blackmail.”
“Now, just one minute, Father Koesler,” Krieg said. “Praise God! Blackmail is a strong word. You can’t prove—”
“Hear him out, Krieg,” Tully cut in. “I think he’s getting to the good part.”
“I surely hope so,” Koesler said. “Anyway, we now have the reason why the writers are so angry with P.G. Press in general and Klaus Krieg in particular. But, angry enough for one of them to kill him?”
“Well, one of them tried,” Moore said. “One of them tried and got Rabbi Winer by mistake. And that’s what we’re trying to figure out now. Which one—or ones—tried to kill Krieg and got Winer by mistake.” She did not try to conceal her impatience.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Koesler said, “but before the event you describe, something else happened that I think was related. Remember the psychodrama? Reverend Krieg set up this play within a play, as it were, in which he was murdered—ostensibly by one of the writers. The staging was so realistic that I called the police, and Lieutenant Tully and Sergeant Mangiapane came here to investigate a murder that hadn’t happened.”
Mangiapane smiled. “That’s okay, Father. It happens. Like I told you then, this was not the first false alarm we ever answered.”
“And it was very kind of you, Sergeant, to let me off the hook. But the question that’s never been answered to my satisfaction is why the Reverend went to all that trouble. It was explained away as a kind of game. But I’ve always thought it was more than that.”
Krieg was smiling broadly. “I think that explanation is sufficient. But, Praise God, if you’ve got to look for something more, you have only to look at my state of mind. After all, I am not insensitive. What it boils down to is that, yes, I want these writers under contract. It will be beneficial to them and to P.G. Press. All right, for our mutual good, I may have pursued this matter a bit further than the average publisher might. But, Praise God, I’m only doing it for their own good. Can I help it if they develop an antipathy toward me to the point where I fear for my life? Maybe I did have more than one reason for staging that psychodrama. Maybe I wanted them to face realistically what evil consequences would follow if I were to be murdered. And just maybe I wanted the police to be alerted as well. Is there some sort of crime in this? I mean, really! Praise God!”
It was Koesler’s turn to smile. “That’s it exactly, Reverend Krieg. You did want the police in on this as early as possible.
“The reason is obvious. You had to know you were assembling four very angry people—four very threatened people—at this conference. Despite their religious station, it was well within the realm of possibility that one or more of them, pushed to the wall, might try to harm you—maybe even threaten your life. You brought your own bodyguard with you. But I can see where you would value having police protection as well.
“In fact, I think that’s why you stipulated that I be invited to take part in this workshop: because I have a history, limited though it might be, of having been involved in homicide investigations in the past. You figured that with your cleverly staged murder, there was a good chance I would get the police involved. And I did.”
Krieg still smiled, but not as broadly. “Now why would I do a fool thing like that?”
“A very good question,” Koe
sler said. “It didn’t even occur to me until just a short time ago, when I started to think of things in a different light. It all began when I learned that you were once a Catholic.”
Krieg’s voice had a touch of challenge to it. “You’re not going to hold that against me, are you?”
“No, Reverend, not that. But when I discovered you’d been a Catholic, I began to look for telltale traits that might be vestiges of your Catholic upbringing. Call it an avocation, but I am so deeply into Catholicism that I tend to value those little habits and superstitions that most of us Catholics share.
“Except . . . except that I didn’t find any such signs in your behavior. None at all.”
Krieg was clearly annoyed. “Really? Really! Hasn’t this gone on far enough? Inspector . . . Lieutenant . . . isn’t it about time we go back across the hall and get on with the investigation? I mean, Praise God, are we here to discuss homey little Catholic practices?”
“Sort of,” Koesler said. “But, as Lieutenant Tully said, we may be getting to the good part.
“After I looked for, but did not find, any distinctly Catholic idiosyncrasies in your mannerisms, it occurred to me that I might be going about this business backwards—something I’ve done lots more than once. So I just reviewed what I had observed about you in the few days I’ve known you.
“The very first thing that came to my mind when I tried to remember what you’d done that drew my attention was food.”
“Food!”
“Yes, food. I remembered our first dinner together on Sunday evening.”
“What of it?” Krieg was challenging. “I came late for dinner. As I remember, the food was cold.”
“Do you recall what you had to eat?”
“Of course not. It was of no consequence.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so at the time. But I noticed anyway.”
Masquerade Page 30
