Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  Harris tapped lightly on Koznicki’s door. Koznicki—like the genie in the bottle—appeared. Cox looked up at the Inspector in the manner of a sheepdog. He attempted a confident smile. He feared all he had achieved was a silly grin.

  While Koznicki paged through the diary, Cox did, indeed, have to tell the goddamn story again. After which, he had to answer questions.

  No, he had not known of the diary’s existence before finding it. No, he had not impersonated an officer to gain access to St. David’s rectory. Yes, he had shown the housekeeper his press pass. Yes, she may have thought it was a police credential. But what control could a reporter have over what someone thought?

  “Besides,” Cox attempted to reverse things and go on the offensive, “your guys passed right over it earlier in the afternoon. Why should I think it was important to you, when your guys left it sitting right there in the desk drawer?” He stopped short of mentioning the drawer had been locked.

  “Our guys?” Harris asked.

  Koznicki shook his head. “Must’ve been a team from the Fifteenth.”

  Father Koesler, who had been leaning against a file cabinet, which, miraculously, no one wanted to get into, smiled throughout the exchange. He was familiar with the participants in this conversation. He had worked rather closely with Koznicki and Harris in two previous criminal investigations. And he knew of Cox both through those investigations and also, slightly, through Koesler’s journalistic tenure at the Detroit Catholic. The priest considered it appropriate, turnabout being fair play, that a reporter should be grilled from time to time.

  “I see you have underlined certain passages,” said Koznicki, continuing to page through the diary.

  “Yeah,” Cox admitted. There was no point in implying the underlining might have been done by Thompson; why would he underline his own diary? “It helps me concentrate.”

  Koznicki, who was certain that Cox had photostated the diary pages, was about to conclude this discussion and make sure the diary went to and stayed with Missing Persons, when a detective caught the Inspector’s eye and beckoned him aside.

  Cox carefully studied Koznicki’s face as he received the brief whispered message. At one point, a bushy eyebrow arched—for Koznicki a show of significant emotion.

  Koznicki whispered to Harris, who immediately left the room. Without so much as a goodbye for Cox, Koznicki then left the room, motioning Father Koesler to follow.

  Odd, thought Cox. Odd that Koznicki would terminate so suddenly a conversation for which Cox alone was responsible. Odd that Koznicki would take the priest with him. Odd, come to think of it, that the priest was here at all. Odd that Koznicki had taken the diary with him. Indeed, after Koznicki had received the whispered message, he had seemed to clutch the diary more firmly.

  Cox went to a pay phone on the first floor of headquarters and dialed his paper.

  “City desk,” the familiar voice barked.

  “Nellie, I think something’s cooking here at headquarters. But I’m in a kind of awkward position to find out. What with going all over the building trying to get rid of the diary and all.”

  “Who’s got the diary?”

  “Koznicki. I gave it to him, somebody came in, and then he left in one hell of a hurry. I’ve got a hunch it’s got something to do with that Monsignor—Thompson.”

  “Where are you?”

  Cox gave him the number.

  “Stay there,” Kane ordered.

  Kane then phoned Brian Fogerty at the chaotic press office on the third floor of headquarters.

  “Fogerty!” There was no need for the caller to identify himself. “Find out if Koznicki is working on the Monsignor Thompson case and call me right back.”

  For what seemed a long time, Kane sat drumming his fingers against his desk as he chewed an unlit cigar. Finally, his phone rang.

  “That’s right,” Fogerty confirmed, “he’s on the Thompson case.”

  “He is.”

  “Yeah. They think the guy may have been iced.”

  “Iced?”

  “Axed.”

  “Axed?”

  “Wasted.”

  “Wasted? Whaddya mean, ‘iced, axed, wasted’?”

  “You know—killed.”

  “Well, for crissakes, say killed!”

  Damn kids, Kane thought as he slammed the phone in its cradle. Put them on a police beat, and they think they have to talk tougher than the cops.

  He dispatched Cox to De La Salle’s parking lot, the location Kane had gotten from Fogerty before shattering his eardrum with a slam-dunk hang-up.

  Kane rocked back in his chair. He liked it when things were humming. And, by God, so far this was a Free Press exclusive.

  Anyone seeing the parking lot early Monday, looking away, then looking back again, might have thought the single police car had given birth.

  What had begun as a quiet summer morning in the residential neighborhood that bordered City Airport and surrounded De La Salle High School had developed into a day the residents would remember and talk about for a long time.

  Now, just past noon, there were seven blue-and-whites from the Fifteenth Precinct on or around the parking lot. In addition, there were several vehicles used by various police experts from the Central Photo, Scientific, and Identification branches. Lieutenant Harris and two of his sergeants from Squad Six were there. Teams of detectives and patrol officers of the Fifteenth were there, fanning through the neighborhood searching for possible witnesses. Standing near the abandoned Cadillac were Inspector Koznicki and Father Koesler.

  Ordinarily, Koznicki would not have come. But he was aware of the personal concern of his friend. This concern and their friendship had brought Koesler and Koznicki to this now-busy parking lot.

  The experts were engaged in their fields of expertise. Koznicki was lecturing, something he enjoyed, to an audience of one.

  “This, Father,” Koznicki said with some solemnity, “is the most important moment in any investigation. This,” he gestured at the various police officers engrossed in their tasks, “the scene of an alleged crime.”

  Koesler looked about. All he saw was an abandoned car and a goodly number of working officers. The scene was beginning to flesh out with the arrival of press photographers, television crews, and reporters. He noticed Joe Cox had arrived. There was also a reporter from the News; Koesler could not recall his name.

  “All you’ve got is an empty car.” If he had to guess at when an investigation became important, Koesler would have thought all would do their best once these initial steps were completed and the investigation got on the road, so to speak.

  His reaction was to be expected. Bob Koesler had never been particularly attentive to fundamentals. As a very young boy beginning piano lessons, he had eschewed scales, arpeggios, and other nonmelodic practices in favor of simplified versions of the classics. His mother, an accomplished pianist, had accused him of building windows without foundations. It was true. Thus, he was better suited to the flamboyant guess that might solve a mystery than the dogged endeavors on which sound police work was based.

  “We’ve got much more than an empty car.” Koznicki smiled. “What you are looking at is silent evidence. No matter how careful criminals might be, they may leave behind fingerprints, footprints, hair, clothing fibers, blood; all these and more can accuse them.

  “This evidence does not forget; nor can it change its testimony. It does not get excited or confused. We can make a mistake. We can misinterpret evidence. But physical evidence cannot be wrong, cannot commit perjury… and it cannot be entirely absent.”

  Koesler was impressed.

  “For instance,” Koznicki continued, “because of the physical evidence initially found at this scene, what had been a missing person case is about to evolve into a full-fledged homicide investigation.”

  Koesler looked at the Inspector and telegraphed curiosity.

  “A spent cartridge shell from what appears to have been a .32-caliber automatic pistol was fou
nd on the front seat passenger side of the automobile, and tissues blotted with a bloodlike substance were found in the disposal container.”

  Koesler was about to say something but stopped short as Koznicki continued.

  “Lieutenant Harris and a couple of detectives from his squad are coordinating the investigation. Let’s go over and see what they’ve come up with so far.”

  Throughout Koznicki’s monologue, Koesler had been peripherally aware that officers were constantly reporting to Harris, who made notes of each report. Now, Harris had nodded to Koznicki, and the Inspector and the priest approached.

  “What have we got, Ned?” Koznicki asked.

  “Confirmed .32, no prints. Confirmed blood on the tissues; we’ll have to wait on the type. Tissues apparently from the dispenser on the floor midway between driver and passenger seats.

  “Officers Stopinski and Duby from the Fifteenth found witnesses across the street who saw the vandals, four of them, teens, at about the time they were removing the fourth tire. One witness yelled at them. Nothing. Then, he brought out his handy rifle, and they split. Probably why they got only tires and battery. Scared away before they could get serious about stripping this mother—uh…” Harris became conscious of the priest’s presence, “sorry, Father.”

  Koesler nodded forgiveness. Koznicki suppressed a smile.

  “Prints?” Koznicki asked.

  “Amazingly clean car. Must’ve been washed Saturday, after the rain. Not all that many prints on it. For one thing, we’re likely to pick up some small-time thieves, if not a homicide.”

  The word homicide in connection with Monsignor Thompson, a man Koesler knew well and considered terribly vital, sent a shiver through the priest.

  “There are some prints on the interior. Probably the owner’s,” Harris continued. “Funny thing: turns out the Monsignor was one of those honorary Wayne County Deputies. We’ve got records of his prints and blood type.” Harris smiled. Even small victories for the good guys Harris considered worth celebrating.

  “And then,” said Harris, “we come to the bad news. There are no prints on the steering wheel or gearshift.”

  “The rear-view mirror?” Koznicki asked.

  “Clean.”

  “Professional,” Koznicki commented.

  A precinct officer beckoned, and Harris moved to receive his report.

  “Oh,” said Koznicki, suddenly aware of the priest’s unasked questions, “the assumption now is that someone other than the Monsignor drove his car to this lot. There is no reason to assume the Monsignor would wipe off his own fingerprints.

  “The rear-view mirror without prints adds another dimension. Almost everyone before driving a strange car will adjust the rear-view mirror. Since no two drivers sit at exactly the same height and position in a car, the rear-view mirror is never at just the correct angle. Most run-of-the-mill thieves forget they’ve adjusted the mirror; they clean all their prints except those on the mirror. In this case, however, the mirror is clean. Which means not only was the mirror adjusted by a driver other than Monsignor Thompson, but it was wiped clean. Very professional.”

  “Uh… “ Koesler was reluctant to break in on Koznicki’s ponderings. “I was going to mention a little while back: Monsignor Thompson carried a gun.”

  “What?”

  “We were driving together some place several months ago, and Tommy asked me to get something from the glove compartment. When I opened it, there was this gun.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “Well,” he tried to find a way of describing the gun without comparing apples and oranges, “it didn’t seem as large as the guns most of these uniformed officers, are carrying.”

  “Smaller than a .38, then. Did it have a cylinder like the ones you see on these guns?”

  “No.”

  “An automatic. That could be it. Of course, if the Monsignor had the gun registered, we would have found out about it eventually. But it doesn’t hurt to know early.”

  “Judging from the way Tommy related to law,” said Koesler, “he probably had the gun registered.”

  Koznicki moved quickly to consult with Harris.

  It was the opportunity for which Joe Cox had been waiting. From the time he’d been ushered in to be quizzed by Inspector Koznicki, Cox had been curious about the presence of Father Koesler. Why would the priest be at headquarters? Even more curious, why would he be here, at the probable scene of a possible crime? Cox moved quickly but, he hoped, inconspicuously to the priest’s side.

  “Joe Cox, Free Press,” he introduced himself.

  “I know,” said Koesler.

  That pleased Cox inordinately. Nobody remembered reporters. On-camera TV personalities were probably among the best-known people in town. Columnists whose likenesses appeared with their columns were moderately well-known, particularly if their photos resembled reality. But nobody knew reporters. It was rare when people even recognized reporters’ names from their by-lines. Woodward, Bernstein, Jimmy Breslin, that was about it. But Koesler recognized Cox. What a Pulitzer will do for a guy!

  “I’ve been wondering, Father,” said Cox, “to be blunt, just what are you doing here?”

  “I’m a friend. Just a concerned friend.”

  Recalling what he had read in Thompson’s diary, Cox thought were probably wouldn’t be many willing to identify themselves as a friend of the Monsignor.

  “You’re sure you’re not here as an expert consultant?” Cox pushed his interrogation another notch.

  Koesler smiled. “No. No. What would the police want with a suburban pastor?”

  “If memory serves, Father, you were pretty useful back in the days of The Rosary Murders.”

  “That! That was luck. No, I’m just a friend of the Monsignor’s. Just concerned about his welfare.”

  Cox ripped a corner from a sheet in his notepad and scribbled his name and phone number on it. He handed it to Koesler.

  “Here, Father; just in case anything occurs to you about this case while it’s being investigated, give me a call, would you?”

  Cox noticed that Koznicki was returning, accompanied by the burly, white-haired head of the Fifteenth Precinct. Cox wished to avoid any further contact with Koznicki this day. Better to wait till the furor over the diary was forgotten.

  No matter what the priest disclaimed, Cox was certain the police would use Koesler as a consultant in the disappearance of the Monsignor. Cox vowed to be included in whatever light the priest might shed on this investigation.

  Koznicki introduced Inspector Michael O’Hara to Koesler.

  “You’ll also be investigating this case, Inspector?” Koesler asked.

  “Ah, call me Mike, Father.” Just a trace of brogue. “Yes, since the good Monsignor’s car was found in our precinct, we’ll be workin’ on the case too.” He smiled. “But since it’s a possible homicide, I’ll be workin’ for big Walt here.” He playfully cuffed Koznicki’s arm.

  “It’s anybody’s guess who will be working for whom.” Koznicki returned the smile.

  O’Hara grew serious. “Only thing I can’t figure is, who’d want to harm a good monsignor?”

  If only you knew, Koesler thought. Matter of fact, if O’Hara investigates, he’ll discover the “good Monsignor” had managed to accumulate more than a fair share of enemies.

  “Finding out what happened to the ‘good Monsignor’ should keep us both pretty busy for a while,” said Koznicki.

  “At least we’re starting this investigation even,” said O’Hara.

  “Not quite,” replied Koznicki, “your people found the car.”

  “Ah, yes, but you’re the one who turned in the missing person report.”

  “I guess you’re right, Mike. We start even.”

  With that, and a tip of his hat to Father Koesler, O’Hara left. Koznicki led Koesler to the Inspector’s car. “I want you to have a copy of this diary, Father,” said Koznicki. “I’ll have one made for you at headquarters.”

  �
��Oh, no; thank you, but I don’t care to have a copy.” Instinctively, Koesler shrank from prying into the private life of Tommy Thompson.

  Koznicki stopped and faced the priest. “Cox and the Free Press undoubtedly have a copy. We will make some copies for our investigating officers. And I think it important that you have a copy. If we are going to find out what has happened to Monsignor Thompson, his diary may just prove to be the key. You may be able to help us. Will you?”

  “If you put it that way,” Koesler said resignedly, “of course.”

  During the return drive to headquarters, Koesler reflected on the repartee between Inspectors Koznicki and O’Hara. It reminded him of the kind of familiar kidding that went on amongst priests. And why not? The two professions shared not a few similarities. Both were either completely or preponderantly staffed by males. Both demanded an extreme degree of dedication. And both were completely outside the mainstream of American life.

  There was a sense of the sacred associated with all secrets, as far as Bob Koesler was concerned.

  He concurred with the notion that there was a hierarchy among secrets. At the top of the list was the storied seal of confession, followed by the professional secret, on down to the simple confidence that one person places in another. Where others measured these secrets in terms of their range of revealability, Koesler’s attitude was that all secrets were to be guarded. He’d always been somewhat uneasy even hearing confessions in a setting wherein the penitent voluntarily reveals most intimate secrets. His discomfort stemmed from the subtle pressure to go to confession that many Catholics had experienced.

  So it was with genuine reluctance that he had accepted the Xeroxed copy of Monsignor Thompson’s diary, along with Inspector Koznicki’s charge to read it, familiarize himself with it, indeed, study it.

  By the very nature of a diary, as well as the way those who had read or glanced through Thompson’s diary spoke of this one, Koesler knew it contained the writer’s innermost thoughts and feelings. There was no question in Koesler’s mind that the reading of this diary was an invasion of Thompson’s most precious privacy. The question raised by Koznicki concerned the necessity for invading that privacy.