Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  “Then?”

  “Quite simple, really. From now on, for as long as we live, as often as we are in contact with one another, you will address me as ‘Father.’ And you’ll do it with respect.”

  “Hey … nobody talks to me—”

  “Have it your own way. Maybe I’m demanding something more important than what you have in mind to demand from me. If so, you’d be justified in refusing my request. In that case, I’d say what you want to ask of me can’t be of much importance to you.

  “Up to you, Mr. Nash.”

  Nash worked his lips silently. Then he nodded. “Okay, Father, you got it. Now hear me. I don’t know exactly what Ted’s gonna hafta do to protect the company or himself … or me, for that matter. Depends on what Maureen does. But I do know that thanks to the brainwashing my dear wife gave him, he’s gonna hafta justify whatever he does. Somehow he’s gonna need somebody to tell him God’s not sore about what he does. That’s where you come in—”

  “Now, just a minute—”

  “No, no, you’re good at it. I’ve watched you. We want to put up a high-rise or a mall and in the process we chase all the damn animals out of the wetlands to hell and gone. In my day, we’d just the hell do it. Nowadays we got the damn environmental freaks climbing all over us.

  “On top of that, Teddy’s got a conscience. You do very well at manipulating that conscience. You do good work. I’m surprised all the time the way you can pull out a Bible verse that justifies the whole thing. A talent. And …” Nash spread his hands. “… that’s all I’m asking. Just keep up the good work. You know.” He winked.

  “That’s impossible!” Deutsch’s dismay was clear. “How can I possibly promise that whatever Ted does will be morally correct?”

  “You’re not listening. I didn’t say that what Ted does will always be good. I’m saying, he’ll ask you if it’s okay. Your only job is to justify whatever will protect or help the company.”

  “You’ve got it backwards. You’re presuming that everything that aids the company is good while everything that hurts the company is bad. Morality is just the opposite. Morality is an objective norm: It measures what you have the company do and decides whether it’s good or bad.”

  “Let me help you, Father. Think of all the good things the company does. Helps missionaries. Helps the poor every once in a while. Helps Ted to contribute to good causes that you pinpoint for him. Gives you a very meaningful TV pulpit.

  “And—I was saving this as a surprise—we’re gonna set you up for network TV—just like those TV evangelists. Top quality and everything. You’ll have influence all over the nation … who knows, maybe even the world if it catches on like we figure it will.

  “Now, how about that, Father! Did we or did we not sweeten the pot?”

  Father Deutsch gnawed at a knuckle. “Well, I must admit,” he said finally, “so far it’s worked out that way. Everything Ted has done has been justifiable—though sometimes marginally. I suppose … given all the good Nash Enterprises can do, does do … that with the principle of the double effect—”

  “That’s the way I like to hear you talk, Father. Now, one thing more: Ted can’t know what we’ve just talked about. He can’t know about the bargain we just struck.”

  “I understand.”

  “Because he can’t, he mustn’t have any doubts about any advice you give him. If he thought I’d talked to you about this, he could think you maybe were bending the theology a bit. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying you would do such a thing.” The old man’s expression was sardonic. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t asked you to do anything more than you’re already doing. I certainly didn’t ask you to do anything wrong. God almighty: You wouldn’t agree to do anything wrong! I just don’t want Ted to have any doubts. I don’t want him to think you’ve changed your standpoint in the way you advise him. So, not a word about our conversation. You can handle this, can’t you?”

  “Don’t worry. I can handle it.”

  Nash looked intently into the priest’s eyes, then nodded decisively several times.

  Nash pressed the button on the chair. In a few moments, Ted and Chan reentered the room. After a few words of parting, Ted and Deutsch were dismissed.

  The two men rode the elevator in silence. They did not speak until they were in Ted’s car and headed toward Deutsch’s residence.

  “So, what was that all about? What did Dad have to say to you?”

  “Ted, I can’t tell you.”

  “What? I demand—wait: He didn’t go to confession, did he?” There was anticipation in his voice.

  “Uh … almost. Not quite. What he said clearly falls into the category of a professional secret, which, as you know, is almost as inviolable and sacred as the seal of confession.”

  “But surely you can tell me.”

  “I can tell no one. All I can say is that your father put a lot of trust and confidence in my advice. I think he may be leaning in the direction of actually confessing to me. I can’t risk ruining that strong possibility. You wouldn’t want me to.”

  “Hmmm.” Ted did understand. Unfortunately, he also was not getting his way. If there was anything Ted was very much used to, it was getting his way. The combination of wanting to know what his father had said to the priest in confidence and at the same time understanding that the priest would not—could not—reveal the contents of that conversation set up a mean little dilemma in Ted’s psyche. He could think of no better way to give vent to his conflict than to pout. And this he did in expressive silence all the way home.

  C H A P T E R

  24

  BRENDA CLOSED THE DOOR QUIETLY. She always did when she was unsure whether Ted had preceded her to Nebo. He might be dozing. This was especially likely when, as tonight, she arrived in the late evening.

  She heard music coming from the living room. It was classical, somebody’s symphony, so it couldn’t be Valeria working late. Valeria’s musical preference tended toward country and western or folk rock. It had to be Ted.

  She put away her packages, purse, and coat and entered the living room. Something—an atmosphere, an attitude?—was profoundly different. Ted sat in the recliner facing her. There was no sign of a glass, empty or full. Apparently he had not had his relaxing drink, a ritual he called his “attitude adjustment hour.” He was brooding about something.

  “Hi, honey,” she tried tentatively. “Sorry I’m so late. Work piled up.”

  He gave no response.

  “Is there … is something wrong?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He paused. “Why didn’t you tell me that Mary Lou was my sister? You must have known.”

  She stood as if struck. “How did you find out?”

  “My father. He told me the whole story this evening.” His eyes bored into hers. “I’m living with someone who grew up with her, and I learn about this from my father! I felt like a fool. Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She sank down onto the couch. “It just happened,” she said after a minute. “That night at Marygrove—the night we first met … I knew who you were, of course. But something happened between us right from the start. There was no opportunity, no opening for, ‘Oh, by the way, I grew up with your sister.’ Maybe there was a time later when I should have told you but … I let it pass. After that, I just let it stay buried.

  “I’m sorry your father chose to tell you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry you learned it from him and not me. But … it’s not the end of the world.”

  She showed no sign of tears or any emotional stress. That was one of the many characteristics Ted loved about her. But …

  “Not the end of the world!” He was almost shouting. “Dad just got a threatening note from Maureen. As far as she’s concerned, it could very well be the end of the world for Nash Enterprises. Dad wants me to dump you! He figures you have to be on their side.”

  “And you?” She remained calm. “How do you feel about me, after all we’ve been through together? After
all we’ve meant to each other? How do you feel about it? Want me to leave?”

  He came over and sat next to her on the couch. “God, no! I told you before, I’ll say it again: I can’t live without you. But I just couldn’t understand.” He shook his head. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t your father tell you until now?” She let the question dangle for a few moments. “Obviously, as far as he was concerned, there was no need for you to know until now. With me … it was a stupid blunder. I suppose I should have told you. But … honestly … as I look back over our time together, I don’t see a single instance where it really would have been in any way appropriate. And the more time passed, the more pointless it seemed to bring it up. Until … until now, when you need to know. So, how about it?” She looked at him steadily. “Are we still a team, or what?”

  His look of relief spoke for him. “We’re a team.” He shook his head again. “I guess I really knew all you just told me.” As he looked at her, his face seemed to soften and relax. “I just wanted to hear it from you. It’s all settled. We’re a team.”

  “Okay, then.” She relaxed back into the sofa. “Now … I’ve only heard this remarkable tale from Maureen’s side. Tell me everything your father said. Maybe I can help.”

  And so he did. Meticulously, Ted recounted everything his father had earlier revealed. Brenda listened most attentively.

  After he’d finished, she said, “That part about the baptismal record—I don’t understand that. Why was it so important to find it and destroy it? I don’t think it carries much if any weight in civil law.”

  “A couple of things: It does have my dad listed as Mary Lou’s father. But, more important, it shows the discrepancy between the birth and baptism record. It might … it might trigger an investigation.

  “And then there was that murder of the woman who changed the birth record. Of course, Dad had nothing to do with the murder,” he added.

  “But he didn’t seem to let it bother him a whole lot.”

  Ted shrugged. “That’s Dad.”

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “if it’s that important, I think we’ve got a problem.”

  “A problem? What problem?” In spite of foreboding brought on by the suggestion of trouble ahead, Ted felt comforted by her use of the first person plural. They were in this together.

  “The problem is that the fire in that rectory didn’t destroy the baptismal record.”

  “What? Sure it did. Dad was certain. Whatever else, Chardon is dependable.”

  “No. I’m not referring to the records at the church. Up till sometime in the mid-eighties—I think it was 1983—all parochial records were microfilmed. The copies are kept in the archdiocesan archives, the originals were returned to the parishes.” She paused. “I think that record is in the archives.”

  “So if Maureen …”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, my God! Dad didn’t know. What’re we going to do?!”

  “If it’s that important, we’d damn well better get in there and get it.”

  “Do you know where the archives are?”

  She smiled. “On the same floor where my office is in the chancery.”

  “No! Then you can do the job.”

  “It’s not that simple. It’s kept locked all the time. Even if someone was working in there, I couldn’t just go in and rummage around. No way.”

  “How about at night?”

  She nodded. “I could get into the building, even though the security is quite good. But I could never get into the archives room. See, the door to the archives—well, picture the door to a bank vault.”

  “Heavy metal with a combination lock?”

  “Uh-huh. And there’s a separate alarm just for that door. There’s no way I could get that combination. And even if I did, I couldn’t stop the alarm before it went off.”

  They sat thinking.

  “We need a professional,” Ted said finally. He picked up the portfolio from the coffee table and began paging through the papers. “Dad gave me this list. It’s a list of people who … well, people we can call on if we need help.” He studied several papers carefully. “It’s almost poetic justice or some such thing,” he said, half to himself.

  “What?”

  “The perfect person for this job.” He turned the paper toward Brenda and pointed to a listed name.

  “Rick Chardon,” she read, “The guy who …”

  “… arranged for the doctoring of the birth certificate.”

  “And,” she concluded, “the one who killed … uh …”

  “Ventimiglia, Agnes Ventimiglia,” he supplied. “Look at these qualifications. Among other talents … proficient at breaking and entering—and an expert safecracker.” He looked up at her. “He’s our man,” he said decisively.

  He leaned back, elated. “Good Lord, this feels comfortable!” He turned to face her again. “I didn’t realize it until just now, but all the plans Dad has are contingent on whatever course Maureen takes. This—what we’re doing now—puts us on the offensive. Just where I want to be. Now …” He was almost businesslike. “… how do we do it?”

  “I’ve got a key to the front door on Washington Boulevard.”

  “It’s that easy? No security?”

  “Wait. The key just gets me into the building. Next, I’ve got to punch in a code, or the minute I step in the elevator all hell breaks loose. Fortunately, my code does get me passage to the third floor where my office and the archives are both located. But then, there’s still the archives door, the combination lock and the separate alarm. I can only get Chardon onto the third floor. After that, he’s on his own with the door and its alarm. But I can give you the exact location of the parish records so he won’t have any trouble finding them once he gets in.”

  “How about guards? Any security personnel in the building?”

  “Yes. But they get off about six in the evening. After that the cleaning crew comes in. But Chardon should be able to handle them. He can wear almost any kind of uniform—Consumer’s Power or something like that … just say he’s been called in to repair something. Most of the crew speak very little English. His only problem is going to be that door and the alarm. But if he’s an expert at B&E and a safecracker to boot …”

  “It should be a cinch.” He looked thoughtful. “Think I ought to tell Dad?”

  “You know him better than I.”

  “I think I’d better. Besides, I want to give him more proof that he was wrong and that you’re on our side. Let’s see … this is Wednesday. Let’s set it up for Friday night.”

  “Only two days?”

  “Why not? Thursday we brief Chardon and Friday he gets the uniform. What’s he going to do—practice opening safes? Fooling with combination locks?” For the first time this evening, Ted smiled broadly. He felt much more at ease when he was in control of a situation.

  He phoned his father. Brenda could hear only half of the conversation. It seemed that Charlie Nash needed a measure of assurance that Brenda could be trusted, but, in the end, he was convinced. Finally, he gave his approval to the plan.

  After Friday, it wouldn’t matter whether or not Maureen was aware that a copy of Mary Lou’s baptismal record was kept in the chancery. After Friday, it wouldn’t be anywhere.

  RICK CHARDON walked down Washington Boulevard. Once it had corresponded to New York’s Fifth Avenue, Chicago’s Miracle Mile, Los Angeles’s Rodeo Drive. Now it could not be described even as a shadow of its former self.

  As far as he could see, and his vision was excellent, there was no one else in sight. Here and there among the shadows there might lurk a prospective mugger or two, but that thought did not occur to Chardon. Even if it had, he would merely have been amused. The idea of some misfit attacking Rick Chardon was ludicrous; such aggression might well have proven fatal to the mugger.

  Chardon was wearing the working uniform of a Michigan Bell Telephone Company repairman. It was determined that there was prece
dent for Ma Bell repairmen coming in for night work. The chancery phone system was accorded high priority. Partly because it was a busy and important system and also due to some influential Catholics in influential positions at Ma Bell, this telephone company deferred to the needs of the Catholic bureaucracy as often as possible.

  The uniform’s pockets contained a variety of items, only a small percentage of which were of the telephone repair category. In addition, Chardon carried a metal box with everything a professional safecracker needed to feel at home.

  He paused only a moment before the plate glass window of the Catholic Bookstore, and glanced in both directions. Nobody. He stepped to the chancery door and slipped the key in the lock. It turned smoothly. Chardon had good vibes about this job. The preparations had been hurried, but then there hadn’t been much to prepare.

  On the left side of the foyer, near the now-empty guard’s stand, was the code box. He punched in the number he’d memorized, pressed the “stay” button, and punched the code number once again. The information he’d been given was so simple and logical, he anticipated no bombshells. However, shrewd professional that he was, he came ready for the unexpected.

  The elevator stopped at the third floor. The doors slid open. No alarm. He exhaled in relief. However, not all was quiet. From the distance, around the turn of the corridor, came the sound of a vacuum cleaner. It was unusually loud. He surmised it must be a powerful, industrial-strength machine.

  All the lights in the corridor were lit. That didn’t matter. He was not relying on darkness as a protection against detection; his uniform would explain his presence.

  As he came to the first turn in the corridor, he flattened himself against the wall and peered cautiously around the corner.

  His first surprise of the night. A uniformed guard stood with her back to him.

  He remained calm. He had a series of decisions to make.

  He could not continue his mission while she was around. If he tried to pass himself off as a repairman, she could and would check to see if such a person was expected. Besides, no way could he crack a safe while a security guard looked on.