Kane loved it. He relished mystery stories about rotten monsignors even more than weeping statues in Catholic churches. He’d taken some flak from the Archbishop’s press secretary, Father Octavio, who protested what he saw as bad publicity for Monsignor and Church alike. Octavio had threatened to get out a letter to all parishes suggesting that Free Press subscriptions be canceled by The Faithful. But Kane could eat priest-secretaries and never know he’d had a meal.
For now, the city editor had other concerns. He wanted to talk to his premier reporter before Cox escaped out into this beautiful day.
“I see,” said Kane as Cox reached his desk, “you’ve been engaged in comparison shopping.”
Cox caught the allusion to his study of his own treatment of the Missing Monsignor story as contrasted with that of the News.
“Comparisons are odious,” Cox quoted with a cherubic grin.
“But when it comes to you and Ankenazy and the Missing Monsignor, they’re sweet… right?”
Cox merely widened his grin.
“Listen, Cox,” Kane worked an unlit cigar from the left to the right side of his mouth, “I’ve seen this happen a dozen times. You’re on top, you get ahead of the competition, and then you start getting cocky. And then the whole thing blows up in your face.”
The grin faded.
“And I don’t intend for that to happen to us on this story!” Kane asserted.
“Hey, look, Nellie,” Cox protested, “I know damn well that Ankenazy is among the best the News has. If both of us had the damned diary, I’d be running my ass off trying to find an angle to beat him. But the poor bastard hasn’t got it. I don’t even know how he’s managed to stay even with me so far. But he just hasn’t got Thompson’s own words. And that’s the heart of this story.
“No, Nellie, if I’m cocky about anything, it’s just that I’m the one who got on this story early. I’m the one who found the diary. Since then, it’s been mostly downhill sledding. Hell, I could practically write this story now without leaving the city room.
“And it was interesting seeing the Cicero woman open up when she realized that I knew about her dealings with Thompson. I wish I could have seen Brand. But at least we’ve got his statement. It’s going to be fun seeing how each one of these suspects reacts.”
“Who’s next?”
Cox paged through his notepad. “Neiss, a Father David Neiss, at… uh… Divine Child parish. I’ve got an appointment with him,” Cox checked his watch, “in about half an hour. Damn, I’d better get on my horse!”
“Cox,” Kane articulated his most serious and profound concern, “when are you going to get to Lennon?”
“All in good time, Mein Führer. All in good time and in proper order.”
In the back of Cox’s mind lurked the possibility of this mystery’s being solved before Lennon’s turn to be interviewed came up. Cox believed there was no need to make enemies needlessly. Especially when the prospective enemy was the woman with whom he shared bed and board. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and breezed out of the city room.
I don’t like it, thought Kane. No, goddammit, I don’t care: I don’t like it. He’s too goddamn cocky. This thing is going to blow up, and we’re going to have ecclesiastical egg all over our faces.
Kane had been in the city room and the company of volatile reporters too long for him to question an instinct as deeply rooted as this one.
“At least he’s got an alibi,” said Patrick.
“That puts him one up on Mrs. Cicero,” said Lynch.
The two detectives, along with Ned Harris, Walt Koznicki, and Father Koesler, were studying the report on the interview with Lee Brand by the Vancouver police.
“There’s no doubt,” said Patrick, “that on August 11, from 10 P.M. on, our time, Brand was not only on board the Alaskan Queen, but the ship had left port and was at sea.”
“That pretty well takes him out of the Detroit area at the time of the disappearance,” said Lynch.
“Unless…unless…” Koznicki leaned forward in his chair, “is it possible the Monsignor could have joined Brand later on?”
“Yeah,” Harris brightened, “suppose Brand arranged for Thompson to join the cruise at some later port of call.”
“But we have the passenger manifest,” said Lynch. “Thompson’s name is nowhere on this list. Nor is there anyone listed from the Detroit area besides Brand and his wife.”
“Can’t others besides passengers come on board at a port of call?” Harris asked.
“Yes,” said Patrick. “But if anyone stays aboard after the ship leaves port, and if he doesn’t become a paying passenger, he becomes a stowaway. And, according to the report, the purser said that eventually one or another of the cabin stewards will always become aware of the presence of a stowaway.”
“So it comes down to this,” Lynch summed up, “if a passenger’s name does not appear on the passenger manifest, he is not a passenger.”
“Unless,” said Harris thoughtfully, “he’s under an assumed name.”
“Yes, but,” interjected Koesler, a bit self-consciously, “even if he were—even if Monsignor Thompson had left Detroit to join a cruise, under whatever name, I’m sure he would have made provision for someone to cover for him on the weekend at Shrine. To say nothing of his absence from the Tribunal. Monsignor Thompson is just not the type to voluntarily leave his obligations unattended.”
“Well, what do you say, men?” Koznicki asked.
“It seems to me,” said Patrick, “that Brand had as good or better a motive as anyone on our list for taking revenge against Thompson. But, as of this moment, there seems to be no case against him. His alibi seems to be beyond question.”
“All right, then,” said Lynch, “we move right along to the next customer, Father David Neiss.”
Koznicki caught the sense of discomfort on Koesler’s part.
“Something, Father?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that I find it repugnant to think of a priest committing an act of violence, particularly against a fellow priest.”
“These are leads we are following, Father,” Koznicki reminded. “Of their very nature, most of them will take us nowhere. But, if we are to be able to find Monsignor Thompson, or discover what happened to him, we must follow every lead we have.”
“I understand, Inspector. It’s just an instinctive response on my part.”
“Well,” said Lynch, “every investigation continues with the next lead. Or, GOYAKOD.”
“GOYAKOD?” Koesler puzzled.
Harris laughed and decoded: “Get Off Your Ass and Knock On Doors.”
“Coming, Father?” Lynch asked.
He was not sure why, but Koesler rose and went off to accompany Patrick and Lynch on the next leg of their investigation.
Joe Cox had not been alone in comparing News and Free Press coverage of the Missing Monsignor series this bright Thursday morning. The News’s Robert Ankenazy and Leon London had been likewise occupied. In fact, the two had had a spirited argument over the wisdom of continuing the series.
Ankenazy had no argument as to the present superiority of the Free Press’s coverage. His contention was that once begun, the News was obliged to complete the series no matter how apparent it became that they were being forced to march doggedly in the Free Press’s footsteps.
London’s opening premise had been that the News should not have become involved with this story at all. Ankenazy should have perceived and admitted at the outset that all early leads and impetus belonged to the Free Press. It was a premise for which Ankenazy had no defense.
In the end, Ankenazy won London’s grudging accidence to his assertion that the News must continue coverage for the time being. But, London insisted, as soon as the News could cut its losses and run, it must do so.
Following the agreement, Ankenazy once again called on Sergeant Terri Scanlon and, utilizing her good offices, discovered the identity of the next suspect to be questioned—Father Da
vid Neiss. It was a small trickle of good luck in an ocean of bad. Neiss was a friend of Ankenazy’s wife; through her, the two men had met socially a few times. At least he would not have to question a total stranger.
Ankenazy called on Neiss just after lunch, and, as he had come to expect, found that Neiss had had two visits earlier that day. The everpresent Cox had been first, followed by that peculiar threesome of Patrick, Lynch, and Koesler. Ankenazy’s discouragement was patent.
“What’s the matter, Bob?” Neiss asked as the interview concluded. “Haven’t I answered your questions well enough?”
Ankenazy smiled in spite of his feelings. Neiss was a man without guile. “It isn’t that,” he said. “As a matter of fact, your statement is the most helpful of the three I’ve had so far.”
“Well, I just tried to answer about the same as I did for that other reporter and the police.”
“Fine; you did fine. The thing that grinds my—the thing that bothers me is, how did they find you, and how do they know what to ask?”
“The diary, I suppose.”
“The what?”
“The diary. The police have a diary that Monsignor Thompson kept, and the Free Press reporter has a copy of it.”
A diary. A goddamn diary! Suddenly, as if layers of cataracts were falling from his eyes, the picture began to clear for Ankenazy. The police had found a diary belonging to Thompson. No… wait; they wouldn’t have let Cox have it. Certainly not without giving the News the same break. No; Cox must have found the diary, made a copy, and given the original to the police. That had to be it.
Ankenazy ‘s problems were by no means over, but it was reassuring just knowing the etiology. How much further could he push this? There was only one way to find out.
“Did either the reporter or police show you the diary?” Ankenazy had moved to the edge of his chair in Neiss’s office.
“No, not the actual diary. The reporter showed me a photostat of what Monsignor Thompson had written about me… it was pretty bad.” He blushed. “The police just asked me questions. But it was obvious they had read the diary. They asked questions about things they could have known only from what the Monsignor wrote about me.
“Did the reporter show you any more of the diary than just what Thompson wrote about you?”
“No, just that.”
“O.K., Father. Now, just a moment while I try to put this all together.”
This, of course, explained why Cox and the police were checking the same suspects almost simultaneously. Both were undoubtedly following, in succession, the names in the order Thompson had mentioned them in his diary.
There were X numbers—Ankenazy could not know how many—of petitioners or associates of Thompson’s who were written about in the diary. Clearly, what Thompson had written about them, the way Thompson had mistreated them, made it obvious that each of these people had adequate reason to wish Thompson ill.
Think now, Ankenazy commanded himself: The people on the list from which Cox and the police are working are the ones Thompson mentions in his diary—the ones Thompson professes to have screwed. But, from what he, Ankenazy, had been able to learn so far, screwing people was something Thompson did well. Maybe what he did best. The people in Thompson’s diary are those who Thompson himself would admit have little love for him.
And what about the others? There must be dozens of people who would have reason to wish Thompson ill.
Put it this way: if Thompson has been murdered, perhaps, perhaps likely, one of those mentioned in his diary did it. Maybe it was just as possible that someone whose life Thompson had ruined but had not even mentioned in the diary had done it. They’re out there, Ankenazy knew it. But how to find them?
Well, why not begin with this young priest in whom there was no guile?
“Father,” Ankenazy returned full attention to Neiss, “neither you nor I know who else is mentioned in that diary. But we know the police are investigating people who have reason to dislike—to put it mildly—Monsignor Thompson.
“As a reporter, I have an obligation to investigate along the same lines. But I don’t know who else might fit in this category. Do you know of anyone—not a housewife or a banker; they’ve already been investigated—who would have reason to dislike… uh… intensely, Monsignor Thompson?”
“Gee, I don’t know if I can answer a question like that.” Neiss’s inclination was to be helpful. But this request appeared to compromise his obligation to protect professional secrets.
“I know how you feel, Father.” Ankenazy’s attitude was solicitous. “But as long as the name or names you give me are not protected by the seal of confession, I can keep a professional secret, too. And I would explain to any source you give me that he or she is free to cooperate with me or not. But if I get cooperation, the source would be protected by anonymity. I promise that.”
It was Neiss’s turn to ask for a few moments for reflection.
None of what he could tell Ankenazy fell under the protection of the seal. If he were to give the reporter a name, the source would be free to refuse the interview out of hand or to cooperate. In some sense, letting out one’s feelings about the Monsignor could have a cathartic effect. He had felt better after telling the reporter and police about at least part of his relationship with Monsignor Thompson.
“O.K. But you promise these people will be free not to answer questions if they don’t want to?”
“I haven’t the power of the police. I can only ask. And, since they haven’t been charged with any crime, I couldn’t use their names publicly whether they cooperate or not. And the police can’t force me to reveal their names.”
“Well,” Neiss said, “there is this newly married couple…” He felt strange using the phrase since they had not been married in the Church. “…Mr. and Mrs. Harry Kirwan. I don’t have their address, but I think his phone is listed.”
“Thank you, Father.” Ankenazy felt better than he had in days.
“Oh, and there’s one other. Somebody Father Cavanaugh mentioned who was considerably upset by the Tribunal’s rules and seemed to take specific objection to Monsignor’s position. That would be…" Neiss rattled his memory, "a Mr. Janson. Fred Janson. I think he is a lawyer.”
Ankenazy thanked Neiss, left the rectory, and drove away.
Today, Cox, you bastard, he thought, I’m going to match you stride for stride. Tomorrow, I believe I’ll begin my own investigation.
Oh, yes, this was an extremely beautiful day.
7
Father Norman Shanley guessed that any association whatsoever with Lee Brand had to involve a mixture of good and bad news; Certainly, such was the case with himself.
If it hadn’t been for Brand, Shanley would not have been suspended from his priestly ministry for a month. At least not yet. Obviously, there was no way of knowing what the future held. Perhaps his casual approach to canon law would have attracted the hierarchy’s attention at some time in the future, perhaps not. But agreeing to witness Brand’s daughter’s wedding, with all the attendant hoopla, definitely had caught the hierarchical eye and ear.
Still, Shanley continued to be unable to totally fault Brand. His charge of reverse discrimination if Shanley witnessed problem marriages of the poor but not of the rich still rang true. If only Brand had not made the wedding into The Greatest Show on Earth. But, Shanley reasoned, ex post facto, wherever Brand goes, there the media gather.
On the other hand, Shanley had never lived so well. He was now ensconced in a penthouse in the prestigious 1300 Lafayette East high-rise. Brand maintained the suite for out-of-town guests and emergencies. He had insisted that Shanley use the suite for the duration of his suspension. He had made arrangements to provide food and whatever else the priest might want. Shanley had decided to be good to himself for once, put a good face on the matter, and enjoy a lifestyle he had no reason to expect he would ever experience again.
It was now late Sunday morning. He had attended Mass earlier at the nearby and nearly
empty Jesuit church, Sts. Peter and Paul. Nondescript churchy music droned from the radio. Shanley relaxed in a comfortable leather chair. The window-wall’s southern exposure provided a memorable view of the Detroit River and southwestern Ontario. Alternately, Shanley gazed at the peaceful scene or read the Sunday papers.
Ordinarily, he would not have noticed it, but with nothing but time on his hands, he was reading the papers more carefully than usual. Thus it was that Shanley happened to see the announcement in the Detroit News’s August 5 issue. Monsignor Thomas Thompson would be at a wedding reception at Roma Hall in East Detroit on the evening of August 11. It was unlikely that any of his cronies would be with him. He would be unguarded, unprotected, among strangers, virtually alone, vulnerable.
Shanley let the paper slip to the floor. Thoughts and impressions of Monsignor Thompson flooded Shanley’s conscious and subconscious. A montage began forming in his imagination. Thompson’s face appeared, along with those of Elvira and Leroy Sanders. Faces of others whose fates had been extracanonically repaired blended into the imaginary picture.
There was no doubting Thompson’s ultimate goal. In successfully prosecuting Shanley, Thompson had made his first successful incursion against the core-city ministry. Now he would be able to hound the other priests. If Thompson were able to impose strict canonical procedures on the central city, the ecclesiastical ball game would be finished for the poor of downtown Detroit.
All this probably would happen if Thompson went unchecked. And who was there to stop him? No one that Shanley could think of. No one but himself.
But could he do it? He could not even bring himself to think of the word. Murder. He kept thinking of the deed as it.
And if he did it, what could he possibly do with what remained? The body.
Each time Shanley tried to dismiss the idea, the images of those poor people would return to haunt him.
Maybe it would not be all that impossible. All that was necessary for evil to triumph, he reminded himself, was for good people to do nothing.
Mind Over Murder Page 28
