Shadow of Death

by William Kienzle

  “I suppose it is their training.” Koznicki wedged his way deeper into the narrow seat in a futile attempt to find comfort.

  “At this time, please give your attention to the flight attendant at the front of your cabin . . .”

  “Maybe,” Koesler suggested, “if we get out of our suit coats . . .” He was experiencing almost as much discomfort as Koznicki.

  The two wrestled out of their jackets.

  “The laminated instruction card in the seat pocket in front of you explains and illustrates the important safety features of this aircraft. The card should be read carefully before takeoff . . .”

  “That feels better.” Koesler let out a sigh. “Now, what’ll we do with them?”

  “Let me take your jacket, Father. Wanda can hold them until we are airborne. Then we can put them in the overhead compartment.” Koznicki was referring to his wife, in the aisle seat. She was accompanying her husband on this, their first vacation together in years that would be unencumbered by any of their children.

  “The emergency exits in the 707 aircraft are the forward left door, the forward right door, the rear left door, and the rear right door. In addition to the four cabin doors, there are four over-the-wing window exits . . .”

  Koesler fixed on the nearest exit, then returned his gaze to the attendant at the front of the cabin.

  She continued explaining emergency procedures.

  The plane taxied to its final ground turn onto the far end of the runway. The pilot braked; the hum of the engines rose to a whine, then a full-throated roar as the plane gathered momentum, raced down the runway, and pulled itself upward.

  “I’m glad that’s over!” The color began returning to Koesler’s white knuckles.

  “Yes,” said Koznicki, “they do say that takeoffs and landings are the most dangerous times in flying.”

  “No, dear,” a smiling Wanda Koznicki corrected, “the most dangerous time in flying is the automobile trip to the airport.”

  All three smiled.

  A steward passed by, pushing a cart filled with small bottles containing a vast variety of potables.

  “Isn’t it a little early for that?” Koesler asked. “I mean, we’re still climbing!”

  “Well, Father,” said Koznickl, “this is a charter flight. It may prove to be more of a party than your usual flight.”

  The prophesy was correct. Archbishop Boyle’s Irish-blooded relatives were the principal reason the liquor cart was not put to rest until the very early hours of the following morning.

  “And you’re sure,” said Koesler, pursuing the conversation they had begun earlier, “that the young man who attacked Archbishop Boyle was acting alone?”

  “As sure as we could be in an initial investigation. If it proves otherwise as the investigation continues, my people will notify me.”

  “And he wasn’t attacking Mayor Cobb? The Mayor and the Archbishop were standing very close to one another.”

  “Oh, no, Father. I, too, was standing close by, as you will remember. I saw him inching through the crowd and I followed his progress until he was standing directly in front of the Archbishop. When he arrived at that point, I was fortunate enough to prevent him from causing any harm.”

  “I’ll say you prevented him. I don’t think the kid knew what hit him!”

  Koznicki smiled. “No, he did not attack the Mayor, but he certainly got his attention.”

  Wanda was served a chablis, Koznicki a Stroh’s, and Koesler a bourbon manhattan. He was slightly surprised—and pleased—that the mobile bar stocked bourbon.

  “Were you able to come up with any motive? I mean, if the guy was acting alone, if he wasn’t part of a conspiracy, what possible motive could he have for attacking the Archbishop? He’d have to be insane!”

  “No, I think not, Father. It is a phenomenon we are seeing more and more in America: Somebody who is nobody trying to become somebody by attacking somebody who is important. The people who made attempts on the lives of Presidents Ford and Reagan, the one who shot and killed John Lennon, were all people who wanted to be recognized. An act of violence gave them their moment of recognition. They are not in the same category with the assassins of President Kennedy or Martin Luther King, Jr.—people who killed with a purpose and after their attack tried desperately to escape.

  “No, Father; I am quite sure that that young man saw Archbishop Boyle on the TV news. The TV exposure made it obvious that this man was important, that he was leaving for Rome, and that there would be a press conference at the airport. At that point, the young man decided it was time for the world to know his name.”

  Koznicki paused. “You know, it is funny, but I cannot recall his name.” He shook his head. “No matter; with the publicity that will be given him, the world will shortly know who he is. Except that he will have to forfeit a great many years of freedom for his moment of recognition.”

  “Probably. But only after batteries of lawyers and psychiatrists get done arguing over his sanity,” said Koesler, his tone betraying a tinge of cynicism. “Personally, I think the time has come to enact new standards. If the law can differentiate between first-, second-, and third-degree murder, why can’t they establish similarly relative degrees of insanity?

  “First-degree insanity would mean that the defendant was insane at the time of the crime, did not know right from wrong, and was incapable of standing trial for the crime charged.

  “Second-degree insanity would mean that the defendant was insane, but capable of distinguishing right from wrong, and was capable of standing trial.

  “Third-degree insanity would mean the defendant was temporarily insane at the time of the crime.”

  “An interesting suggestion,” commented the Inspector. “I wonder what our forensic psychiatrist, Dr. Fritz Heinsohn, would have to say about that.”

  “Probably a lot, and probably all of it gobbledygook,” replied Koesler with a grin.

  Dinner was served.

  Delmonico steaks, each done medium, sculptured baked potatoes, french beans, spinach and mushroom salad, a lemon tart. Each tray held a small bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. Not bad, for an airline; but then, a party had been predicted.

  After a perfunctory but nonetheless heartfelt, unspoken grace, Koesler fell to with gusto; the afternoon’s events had given him more of an appetite than he had been aware of. He was left with his thoughts of those events, as the Koznickis conversed in low tones throughout the meal. Later, after the steward had replenished their wine supply, Koznicki turned to Father Koesler. “By the way. Father, what was it that made you raise the possibility of a conspiracy?”

  “Oh,” Koesler sipped his wine reflectively, “it was mostly that incident in Toronto. You know, the murder of Cardinal Claret.”

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose it was just the coincidence. Cardinal Claret was attacked suddenly and unexpectedly, at a time when the public could approach him freely and unrestrainedly. And he was killed by a young black wielding a knife.

  “Plus, if I remember the newspaper account correctly, Father Ouellet, who was standing alongside Cardinal Claret at the time, described the young man as wearing his hair in a natural or Afro. And . . . well, those same conditions were present this afternoon when Archbishop Boyle was attacked. So, naturally. . .” Koesler allowed the sentence to remain uncompleted.

  “Even if your hypothesis does not prove true in this case, it is a good analysis, Father. It never ceases to amaze me that you react to such situations in much the same manner as a police officer. Are you sure you did not miss your vocation?” It was not the first time the Inspector had kidded his friend with such a question.

  “Oh, no.” Koesler laughed. “I’m where I ought to be. If, by some stretch of the imagination, I ceased being a priest, and someone asked me what else I was qualified for, I fear I would be forced to answer, ‘Nothing.’”

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Kamego. We are presently flying at an altitude of 42,00
0 feet, and are right on schedule. We should land at Leonardo da Vinci airport at 9:00 a.m. Rome time, which would be 3:00 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time.

  “Now, for your entertainment, we will be showing a movie in just a few minutes. The name of it is . . .”

  A slight pause.

  “The name of it is, Assault with Intent. Have a good flight, and if there is anything we can do to make your trip more comfortable, please let us know.”

  “Assault with Intent! Isn’t that . . . yes, it is! Good grief, that’s the movie they filmed in Detroit last year!” Koesler was caught between excitement and incredulity. “That’s that film about those attacks on our seminary professors. I was in that movie! Or, rather, someone portrayed me in that movie . . .”

  Both Koznickis were smiling at their animated friend.

  “The last I heard of that film, all the major TV networks and distributors had turned it down. It was a throwaway—dead on the shelf. I wonder whose idea it was to resurrect it for this flight?”

  “Would you like another manhattan, Father?” an attendant interrupted.

  “No, thank you. I want to be cold sober to see this movie!”

  It was undoubtedly a testimonial to the wretchedness of the film that by halfway through its showing, all in the cabin were either gathered around the mobile bar or asleep.

  Father Koesler was snoring.

  SAN FRANCISCO

  A massive black fist closed around the pole as the man swung himself easily onto the cable car. As long as he had lived in San Francisco he had delighted in riding the cable cars. The openness, the sense of being at one with the rolling city, the sardinelike closeness of his fellow passengers—all contributed to the atmosphere of conviviality, or at least camaraderie one usually found on board.

  And he desperately needed something cheerful. He had just attended a conclave that had deeply depressed him.

  He did not belong to the group whose meeting he had attended. But he was able to transcend many disparate groups. He had the irritating feeling he should do something about what he had heard at the session. But what? The matter did not directly involve him. And if he did react, how far was he prepared to go?

  The flow of his thoughts was interrupted by a sweet little blue-haired lady seated next to him.

  “I beg your pardon . . .” She touched the sleeve of his black suit coat.

  “Yes?” He looked up, startled.

  “Are you a Father? I mean, are you a priest?”

  “No, madam, I am not.” He resembled and indeed sounded like James Earl Jones. Or possibly Robert Earl Jones. Somewhere between junior and senior. His accent was that of a highly cultured Haitian.

  “No? Well, I didn’t think so, even though you’re dressed like one. But, then, you never can tell these days. The people who look like priests aren’t, and the ones who don’t look like priests are. Land a’ Goshen, how’s a body to tell? Though the good Lord knows there aren’t very many . . . uh . . . uh . . .”

  “Black priests?”

  “Exactly. Well, then, if you don’t mind my asking, just what are you? A Baptist minister? No, they don’t wear roman collars, do they? How about Anglican? Episcopalian?”

  “I am a Roman Catholic deacon, madam.”

  “Oh, really? I don’t think I ever met one of those before. Well, then, how are you addressed? I mean, what do I call you?”

  “You may call me ‘Reverend’ if you feel comfortable with that.”

  “Oh. Reverend. Reverend! Oh, I like that! You don’t get to call many people ‘Reverend’ anymore. All your priests want to be called Bill or Bob or Harry. Oh, I like ‘Reverend’! And what is your name, Reverend?”

  “Toussaint. Ramon Toussaint.”

  “Reverend Ramon Toussaint. Oh, I like that! It has a fine ring to it. Is that French?”

  “More or less. It means ‘all saints.’”

  “All saints! Oh, I like that! That’s a feast day, isn’t it? I mean, a holy day of obligation, that is. There aren’t that many people pay any attention to holy days of obligation anymore. Go to church on a holy day of obligation nowadays and you could fire off a cannon in the middle aisle and never hit a soul.

  “What do you think, Reverend Toussaint? Do you think there’s the respect for holy days of obligation that there used to be? Or haven’t you been a Catholic all that long?”

  “I would be forced to agree with you, madam. But, now, if you will excuse me, I would like to read from my book.”

  “Oh,” she noted for the first time the small black leather-bound book Toussaint held, “the holy office! Oh, I like that! Used to be you could see the priests walking up and down, up and down, hours on end, reading from their little holy office. Don’t see that anymore. Why, you take your average new priest and put the holy office in his hands and I’ll just bet he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Well, I’m all for that, Reverend Toussaint; you just go right ahead and read your holy office!”

  Toussaint nodded and opened his commonplace book. He would not discard the reprieve just to correct a mistaken impression.

  It was, he thought, fortunate. God does indeed move in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. If it had not been for the blue-haired lady’s incessant prattle, he would not have tried to escape behind his commonplace book. And if he hadn’t opened his book he would have completely forgotten the shopping list Emerenciana had given him. But, here he was, looking at the list. A marvelous coincidence!

  Toussaint rose and nodded pleasantly to the blue-haired lady, who smiled sweetly in return. He swung down from the cable car and walked toward the grocery. The neighborhood was most familiar to him. It had been his community for the past several years since he left Detroit for an assignment in Our Lady of Guadalupe parish here in San Francisco.

  As he walked, he was greeted by nearly everyone he encountered. Shortly after his arrival, he had become the acknowledged leader of what had once been a Chicano barrio but was now simply another mixed neighborhood. He was respected as much by Hispanics as by blacks. Catholic as well as non-Catholic.

  He addressed each person by name. But he offered no more than that. He was still disquieted by what he had learned at the meeting he had attended earlier.

  He completed the marketing and returned home directly.

  During dinner, there was little conversation, and what there was was awkward. Very unusual.

  “What is it, Ramon? What is wrong?” His wife clutched her coffee cup with both hands as if for needed warmth . . . or reassurance.

  Toussaint placed his fork on the plate and stared at it for a few seconds. “I must leave, ‘Ciane . . . for a short while.”

  “For where? Why?”

  “I must go to Rome. That is all I can tell you.”

  “Rome! But you just came back from Canada!”

  “Yes. But something has happened. I must not tell you what. But the situation requires my presence.”

  She sipped her coffee. “Is there danger?”

  He shrugged, then smiled. “To me? No, I think not. To others? Possibly.” Then, after a moment’s thought, “Very possibly.”

  “Does it have to do with those who will be inducted into the College of Cardinals?” She caught his suddenly pained expression. “Does it have to do with Archbishop Boyle?”

  Back in Detroit, Boyle had been close to being a friend. Indeed, it was Boyle who had ordained Toussaint a deacon. The Toussaints would have unreservedly considered him their friend had it not been for the fact that the Archbishop was ordinarily so reserved that almost no one but a few peers considered him in the category of a friend.

  Toussaint smiled again. “Now, I have told you I cannot explain the reason I must go to Rome. Only that I must go and that I will return as quickly as I can. In a matter of days. Two weeks at the maximum.”

  “You will see Archbishop Boyle?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then give him my greetings.”

  “Of course.”

  “When will you leave?”


  “Time is of great importance. I will leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Then come. We will make one of our prayers for this journey.”

  Emerenciana Toussaint was a mambo, a voodoo priestess. This was known to almost no one outside the Haitian community. Among the few who knew was Father Robert Koesler. And he had told no one.

  ROME

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be starting our descent into Rome. The local time is 8:45 a.m.”

  Father Koesler stirred in the narrow seat. He glanced at his watch. No, it isn’t, he thought; it’s 2:45 a.m. by my metabolism’s time. He seldom slept in his clothing and didn’t much care for the experience. On top of that, he was convinced he had, as the advertisement so euphemistically phrased it, the worst breath of the day.

  “Did you watch the movie?” Koesler turned toward Inspector Koznicki, but not enough so that he would actually breathe in his direction.

  “No, I must confess I fell asleep.” Every cell in Koznicki’s body felt constricted.

  “Did you see any of it?”

  “About the first half-hour. Then, since I could not leave the plane, I fell asleep.”

  “Wasn’t it awful?” In an attempt to render his breath acceptable, Koesler swirled orange juice around his mouth.

  “If there is an award that is the antithesis of the Oscar, that movie deserves it.”

  “You’re absolutely right. We were both actually portrayed in that movie and neither of us could stay awake long enough to see how we did.”

  The 707 touched down smoothly and began taxiing toward the terminal.

  “For your safety, Captain Kamego requests that you remain seated with your seat belt fastened until he has turned off the seat belt sign. That will be your signal that we have arrived at the gate and that it is safe to move about.”

  Koesler peeked around Koznicki. “Yes, I know, Wanda: Now that we’re on the ground we start the most dangerous part of our journey.”

  The three chuckled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen; our aircraft has now parked at the gate and we will be deplaning through the forward cabin door.”