Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  And woe it was. As Thompson read the clippings, presented in chronological order, his face took on a progressively deeper hue. It was a combination of embarrassment and rage. As he neared the final clipping, he grew livid and began to sputter.

  “What is the meaning of this outrage! Who is responsible for this! Where did this come from!”

  The other passengers on the terrace looked on, evidencing awkwardness over the disturbance. This was not good form. Some of the onlookers were among the wealthy new acquaintances Thompson had cultivated. They began to question the as-yet tenuous ties that bound them to this person.

  “We don’t know the answers to all the questions, yet, Monsignor,” said Patrick, “but as to where these stories originated… ” He handed Thompson the diary.

  “My diary! Where did you get it?”

  “It’s a long story, Monsignor, but I think the gentleman sitting next to you can tell us most of the answers.”

  Thompson turned to face Brand, who gazed back with a look of serene contempt.

  “You!” Thompson spat out. “You did it! You’ve ruined me!” His eyes blazed. “I am no stranger to revenge, Brand. But this is more than un-Christian, it is devilish!”

  Thompson clearly was on the verge of tears. Patrick feared he might possibly be near a stroke or something equally catastrophic.

  “Why don’t you get your things, Monsignor,” he said, gently. “You can come back to Detroit with me.”

  Silent now, tears of anger and shame brimming his eyes, Thompson rose slowly from the table and stumbled in the direction of his cabin. “Yes, yes, Sergeant. I’ll be right with you.”

  He spoke so quietly Patrick could scarcely hear him. As he left them, the Monsignor somehow seemed to have shrunk and aged.

  “Are there any charges against me, Sergeant?” Brand, unconcernedly sipping coffee, continued to look smug.

  “Not just at this moment, Mr. Brand. But you are returning to Detroit, aren’t you?”

  “Right after we finish this cruise on the twenty-fifth.”

  “We would appreciate it if you would make yourself available on your return.”

  “Certainly.” Brand did not rise. But as the policeman got up to leave, Brand looked up, “By the way, Sergeant, who told you where to find Monsignor Thompson?”

  “You may find this a little unusual, but it was Father Koesler.”

  Father Koesler. Who would have thought it? Brand recalled the priest’s visiting briefly on the Fourth of July and then again in his office when Brand was looking for a nonconformist priest to perform his daughter’s noncanonical wedding.

  Father Koesler, who seemed so bland. Who would have thought it? Well, Brand concluded, I owe him one. Their finding Thompson now is an unimagined stroke of luck. One more day and I would have been responsible for what, in the light of what happened today, would have been a most foolish murder.

  As of now, the police have no criminal charge to bring against me. If tomorrow’s planned incident had taken place, they undoubtedly would have brought a charge of suspicion of murder.

  Well, all’s well that ends well. Sunny and I can enjoy the remainder of our cruise.

  He did not bother bidding farewell to Monsignor Thompson.

  This would be Father Koesler’s final appearance at police headquarters, at least in connection with the Thompson investigation. Koesler breathed a small prayer that it would be the absolutely final visit. The few times he had participated in police investigations, he had never felt comfortable about his involvement. Left to his own devices, he would be happy to be just a parish priest. That was all he had ever wanted to be.

  Not that he did not enjoy his relationship with Inspector Koznicki. But the pleasure of their friendship could be enjoyed without the big gray building at 1300 Beaubien.

  The meeting between Koznicki, Harris, Patrick, Lynch, and Koesler had concluded only minutes ago. Patrick told them of his finding Thompson and Brand together and the ensuing confrontation. The detective also told of his trip back with Thompson. It had been pretty grim.

  As far as the police were concerned, the case was closed. No one involved had broken any laws for which the police cared to file charges. And unless Thompson intended to bring charges, which, under the circumstances, seemed unlikely, Brand would be subject to no legal action.

  When Koesler wondered about Brand’s having lied to the Vancouver police, Harris had explained that although lying might be a sin, lying to an investigating officer was not a crime.

  Now, Koesler and Koznicki were enjoying kafe in a Greektown restaurant.

  “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Father, how proud of you I was last Tuesday,” said Koznicki.

  Koesler smiled. “I had to come up with something after the Cicero caper.”

  “Nonsense,” said Koznicki, returning the smile. “I have done the same type of thing more often than I care to remember. Particularly with unpredictable human nature, every logical bit of evidence can point in one direction, only to prove a false lead.”

  “To err is human, eh? No, I think I just had a different set of experiences that led me to suspect Brand. I could see how determined he was that Monsignor Thompson should solve his problem. And then I witnessed Brand’s arbitrary, almost vicious behavior toward bank clients. He was simply not the sort of man who could rest without revenge.

  “Then there was that private investigative agency that seemed to be an extension of his right arm. And I don’t know why any of your officers should know that a priest might be a member of a ship’s crew.

  “But Brand had more than his share of luck, which frequently happens to damn-the-torpedoes types. At any point along the way his scheme could have fallen apart… if Thompson hadn’t been in such a rush to leave the reception that he didn’t notify any of his associates of his planned absence… if the Vancouver police had asked the purser for Monsignor Thompson, instead of merely asking for a manifest…

  “But, of course, at that time no one had any reason to even suspect the Monsignor was onboard; their assignment was merely to ascertain whether Brand had an alibi for the time of the Monsignor’s disappearance.

  “And even then, unless they had questioned the purser himself, they still probably wouldn’t have known of the Monsignor’s presence—it isn’t like the good old days of luxury liners when the purser was a seagoing watchdog. Nowadays, the purser spends most of his time sequestered in his inner sanctum, leaving the day-to-day passenger contact to his assistants in the outer office. Frequently, these assistants speak or understand only basic English and might not even have known of the Monsignor’s presence or status. Or, if they did, could have had trouble either comprehending the police questions or communicating the answers.

  “There were so many ifs. But, as Louis Pasteur said, chance favors the prepared mind. And Brand was prepared. And lucky.” He smiled. “As I was in coming up with the solution.”

  “As usual, you are being modest, Father. If the thought had occurred, it is certainly logical to expect a clergyman to get at least a free trip in exchange for his services. No, one of us might have reached the correct conclusion sooner or later. The fact is, you did.”

  “Well, at least there are no dead bodies around this time.”Koesler finished his kafe. “By the way, Inspector, did you get an invitation to a banquet this Sunday at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars?”

  Koznicki mentally checked his appointment calendar. “I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I didn’t. An invitation from whom?”

  “None other than Lee Brand. The invitation came from his social secretary, who followed it up with a confirming phone call. I have no idea what it’s all about. But I think I’ll go and find out.”

  “Wait a minute,” Koznicki raised a hand, “the Wine Cellars is not open on Sunday.”

  “Apparently it is for Lee Brand. Everything opens for Lee Brand.”

  “I am surprised he invited you. You are the one who found him out.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Brand d
oes not intend to give me an award.”

  “If I were you,” said Koznicki, solemnly, “I’d be on my guard. Lee Brand may have wreaked vengeance on Monsignor Thompson, but I fear he is like a killer shark: his thirst for vengeance is never entirely satisfied.”

  “How did you like my wrap-up on the Thompson case?” Cox called from the living room.

  In the bedroom, making final preparations for an evening at the Fisher Theatre, Pat Lennon smiled. All Joe Cox needed to stay happy was infinite love and literary reassurance.

  “You did swell, sweetie,” she called out. “Almost as good as Bob Ankenazy.”

  Silence. Then, “What do you mean, ‘almost as good’! My ‘Monsignor Under a Microscope’ was yards better than his ‘The Money Man Did It’!”

  Lennon emerged from the bedroom. She was stunning in a loose-fitting white gown. “Sure it was, lover. You’ve just got to get used to the fact that my loyalties are divided. Between the company that pays me very well and the man I love.”

  “Speaking of the man you love,” Cox put down the magazine he’d been paging through, “have you given any thought to that marriage case of yours down at the Tribunal?”

  “Please, Joe, not after what I’ve been through!”

  “O.K., O.K.! Too soon! Too soon! But keep it in the back of your mind. The only problem you had in that process was Thompson. And, given the fact that that was a serious problem, it seems he’s not going to be around much longer.”

  Lennon looked at Cox sharply. “Is that a fact, Joe? Has it been announced?”

  “Not officially, mind you, but the word is out. I was talking with Father Octavio and, while he’s still kissed off about the series on Thompson, he still wants to be friends. Anyway, he said some kind of transfer is in the works.”

  “Somehow,” Lennon said thoughtfully, “I don’t think a lateral arabesque is what the Thompson problem needs. Something more drastic is called for.”

  “Well, if the scuttlebutt is true, there’ll be a new man at the top in the Tribunal soon. Probably that Father Oleksiak. And you got along well enough with him.”

  “Maybe… maybe.” She adjusted her stockings. He admired her legs. “I need some time.”

  “While we’re making plans for the future…” Cox rose; they were about ready to leave. “…how about some golf this Sunday? I’m sure you’d like to renew acquaintance with that phlegmatic phenomenon, Nelson Kane.”

  “That would be nice, seeing Nellie again. But not this Sunday. I’ve been invited to a banquet by none other than The Money Man Who Did It.”

  “He’s not even back from the cruise yet!”

  “His social secretary made the arrangements. I have no idea what it’s all about, but I can’t wait to find out.”

  “Where’s it going to be?”

  “Pontchartrain Wine Cellars.”

  After a pause, Cox remarked, “But that’s not open on Sundays.”

  “Apparently it is for Lee Brand. Everything opens for Lee Brand.”

  His entire life had turned around and was now headed in the wrong direction. It had gone steadily downhill since last Wednesday when he’d first discovered what Brand had done to him.

  Monsignor Thompson had returned directly to Detroit, where he had found his career in shambles. There weren’t even that many people who seemed happy to see him alive. Mary Alberts was about it. She had known all along, what he was and had tacitly forgiven each abuse or indiscretion as it occurred.

  Al Braemar and Tony Vermiglio had not even returned his phone calls. He had gone down to the Tribunal on Thursday, but it was like a tomb. No one called. No one, with the exception of Mary Alberts, talked to him. He had just gone through the motions, then returned to St. David’s where he spent a quiet evening with scotch and TV.

  But Friday had been the nadir. Monsignor Iming had called early Friday morning to inform him that the Archbishop would see him at 10 A.M. It was during that meeting he’d learned that all the rungs on the ecclesial ladder he’d been climbing had been removed.

  Thompson had been impressed with the fact that when Lee Brand got angry, two parallel vertical lines formed in his forehead. But when the Archbishop became angry, his forehead furrowed, and his heavy eyebrows seemed almost to meet. And Boyle had been angry—with that extremely rare but controlled anger that was typical of only a highly self-disciplined person.

  The conversation between Boyle and Thompson had not treated of ecclesiastical sanctions of any kind. It had to do with scandal and effectiveness. Public relations. The effect the recent incidents would have on Thompson’s functioning as a priest and officialis. Never once did Boyle refer directly to Thompson’s diary or the contents of the news stories. As far as Boyle was concerned, a diary was like a confessional. An internal forum that Boyle, at least, would never drag into the external forum.

  For a time, Thompson had fought the inevitable. He argued that he could regain a good reputation. Boyle remonstrated that at least in the area where his conduct and thoughts had been made public, this would be impossible, at least in the foreseeable future.

  Thompson suggested a lawsuit against Brand. Boyle argued that such litigation could not possibly obliterate Thompson’s own written words. Words that had been turned against him. Such a trial would only lead to more scandal, washing the Church’s dirty linen in public, dragging all the nastiness out again, perhaps even more spectacularly. And, Boyle warned, Thompson’s last state would be worse than his first.

  Gradually, Boyle led Thompson to the inevitable conclusion: that if Thompson were going to continue to exercise his priesthood, it could not be in the Detroit Archdiocese. At least not in the foreseeable future. Once Thompson was able to accept this, it came time for Boyle to inform him where he would be going. The Archbishop handed him a letter of official appointment. Thompson would keep it always. It read:

  For the care of souls, I have it in mind to assign you to St. Mary of the Sea Seminary in Mundelein, Illinois. There you will assume the duties of professor of canon law. The matter of excardination and incardination has been settled. By the consent of His Eminence, William Cardinal Hitchcock, you will be a priest of the Archdiocese of Chicago.

  The appointment was effective August 27—Monday. Thompson had just two days to pack and clear out of town.

  At first he had been almost literally in a state of clinical shock. After reading the letter of appointment, he sat silent for a lengthy period. That he must leave Detroit he had come to accept during his conversation with Boyle. But out of state? Teaching in a seminary? What a profound, radical change. Only the Church would expect her ministers to change from black to white overnight and never break stride. The supportive words of a solicitous Boyle eventually pulled Thompson from his melancholy.

  Now, Saturday, August 25, Monsignor Thompson was packing. He would take the plane to Chicago and have his belongings picked up by the movers. Odd, he thought, according to his original plans, today he would have been docking in Los Angeles with the Brands. In reality, he was being run out of Detroit. Only the rail was missing.

  Late the previous night, Thompson had finally managed to purge his mind of the last evil thought about Lee Brand. Such thoughts were a waste of time. There was no way he could strike back at Brand. It was time to dismiss him and look to the future. He must rebuild his ecclesial career from its present state of ashes Ex cineribus.

  They might think he was buried alive in the Mundelein seminary, but he would show them how wrong they were. Every seminary held some students from wealthy, influential families. It was only a matter of finding and cultivating them. Then there was the Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago. Thompson was not unfamiliar with “Wild Bill” Hitchcock, as he was known in Washington. Their past casual friendship undoubtedly was the basis for Hitchcock’s having accepted Thompson for incardination into the Chicago archdiocese.

  Hitchcock, unlike Boyle, was a man who could understand Thompson. Hitchcock and Thompson had a similar appreciation for the finer things in li
fe. Thompson could envision evenings to be spent with Hitchcock over gourmet meals, fine wine, stimulating conversation, and a carefully reconstructed future in the hierarchy. Surely a word from a Cardinal of Hitchcock’s importance to the Apostolic Delegate would mean a hell of a lot more than a recommendation from the Archbishop of Detroit.

  Thompson felt himself back on course. They would hear from him again, by damn. They would be sorry, all of them, that they had abandoned him when he hit bottom. God, thought Thompson, never shuts a door that He doesn’t open a window.

  God’s in His heaven; all’s right with my world.

  Next to the justly world-famous London Chop House, perhaps the most prestigious—less posh, more class—Detroit restaurant was the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars.

  The dark, mahogany decor was subdued and elegant; the food uniformly excellent. The Cellars management bent policy to open this Sunday afternoon for two reasons: Lee Brand was a man of position and clout in the Detroit area. And Lee Brand had relied again on his four magical words, Money Is No Object.

  Gradually, the guests began to assemble. They were few in number. First came Harry Kirwan, then Pat Lennon. They had never met, so they exchanged greetings and fell into an awkward silence. Next to arrive was Father Norman Shanley. Now there were three who had never met, and the silence intensified. Angela Cicero arrived; then there were four strangers. Next came Father David Neiss. He knew both Harry Kirwan and Angela Cicero so those three formed a clique, while the other two remained on the fringe. Then Father Koesler arrived. He knew everybody. Besides having known all but Kirwan prior to their entanglement with Thompson, Koesler had sat in during the police interrogation of each. In addition, Koesler was the only one of the six present who had read Thompson’s diary in toto.