He looked first at Koesler then at Tully. “Would you agree with this description?”
Tully and Koesler glanced at each other. It was Tully who spoke. “Yeah, Walt. It describes him. But what’s the point?”
“I have just given you an almost word-for-word description of the man we suspected of having killed Agnes Ventimiglia.”
Tully looked startled, Koesler astonished. “How,” Koesler asked, “could you have remembered all those details after all this time? That must be thirty years ago!”
“Thirty-three,” Koznicki corrected. “It was my very first homicide case. I thought we were so close to solving it. I knew I would never forget it.
“Earlier, when I saw a picture of the wound that killed the guard, I wondered where I had seen such a wound before. It was Agnes Ventimiglia. A single, powerful blow to the temple. I think the two blows are identical.”
Koznicki seemed to shift into a higher gear. “There are several things I must check out. Alonzo, you will remain in charge here?”
“Sure.”
“Father—we are not taking you from your duties …?” As Koesler shook his head, Koznicki continued, “I wonder then, would you be willing to accompany me?”
“Of course. I’d like very much to see this thing through.”
C H A P T E R
28
IT WASN’T that she had to work Saturdays. Mary Lou Monahan insisted on working not only every Saturday but on Sunday too, at least until the collection was counted and placed in the night depository.
Mary Lou was an answer to Father Pool’s unspoken prayer that God would send somebody to take finances and the budget off his back. It was ideal. Mary Lou’s duties at St. Raphael parish were well within her talent and training. She loved it.
This Saturday, Mary Lou had just finished sharing a light lunch—which she had made—with her pastor. She had taught him to eat regularly. He had taught her to eat sparingly. Both were the better for it. He was no longer distressed with hunger pangs. She had lost weight. Which, in addition to a newly acquired sunny disposition, made her more vivacious and attractive.
Father Pool had gone to make sick calls. Mary Lou was typing announcements to be made at Masses later this afternoon and tomorrow.
Normally when the front doorbell rang, she knew who would be answering it. Pool always insisted on going to the door. She was far too busy, he had explained, to attend to such mundane duties. Besides, he said, rectory callers usually wanted to speak with him anyway.
From time to time Mary Lou reflected on what a waste it was that a man like Pool couldn’t marry. He would have made an outstanding husband.
While she had no plans to force the issue, such as seduction, she vaguely decided she would hold on to this job just in case this or some future Pope decided to rescue the cultic priesthood by reevaluating this business of mandatory celibacy.
She had nearly finished the announcements when the doorbell sounded. It startled her; for one reason or another, few people called at the rectory on a Saturday.
Her first view of him almost took her breath away.
He looked down at her from a couple of inches more than six feet. Whatever he wanted, he was serious about it. His rectangular, strongly featured face she found most attractive. He wore a light London Fog topcoat and a dark gray homburg. He was among the very few men who could carry that off.
He smiled. It may have been because her mouth was hanging open. “I hope I’m not disturbing you coming here on a Saturday.”
Odd; he had a common midwestern twang. She had half expected a British accent. “No, not at all. Come in—please.”
She led the way to her office. He waited till she sat down behind her desk, then he took the chair opposite. He removed his hat. The shade of his wavy graying hair matched that of his pencil-thin mustache. He might be in his mid-forties, perhaps some ten years her senior. “My uncle,” he began, “was buried from this parish this past week. Mr. Ned Speakman?”
“Oh … yes … I’m sorry.”
“Perfectly all right. One of those deaths to which people add the words, ‘It was a mercy.’ He’d suffered a long while. I wonder, could you possibly arrange to schedule a Mass for the repose of his soul? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to have the Mass offered on April twenty-fifth? That way it will be a month’s mind.”
Mary Lou consulted her parish calendar. “Yes, we can do that.”
“Fine. Very good. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been quite a long time since I’ve had this done. Could you tell me, what is the offering for such a Mass?”
Mary Lou could not suppress a chuckle. She immediately apologized.
“Quite all right. Did I say something peculiar?”
“No, no, just the opposite. You got everything perfectly correct. I haven’t heard anyone do that in the time I’ve been here. I just can’t think of too many people who could or would do it.”
“Really …” He seemed interested. “What did I get right?”
“Everything, amazingly. Most people ask for a Mass for a dead person rather than for their soul. Almost no one anymore knows there are special Masses for thirty, sixty, and ninety days after death that are called month’s mind. And, most of all, everybody asks, ‘How much is the Mass?’ But you’ve avoided every single one of those clichés. Do you mind telling me, just how did you do that?”
He smiled. “No tricks involved. It probably comes from my days in the seminary. And I’ve kept up pretty well with all the changes. As a matter of fact …” He paused. “I’m not taking up too much of your time, am I?”
Mary Lou smiled delightedly as she shook her head. She quickly had become enchanted with this stranger.
“You’re too young to remember a column that used to run weekly in the National Catholic Reporter called ‘Cry Pax.’”
Although she had heard others refer to the column, she was indeed too young to have read it. Obviously he was not. She would have to reassess her estimate of his age. Not mid-forties, more like mid-fifties. The reevaluation did nothing to dim the fact that she found him extremely charming.
“It was a column,” he explained, “that poked fun at some of the more flagrant blunders we Catholics make. The particular item that comes to mind was an excerpt from a column published in a parish bulletin. I haven’t the slightest idea now whose bulletin it was, but it had to do with deadbeat parishioners who requested Masses be scheduled but never made an offering. The pastor was incensed because other parishioners, who were willing and able to pay, couldn’t get their Masses in the overcrowded schedule. Following the item was an editor’s note wondering why we Catholics could never convince people you cannot ‘buy’ a Mass.”
They laughed. Over the next forty-five minutes they continued to laugh as they enjoyed each other’s company. They learned each other’s name. He was Ned McDonald, once of Detroit, now of Chicago. He was a corporate attorney—very successful if she was any judge, though he himself made no such claim. She soft-pedaled her employment vicissitudes, giving the impression that she quickly became disinterested in a job once she had mastered it.
“But, say …” McDonald looked at his watch. “I must be keeping you from something. And I’ve got some business I have to take care of.” He rose to leave, then hesitated. “I wonder … this is terribly forward of me … but would you consider dining with me tonight? It would just be an early dinner; I have to get back to Chicago tomorrow. But it’s been such fun talking with you.”
Mary Lou needed no time to consider. “That would be nice. I’ll be done here by six.”
“I’ll call for you then.”
They shook hands warmly and he left. Immediately she began anticipating a delightful evening. And with a man like him, it didn’t much matter where it all would lead. She smiled wickedly. She didn’t even know whether he was married! Worse, she didn’t care.
One could get very old and dried up waiting for the Pope to change his mind about celibacy.
INSP
ECTOR KOZNICKI drove Father Koesler on a series of converging trips around the city on this bright, sunny Saturday afternoon in March.
They dipped into nostalgia, again reminiscing first about their near miss of each other at the Ventimiglia funeral at St. Ursula’s. If Father Pompilio had not decided to officiate, if Koesler had not been scheduled to administer a test to the school kids, if Koznicki had called at the rectory—at least they would have seen each other.
But none of these missed coincidences would have prepared them for what happened years later when Koesler had stumbled upon the dead body of a nun in the otherwise vacant convent at St. Ursula’s.
That had led to a series of opposite coincidences that brought the two men together. If Koesler had not happened to be the one who found the body, and if he had not noticed the peculiar presence of a rosary—so incongruous in the hand of a nun who had been taking a bath—still they might not have met.
But they did meet, and had, over the years, become good friends, easily sharing confidences.
On the drive this afternoon, they first had returned to police headquarters to pick up additional copies of the suspect’s mug shots.
Next, they visited Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann, medical examiner for Wayne County. It was he who had performed the autopsy on the murdered security guard. And he wasn’t at all happy about it. The police had requested priority for this postmortem. Such a request almost always set off Moellmann’s short fuse.
Fortunately, most of the doctor’s explosive force had been spent before Koznicki and Koesler arrived. That, plus the fact that he had a special if well concealed respect for Koznicki, plus the presence of a priest, rendered Moellmann fairly cooperative. But for the person making the request, Koznicki’s query about an autopsy performed here thirty-three years before could well have set the doctor’s aggression on full throttle.
“Well, you know,” Moellmann said, “I wasn’t here then.” He had a clear and quite appropriate German accent. A hortatory tone that was put to use as he asked—commanded—some browbeaten assistant at the other end of his phone line to locate the ancient file and bring it to him “now.”
They did not have long to wait before a clerk appeared with a grungy folder, which Moellmann grabbed without comment. He mumbled beneath his breath as he rummaged through the file. “There are notes and pictures. Ja … ja. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. Interesting.” It became obvious that he was comparing the old case with this morning’s autopsy. “Well, I can’t say. But it is very interesting. The right temple. The internal damage. The force of the blow. Well, you see, I cannot say for sure that the same weapon was used in both deaths. And I cannot say the same person was the killer in both cases. But the similarities are striking. Oh! Ho! That was a pun. I didn’t intend it, but that was a pun.”
He recovered quickly. “I would say that this is well worth the investigation. If you get somebody who is a suspect in both murders, I could testify as to the similarities. The evidence would be circumstantial, but, put it together with other indications, it could be quite strong.”
So far, thought Koznicki, so good. Or, as good as he had any right to expect.
“Where to now?” Koesler asked as they headed back to Koznicki’s car.
“The Beyers … Joe and Mollie.”
“The couple who owned the Wine Cellars?”
“Yes. You know them?”
“Sure. I think everybody who ever ate downtown must have dined at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars. And if they did, they probably knew Joe and Mollie. What a rotten shame that great restaurant had to close. I’ve missed it for—what is it?—two or three years now. But”—he turned to look at Koznicki—”what in the world could Joe and Mollie have to do with this case … these cases?”
“According to the Ventimiglia girl’s best friend, Agnes and her mystery man probably were to dine at the Wine Cellars the night she was murdered.”
Koesler paused to think that over. “Then,” he said slowly, “that’s why you picked up copies of that photo of the suspect. But even assuming they did eat there that night, do you actually think the Beyers might remember the man? It’s been more than thirty years!”
“There’s always a chance. And in this work, one depends on whatever attention to detail may bring.” The car headed east, with the priest and the Inspector now each deep in his own thoughts.
BOTH KOZNICKI AND Koesler were gratified when Joe Beyer answered the door. They had not determined beforehand that he would be home.
Beyer recognized Koznicki immediately, but had to be introduced to Koesler—a fact that discouraged the priest from thinking the former restaurateur might possibly recall the suspect. Koesler had dined at the Wine Cellars with some regularity. The suspect might have visited there but once.
After they were seated in the living room, Koznicki explained that he wanted Beyer to see if he could remember or identify any of the men in some police photos.
Beyer took the photos, turned each so it would not reflect the glare of sunlight, then studied it carefully. Finally he looked up at Koznicki. “This is important, isn’t it?”
Koznicki nodded soberly.
Beyer returned to his perusal. He looked up again. “Can you give me a hint? Is it someone who’s been in the news lately?”
“Sorry,” Koznicki said. “It would do the case no good for me to prompt you. All I will say is that you may have seen one of these men some thirty years ago. Do you recall ever having seen any of them?”
Beyer returned to the study, but he was slowly and steadily shaking his head. “No, no, Walt … sorry. But I can’t Sorry.”
At that moment, Mollie, his wife, entered the room like a fresh and welcome breeze. “Walt, Father, don’t stand.”
But they did, and shook hands with her. “Do you remember me?” Koesler asked, although he had assumed that if the husband did not remember him, neither would the wife.
“Yes, of course,” Mollie said. “You used to come in with some other priests.”
That, thought Koesler, was a safe enough bet. As usual, he was wearing a clerical collar with his black suit. Surely it was a safe guess that he was a priest. And priests had a habit of dining together with considerable frequency.
“You’re …” She rubbed her forehead. “You are … uh … Father Kelzer. No … wait! Father Koesler.” Sure of herself, she brightened.
“Amazing!” Koesler acknowledged. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
Joe handed his wife the mug shots. “They want to know if we recognize any of these guys, Mollie. I struck out. Wanta give it a try?”
“Sure.” She sat on the couch alongside him. She examined each picture with evident care. There was utter silence while she shifted back and forth among the photos, trying to stir up a forgotten incident in the past. “Look at those eyes!” She held up one photo. It was the shot of Chardon. Koznicki’s face was impassive. “They’re scary,” she said. “Looks like they could penetrate right through you. Otherwise, a kind of good-looking guy. Seems as if I ought to remember him. And … I kind of do … sort of.”
“I can tell you this much,” Koznicki said. “You would have seen the man we’re looking for about thirty years ago, and probably not thereafter. So you could assume that his hair would have been dark instead of gray. Obviously, since each of the men in these pictures still has a full head of hair, we can assume the hairline would have been the same as it is today.”
She returned to the photos. “I’m drawing a blank, Walt. But … there’s something nagging at me. Can you leave the pictures?”
“Of course. If you have any recollection at all of any of these men, you know where to reach me.”
Koznicki and Koesler left. As the inspector drove away, Koesler looked back. Joe Beyer was waving good-bye. His wife was studying the photos.
C H A P T E R
29
THEY DINED AT Meriwether’s on Telegraph Road near Ten Mile. it was Mary Lou’s choice. Ned McDonald protested that she should have picked a posher place, b
ut she assured him that all things considered—food quality, service, management—this was her favorite.
They had been seated in a walled booth that afforded them a modicum of privacy and created for her a sense of romance.
During their chatty dinner, she learned that he was a widower of ten years whose children were grown, on their own, and scattered around the country. She was thrilled to be with this handsome mature man whom she found engrossing, humorous, attentive, and, all in all, delightful company.
He had ordered wine with their meal. Twice. Because he anticipated her desire—another prized trait—and kept her wineglass full, she was only peripherally aware that she had consumed well more than half of the two bottles they emptied during the meal. Neither did she notice the alcoholic content of the wine. It was high. And so, as the evening wore on, was she.
She didn’t become aware until they were leaving the restaurant and the chill spring wind hit her that she was somewhat more than tipsy. But she felt so secure, so cared for, that she simply relaxed and let McDonald take over.
She was able, barely, to direct him to her apartment. When they arrived, her only desire was to prolong this enchanted evening. “Won’t you come in for some … coffee … or something?”
He smiled as he helped her from the car. “Maybe for just a little while. You look as if you could use a little help.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Am I embarrassing you?”
Dead Wrong Page 26
