Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  “I think,” Koesler interrupted, “the paper said there was no evidence of sexual intercourse.”

  “All the more,” Farmer insisted. “They probably went all the way any number of times. This time she said no. Probably got some grace and virtue from a confession and decided to have a chaste courtship or nothing. He got mad and killed her… whaddyou think, Pomps?”

  Pompilio, sucking bits of fish or bone from between his teeth, did not immediately reply. Then, as if suddenly aware that the ball was in his court, he said, “I couldn’t disagree with you, Joe. But I think it goes back further than that. It’s the home.”

  “There you have it,” Farmer agreed.

  “Particularly the father,” Pompilio continued, running with the ball. “The Ventimiglia case is a good example. If it hadn’t been for the mother, the girl would never have gotten a parochial education. As it was, she had only half a Catholic upbringing. Her mother did the best she could. And God knows the sisters gave her good Christian teaching in school. That’s probably what made her say no to another mortal sin… like you said, Joe.”

  “Damn right!” Farmer agreed with his own statement.

  “But what can you do,” Pompilio pontificated, “when the father’s a pagan? Won’t go to church. Won’t make his Easter duty. What kind of example is that? And so, consequently, therefore”—a habitual phrase with Pompilio—“there is no unity in the home. The mother going God’s way while the father has no virtuous example to give.”

  “What a hypocrite!” Farmer exclaimed. “Have you seen him on television? He makes out like he’s St. Francis of Assisi. And like he’s got nothing left to live for now that his darling daughter is gone. Makes out like she’s St. Maria Goretti who died rather than let someone have his way with her. Whereas she probably was steady-dating. And she had been taught in school how evil that was. Now she knows what we were trying to warn her about. Too late. Too late,” he ended in a melancholy tone.

  “What do you think, Bob?” Father Pompilio did not want to suggest that he and his friend considered Koesler too young and inexperienced to contribute to this bull session. Which, in fact, they did.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea, really,” Koesler confessed. “I’ve just been following the story in the papers. They’ve been giving it a lot of coverage.”

  “You can’t believe what they print in the papers,” Farmer said. “Especially the Detroit papers. They’re anti-Catholic. Always were and always will be.”

  “Tell you the truth,” Koesler replied, “I haven’t noticed that.”

  “Why, my God, man!” Father Farmer quickly became testy. “Just read the letters to the editor they publish! They must run seven or eight to one against the Church.”

  “I’ve never counted them.” Koesler now thought he might just do that in case Farmer ever made the charge again. “But I think Nelson Kane, Ed Breslin, and Herb Boldt are pretty darn good police reporters. Besides, all three of them are Catholic.”

  “That doesn’t matter as long as they work for the godless News or Free Press,” Farmer stated.

  “Still …” Koesler didn’t believe a word of it. “I think they do a good job, especially on this story. And if you follow them closely, they seem to agree in thinking this had something to do with the girl’s job. And that would have to have something to do with the records kept by the county clerk.”

  Farmer snorted. “A guy wants a copy of his wedding certificate and the Ventimiglia girl can’t find it—so he kills her?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Why had he bothered getting into this discussion, Koesler wondered. He should have bailed out when Pompilio asked for an opinion. But he was in it now; he’d just have to get out as quickly as possible. “It’s just that her friend—who is it?—something DeFalco, I think, said that Agnes and whoever the killer is seem to have met at the clerk’s office. If that’s true—and each of these three reporters thinks it is—then they only knew each other for about a month.”

  “I know that,” Farmer said. “I read the papers too, you know.”

  “Good,” Koesler said. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  The remark did not sit well with Farmer. “What are you, a wise-ass?”

  “Now, now…” Pompilio preferred a smooth digestion to a quarrel after dinner. “We’re just airing this out. No need to argue.”

  “It’s not an argument,” Farmer insisted. “I just wanted to point out to our young man here that when a couple goes out on dates practically every evening and even on weekends—as it said in your precious papers that Ventimiglia and the killer did—that can constitute steady dating, as all legitimate Catholic theologians teach. So we go back to what I said in the first place: It was a lovers’ quarrel, it got out of hand, and he killed her. Any couple who see each other that often should be formally engaged. And they have to take precautions to avoid the near occasion of sin!”

  Pompilio pushed his chair back from the table, a clear sign that the meal, as well as the after-dinner conversation—which tonight had gotten somewhat out of hand—was finished.

  “I’m sure we all have things we’ve got to do this evening. And so, consequently, therefore, we’d best get busy. I’m sure we can all agree we must pray for the poor young woman.”

  “And,” Koesler added, “I suppose for her killer, too.”

  Sensing Farmer was about to object to this turn of another cheek, Pompilio put a cap on all further comment by leading the procession out of the dining room and saying, over his shoulder, “Yes, we should be praying for everyone.”

  ABOUT AN INCH of snow had fallen overnight. It was the first measurable snow of the season. Coming so near to Christmas, it was welcomed by most Michiganians. Soon the local citizens would tire of it.

  The narrow streets of Culver and Georgia and most neighboring streets were clogged with cars. Parking here, at the best of times, usually presented problems. But this would be one of the most well-attended funerals in recent memory.

  On top of that, the intrusive TV vans and their crews had movement around the church area pretty well bollixed up.

  It was 10:00 A.M.

  Father Koesler stood at a school window absently watching the people—some of Agnes’s friends, parishioners, and outside curiosity seekers attracted to media events—cautiously making their way over the slippery sidewalks en route to the church.

  Koesler was administering a written test to the seniors to whom he taught a class in Church history. He was totally unqualified to teach that or just about any other academic course. A lot of this sort of thing went on, as priests discovered that ex officio they were expected to handle many things for which they had not been trained.

  He could not help feeling the contrast in this morning’s parish events.

  All through the school, holiday and holy day decorations were hung from and plastered to walls and ceilings.

  Just at this moment the seniors were not bubbling. But they would be as soon as they were finished with their test. Then only a few more days would separate them from vacation and the lovely feast of Christmas.

  In the school, as well as around the world, people were celebrating new life, fresh hope, and the love of God.

  In the church this morning, people were marking death. The saddest of all deaths: that of a young person who should have looked forward to many, many more years of life.

  Another sad feature was the dearth of genuine mourners. A few of Agnes’s co-workers were moved, but mostly just pro forma. None of them, with the sole exception of Rosemarie DeFalco, had been a real friend. Their reasons for mourning ranged from a sort of dutiful sadness to the intrusion of death upon their young lives. They realized that Agnes had died long before her time. It reminded them that, youthful though they were, inevitably death waited for them too.

  And so, in this complex of buildings at the corner of Georgia and Culver, life and death were being noted.

  Inside the church, Father Pompilio officiated at the Ventimiglia funeral, abl
y assisted by Father Joseph Farmer.

  Television cameras had recorded the bearing of the casket to the church, and the priests’ welcome of it. The TV crews then retreated to their vans, two of them to return to their stations; the third would wait to film the departure formalities. Radio reporters narrated some of the rite and recorded some of the ceremony’s sounds.

  Sounds such as the small pipe organ and the voice of the children’s choir. Choir members had been excused from classes for this very important ceremony.

  Few in the choir or in the church understood the Latin words, but the genius of plainchant conveyed the somber plea for peace and rest. Father Pompilio’s strong tenor added conviction to the finality of these services.

  Beyond these, the most wrenching sound was the intermittent sobbing of the dead girl’s mother.

  All this was noted by Patrolman Walter Koznicki, who had surveyed the crowd at the funeral home as Agnes Ventimiglia’s casket was closed for the final time.

  After that, Koznicki had hurried to the church, where he studied everyone who entered. There was no doubt about it, the man he was looking for, the man Rosemarie DeFalco had described from Agnes’s description, that man was not present. He had not come to view the finale of his handiwork.

  The leads were running thin. In a few more days, Homicide would shelve the investigation of the death of Agnes Ventimiglia. It would be filed under “open murder.”

  Koznicki could not remember another incident in his life that had left him more frustrated and disappointed. This, his first homicide investigation, had begun so promisingly. It had taken almost no time to identify the victim’s remains. Rosemarie DeFalco had been so cooperative and helpful. They had gotten rid of the red herring of Peter Arnold’s name quickly. They had a bit—albeit just a fragment—of a general description of the killer. They had the name of the restaurant where Agnes and her murderer had had her final meal.

  The result: nothing. One dead end after another.

  The killer was clever, no doubt a professional. And yet, Koznicki sensed that someday, somehow he would catch up with this murderer. Koznicki believed in divine Providence.

  Some sort of providence was at work here far beyond his ken. He had come within a hair of meeting Father Robert Koesler. Yet, some years down the line the two would meet when a nun would be murdered in this very parish.

  Koznicki and Koesler were destined to become close friends. One of their meetings would relate to the murder of Agnes Ventimiglia. But that would be many years in the future.

  1993

  C H A P T E R

  22

  THE SILENCE was eerie.

  It was as if they were staring at a larger-than-life television screen with the sound turned off.

  Lights in office buildings were winking out. Lights in residences were going on. The quaint lights atop the Belle Isle bridge were flickering. Auto traffic was letting up.

  It had taken Charles Nash almost an hour to tell his tale. His son and Father Deutsch had forgotten the discomfort of their straight-back chairs; both sat immobile, mouths ajar.

  If anyone had made a sound, or uttered a word, it would have cracked like a thunderclap.

  Finally, in the face of their silence, Nash said slowly, in a low voice, “Well, that’s the way it was.” Then he added, more loudly, almost defiantly, “And that’s the way it is.”

  Still no one moved or added any words.

  Finally, Father Deutsch, as if half in and out of a nightmare, spoke, barely above a whisper. “You had a young woman killed?”

  Nash tipped his head toward the priest. “Of course not! I knew enough not to get involved with that. At least not for such a piddling reason. If there was a mistake made, it was in not spelling out precisely how far Chardon should have gone. Changing the record would have been enough. But …” Nash paused a few seconds. “It doesn’t matter. Chardon proved himself a very careful professional. His tracks were well covered. The police investigation went nowhere. They threw in the towel. And, as it turned out, it was a good move. It meant there was no one in the clerk’s office who knew what happened.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Deutsch said. “You actually approve of what that murderer did?”

  Nash appeared to shrug, although his shoulders moved so imperceptibly it was difficult to tell. One thing was clear: He wasn’t going to respond to the priest’s question.

  Ted leaned forward so that his head was only inches from his father’s. “Were you … were you the father? Mary Lou’s father?”

  “Who can say?” Nash’s response was nonchalant. “Back then they didn’t have all these fancy scientific ways of proving paternity. Most of the time it came down to whether the kid looked like you.

  “When it happened—when Maureen told me she was pregnant, I denied it flat-out. Maybe I even believed I wasn’t the kid’s old man. Maybe I talked myself into believing I wasn’t. After all, the last thing I needed was a second household. I already had your mother and you. It was one thing getting away from you and your mother to shack up with Maureen in a bunch of hotels, motels, and apartments. It would really have been tough if she’d started carting a baby around.”

  He gestured violently with both hands. “It was out of the question! Simply out of the question! And it was all her fault. All that time, I thought she was on the pill. She was supposed to be protecting herself. But, no! It ‘made her sick’!” He mimicked a cloying tone.

  “If she had told me … if only she had told me, I would have done something.”

  “‘Done something’? What? What would you have done?” Part of Ted was inwardly smirking at the thought of his father’s being taken in by Mary Lou’s mother.

  “I dunno,” Charles mumbled. “Something. Used a jelly, a condom … something. We didn’t have much protection that was dependable then like what they’ve got now.” He shrugged, this time perceptibly. “Probably I’d have made my farewell speech right then, as soon as she said she was going to quit the pill. I could’ve bailed out and there wouldn’t have been any kid to deal with. Anyway, the instant Maureen gave me the glad news, I knew … I saw my life going down shit’s creek without a paddle.

  “So I denied it could have been mine. The fact was, Maureen was gonna have a baby and it wasn’t gonna be any virgin birth. Somebody had to be the father. Why did it have to be me?”

  Nash was becoming overly agitated. He took a pill bottle out of his sweater pocket, extracted a pill, put it in his mouth, and waited while it dissolved.

  “But it more than likely was me,” Nash said matter-of-factly. “Who’m I trying to kid? What kinda girl was Maureen, anyway? She was a good Catholic girl with a—my God!—a goddam priest for a cousin! She was stretching things as it was by sleeping with me. The only reason she did is because she thought we’d get married. If push came to shove, I couldn’t imagine her sleeping with anybody else. So …” Charles spread his hands, palms up. “Probably the kid is as much mine as you are, Teddy. The thing is, she would have one hell of a time proving it.”

  “Proving it?” Ted’s voice was sharp. “What do you mean?”

  “Chardon!” Nash said. “Chardon! He got the girl to change the birth record. It lists Mary Lou’s mother as Maureen Monahan, but the father”—he gestured to himself—”is unknown. And this is supposed to be information the mother supplied. The way it looks on that record is that the mother herself doesn’t know who fathered her kid. Or, that she simply won’t tell. Gonna be a little tough for her to claim I’m the one after all these years. She sure ain’t gonna prove much from that record.”

  “But Maureen is Catholic,” Father Deutsch said. “Wouldn’t she have had the child baptized? Did she? Did you have that record tampered with too? I know a baptismal record doesn’t carry the same impact as a birth certificate. But it surely has to be considered, especially if Maureen were to claim the discrepancy between the two records was the result of someone’s tampering with the clerk’s record. If the authorities were inclined to believ
e her claim, the baptismal record would gain importance. You’d be listed as the father in the baptismal record—just like you were in the original birth record.”

  Nash almost smiled. “Way ahead of you on that one, Deacon. Yeah, she had the kid baptized. Took me a while to find out where. There’s a little church used to be near the hospital, Santa Lucia, Italian parish. See, she might not have got the kid baptized at all. Or, if she did, it could have been anywhere—hell, there’s more than three hundred parishes in this diocese alone. Yeah, it took my people years to find the place.”

  Nash began wheezing faintly. All this talking was draining him. But he was determined to get everything out in the open for these two now. “Maybe you remember—nah, you wouldn’t’ve paid any attention to it, Teddy. Maybe you remember, Deac, along about 1970, there was a fire in the priest’s house at Santa Lucia … eh?”

  “I don’t think …” Deutsch hesitated. “Wait … yes, I think I do. It wasn’t much of a fire. Didn’t touch the church, just the rectory. Even so, they put it out before it destroyed the building. I think they blamed the blaze on smoking. The old pastor there—Father Gombino—I knew him slightly—he smoked like a chimney. The way I remember it, the fire started in the pastor’s study where the … the … uh …”

  “… records were kept,” Nash supplied.

  “You were able to have the records destroyed without burning down the whole place?” Deutsch seemed almost in awe of the feat.

  “Chardon again?” Ted asked.

  Nash nodded. “Shows you he could do the job just the way you wanted it. Doesn’t it? Later on, they closed the place down. All the Italians moved out and no one moved in to take their place. There’s nothin’ there anymore. Just flat ground, a few bricks.”