Shadow of Death

by William Kienzle

  “What is odd?” pressed Koznicki.

  “Oh, only that with what seems to have been a brutally methodical shattering of most of the bones in this man’s body, there is no damage to the cranial bones—as if whoever did this deliberately left that part of his skull uninjured.

  “Well, in any event,” he looked again at Koesler, “after we get done patching him as best we can now, he’ll be in an intensive care unit, with virtually all visitors barred. After that—IF he survives to that point—it will be a long period of bed rest while we hope and pray no blood clots form.

  “So, truly, Father, there is absolutely nothing you can accomplish for your friend by remaining in London.”

  “But—”

  “The doctor is correct, Father,” said Koznicki. “You should go on with us. Don’t forget: We still have Cardinal Boyle to protect. If there is any dramatic change in Reverend Toussaint’s condition—for better or worse—we’ll be only an hour away by plane in Ireland.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Koesler, without a great deal of conviction.

  “Meanwhile, we’ll notify Mrs. Toussaint, and make arrangements for her to come and be with her husband,” Koznicki added.

  “That very thought was just crossing my mind.” Koesler sounded slightly heartened.

  “Oh, and by the by, doctor,” said Somerset, “the blackguards who did this aren’t likely to be delighted when they discover he’s still alive. So we’ll be keepin’ security on him around the clock.”

  The doctor nodded.

  Koznicki smiled. “That is very good of you, Superintendent.”

  “Not at all. That’s perfectly all right, Inspector. And not to worry: we’ll get ’em. We’ll get ’em as have done this to your friend. And you can put your bottom dollar on that!”

  10.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Kamego. Welcome aboard for this little hop over the Irish Sea. Our flying time will be approximately fifty minutes. I’m afraid our altitude will not be sufficient to climb out of these clouds. So, while it was raining in London as we departed, it will be raining in Dublin when we arrive. But, as they say in Ireland, it is a soft day. If you’ve never experienced it, take my word, you’re in for a treat. I just want to assure you, there is a sun up above these clouds. Take it on faith.”

  “And you must take what I am saying on faith also, your Eminence,” said Inspector Koznicki. “You still need every bit as much protection and security as you have needed since we uncovered this plot.”

  Boyle loosened his safety belt and turned partly toward Koznicki. “You don’t believe the danger is over . . . or at least diminished?”

  “No, I know it is not, your Eminence. With all due reverence, you are still alive.”

  Boyle thoughtfully ran an index finger across his lips.

  “Their plan is to do away with you,” Koznicki continued. “They have attempted twice to do just that. They failed the first time and tried again. They failed the second time. We have every reason to believe they will try again.”

  “I suppose you are correct.”

  “I know these precautions we urge on you are irritating and that they restrict your movements on what was planned as your vacation, but you must understand their necessity.”

  Boyle gestured broadly, indicating his numerous relatives aboard the chartered plane. “Neither are they amused.”

  For Boyle’s brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and cousins, this trip had been planned as an unalloyed vacation. The reality of being involved in a murder plot, even superficially, had dampened their enthusiasm appreciably.

  “It cannot be helped,” said Koznicki. “We can be sure that for Reverend Toussaint there is also little amusement.”

  “Poor man.” Boyle shook his head slowly. “That poor, poor man! When I heard what happened to him, as you know, I would have canceled the tour at that point if you had not convinced me that we must continue on as scheduled.”

  “As I said last night, Eminence, this is turning out to be like an unpleasant but unfortunately necessary operation. We will expose those who are responsible for this plot by luring them to the surface and flushing them out, as was done in Rome and is being done in London.”

  “And I am the bait.”

  “Unfortunately, Eminence. But we are closing in; we’re getting to the root of it.

  “And now, if you will excuse me, I must go speak with Father Koesler.”

  As Koznicki rose and left him, Boyle picked up his breviary. Many priests, particularly the younger ones, had discarded this collection of daily prayers which was, technically, obligatory. And though most of those who read it did so from an English translation, Boyle continued to read it in Latin. He turned to his favorite psalm and prayed it: “Etsi incedam in valle tenebrosa, non timebo mala, quia tu mecum es. Virga tua et baculus tuus: haec me consolantur.”

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to experience a bit of turbulence for a little while. So, as much as possible, please stay in your seats. And buckle up.” The seat belt sign lit up.

  “Do you think he’ll recover?” Pat Lennon asked.

  “Geez, I don’t know,” Joe Cox replied. “The list of his injuries reads like an anatomy lesson. Just about every bone in his body is broken and the ones that aren’t broken are dislocated. And on top of that, he’s an old geezer—somewhere in his fifties.”

  Lennon laughed aloud. “I’ll have to remind you of that when you reach your fifties, lover.”

  Cox reddened. He seldom blushed. But his statement had been foolish and he, to his credit, immediately realized that. “I’ll never be fifty. Peter Pan and I, we’re never going to grow up.”

  Privately, Lennon would have agreed that in some ways Cox probably would never grow up. She was willing to live with that, though not marry it.

  “This trip hasn’t turned out at all the way we planned it,” Cox observed.

  “If it had,” Lennon responded, “we’d be back in Detroit now. I’d be pounding my CRT and you’d be laboring over your VDT. Our story would have concluded in Rome.”

  “Yeah. I must admit I thought this was just going to be a few predictable, dusty ceremonies that you could just as well cover by Italian TV from a friendly bar. It’s lucky I didn’t try that.”

  “You’re damn right it’s lucky. Pull a stunt like that and can you imagine what Nelson Kane would have done to you?”

  “Yeah . . . but I’d rather not.”

  “Speaking of how our tour has expanded, did you get a handout on the Irish itinerary?”

  “Yeah, Boyle’s secretary was giving them out as we boarded. You didn’t get one? Here, take mine. There’s only one major public appearance—at a cathedral in Dublin. The rest of the time, Boyle and his relatives will be sightseeing and visiting other relatives.”

  “Which cathedral? Are you sure it’s a cathedral?” Lennon quickly scanned the sheet.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “You’re not paying very close attention, Joe. There are two cathedrals in Dublin; but neither is Catholic—they’re both Church of Ireland. Then there’s what they call the procathedral—St. Mary’s. That’s Catholic.”

  “I thought everything in Ireland was Catholic.”

  “It was until a Pope gave Ireland to England.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nicholas Breakspear, the one and only English Pope, in effect gave Ireland to England.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You will also be surprised to know that after the Republic of Ireland freed itself from English rule, it didn’t repossess all the churches that had been taken from them by their English conquerors. So,” she located on the information sheet the site for the public ceremony, “the cathedral in question will be St. Patrick’s. Now you would think that would have to be a Catholic chur
ch, wouldn’t you?”

  Cox nodded. “But I’d be wrong, right?”

  “Right. It’s Church of Ireland and the resting place of one Jonathan Swift. But there isn’t much more by way of public appearances on the agenda. Looks like we can do some sightseeing ourselves.”

  “Great.”

  “They’ve got a nifty series of nice, cozy bed-and-breakfast places over here.”

  “Sounds exactly like the kind of vacation that was planned for me. Bed and breakfast. We just get out of bed for breakfast and then hop right back in.”

  Lennon smiled. “What about the sightseeing?”

  “I would be seeing a lot of my favorite sight.”

  “Joe, you have put an entirely new light on the maxim that travel is broadening.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. We’ll be touching down at Dublin International Airport in approximately twenty minutes. The temperature is fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. It is overcast and, of course, raining. But it is a soft rain.”

  “So you think it was the Rastafarians who abducted and beat Ramon?” Koesler asked.

  “I do indeed,” said Koznicki. “Who else? Besides, Father, they left their calling card.”

  “That’s right; they did.” Koesler reflected for a moment. “What do you make of the fact that the symbol was an open hand instead of a fist?”

  “At this juncture, Father, we can only speculate. Either could be symbolic of the black power movement. Perhaps our Rastafarian splinter party uses the symbols interchangeably.

  “As a matter of fact, the Rastafarians being held by Scotland Yard in connection with the attack on Cardinals Boyle and Whealan deny any knowledge of the attack on Toussaint and also of any symbols. However, it is quite common for accused persons, just arrested, to deny everything. And, it is helpful to realize that we are not dealing here with a rational or well-coordinated group. Don’t forget, these are largely unlettered men whose incense is marijuana! And who may be lucky if they can remember anything they’ve done, much less why they’ve done it.”

  “But why would they attack Ramon? He is, by no stretch of the imagination, in the running for the Papacy.”

  “No, of course not.” Koznicki was letting out his seat belt, giving himself plenty of room prior to buckling it. “But he has proved very successful in frustrating their efforts to do away with Cardinal Boyle. It was the Reverend Toussaint, you will recall, who prevented the assailant in Rome from harming the Cardinal. I would suggest the Rastafarians simply decided to eliminate their antagonist.”

  “You think, then, that they meant to kill him?”

  “Oh, yes. That beating was certainly intended to be fatal. The only reason it was not, I believe, was because they underestimated the Reverend’s strong constitution. Even the doctor at Hammersmith was amazed at the Reverend’s stamina.”

  “But why the beating?” Koesler almost instinctively gripped the armrests as the plane began its gradual descent. “If they wanted to kill him, why didn’t they just do it and get it over? Their attacks on Cardinals Claret and Gattari—on Cardinal Boyle, for that matter—show they are not strangers to good-sized knives. And they seem to have no hesitancy in using them. Why not just kill Ramon outright?”

  “That,” Koznicki responded, “must remain another matter for speculation until such time as those responsible are apprehended or until, perhaps, the Reverend recovers.”

  “Any theories?”

  “Oh, I would imagine they were trying to make an example of him. Their raison d’etre, as blacks in exile, is to return to their homeland, which they recognize, for reasons of their own, as Ethiopia. Some few of them, again for reasons of their own, believe the figure of the Pope to be the ‘Satan of Babylon,’ and as such, much responsible for their enslaved condition.

  “Now in their campaign to eliminate candidates for the Papacy, to be effectively stopped by another black man perhaps is just too great an affront. They wish to make an example of this black ‘renegade,’ so they decide not only to kill him, but (a) to beat him to death, and (b) to leave his body where it will be found and thus, in effect, send a message—a warning—to others who might have thoughts of getting in their way.”

  Koesler shuddered. “I guess I just don’t understand how anyone could do that to another human. I find such violence simply incredible.”

  “It is a violent world, Father. In police work, especially in homicide, one unfortunately becomes quite accustomed to this sort of thing. For some it is not enough to commit the ultimate act of violence—the taking of a human life; for such types, total satisfaction comes only through inflicting preliminary agony as well.”

  The plane touched down smoothly and taxied toward the terminal.

  “So,” said Koesler, relaxing his grip on the armrest, “what’s on your agenda for Ireland?”

  “Actually,” Koznicki replied, “I believe I will have the opportunity to enjoy a few days of recreation before the religious ceremony on Saturday evening at St. Patrick’s.”

  “Really? I didn’t think you would be able to relax until we get back to Detroit.”

  “There is very little else to do for the next few days. There are no public ceremonies scheduled until Saturday evening. The Boyle clan will be traveling around the various counties sightseeing and visiting relatives.”

  “Won’t there be danger even in that?”

  “A minimal amount at most. There are no publicized itineraries or agendas. Even if an assailant wanted to attack the Cardinal, there would be no way of figuring out where he was going to be in time to plan an attack. And since many of the Cardinal’s relatives live in villages where everyone knows everyone else, the unexplained presence of a stranger would be immediately taken note of. Plus the fact that if one wanted an accessible target, the Cardinal will be at his most vulnerable at the ecumenical ceremony in St. Patrick’s.

  “However, I have been in touch with Liam O’Connor, who is Commissioner of Police for the Republic of Ireland. He fully understands the situation and will take every precaution to provide security for the Cardinal, not only at the public ceremony but also throughout his stay in Ireland.

  “All in all, I feel reasonably confident about the Cardinal’s safety, at least until the Saturday evening at St. Patrick’s.”

  The plane rolled to a stop at the terminal gate.

  “Well, then,” Koesler unfastened his seat belt, “do you have any plans between now and Saturday evening?”

  “None to speak of.” Koznicki snapped open his seat belt but did not rise. He was in no hurry to deplane. Or rather he was in no hurry to stand crouched over while a motionless line of passengers blocked the aisle.

  “What would you think of joining me?”

  “Of course. If it is not troublesome, I would be pleased to join you.” After a pause, “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, this afternoon I plan to visit Trinity College Library, mostly to see the Book of Kells, and then I was going to see about tickets for a play this evening.”

  “That sounds excellent.”

  “You may not think the rest of my plans are as enjoyable.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tomorrow, I plan to rent a car and drive up to Boyle to see the town, the river, and the old abbey. My maternal grandfather came from there. A friend of mine is part owner of a pub in the neighboring village of Gurteen. Before we left Detroit, he urged me to spend the night there if I got as far as Boyle. How does that sound to you?”

  “Just different enough to be very interesting. Are you sure there will be room for two at the pub?”

  “Reasonably. But I’ll reconfirm that before we leave Dublin.”

  “Strange,” the aisle cleared, Koznicki stood, “I have known you so long and so well. Yet I did not know of your Irish ancestry. Irish and German, are you?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “And not a drop of Polish?”

  “No.”

  “A pity. You might have had a bright future in the C
hurch.”

  IRELAND

  By prearrangement, Koesler and Koznicki met at 3:00 p.m. in the lobby of their hotel, the Royal Dublin on O’Connell Street.

  “How is your room, Inspector?”

  “Fine; first-rate. And yours?”

  “The best so far on this trip.”

  “Now, where was it you said we were going first?”

  “Trinity College.”

  “Ah, yes: the Book of Kells.”

  “Exactly.”

  They took a few steps through the lobby. It was a relatively small, functional area with a convenient registration desk at the rear and just enough room for a small crowd to gather.

  Seated at the left on banquettes against the wall were several nuns in the modified blue habit of the Religious Sisters of Mercy. And appropriately so, thought Koesler, since the order had been founded in Ireland, and the foundress, Mother McAuley, was buried here at the Mother House in Dublin.

  The nuns were alike in their uniforms, their milk-white, rosy-cheeked complexions, and in the beatific smiles that appeared when they spotted Koesler’s clerical collar. Like a row of sailors sounding off, each sister in turn nodded happily in Koesler’s direction while mouthing, “Good afternoon. Father.”

  Koesler smiled and nodded back.

  Koznicki stopped just short of the revolving doors and looked about. “Father,” he said to Koesler, who had halted beside him, “since we arrived in Dublin—I know it has been only a short while—but have you had the impression of being watched . . . or followed?”

  Koesler thought for a moment, but was unaware of any such perception. “I can’t say that I have.”

  Koznicki glanced about again, then shrugged. “It is probably nothing. Perhaps I have been overly apprehensive lately.”

  “That’s probably it, Inspector. You need to relax.”