Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  However, in the face of the Monahans’ adamant, inexorable, and implacable claim of consanguinity, together with the Nash family’s resolve to subject themselves to no further legal action, and to close the chapter, an agreement had been reached between the parties.

  Under this accord—without admitting any part of the Monahan claim—Ms. Brenda Monahan would be granted a seat on the Board of Nash Enterprises, as well as an unspecified financial settlement.

  Note was made of the fact that Ms. Monahan’s background in the planning and administration offices of the archdiocese of Detroit brought to the Nash Enterprises board room yet another level of expertise as well as a special insight into the “pro bono” work that had always marked the endeavors of this company.

  No additional comment would be forthcoming from either party.

  And so it was reported by those in the hard news category. Columnists, opinion vendors, and pundits, on the other hand, had a field day speculating. Environmentalists were near ecstatic in the expectation that Nash Enterprises, once one of their most hard-nosed adversaries, might now become an ally in the cause.

  Meanwhile, before Ted’s coffers were completely depleted, Melissa began divorce proceedings. Financially, Ted was bleeding from every pore. Emotionally, he was near dead.

  Whether Brenda would ever return to the Church of her youth was completely open to conjecture. At the moment, she showed no desire for such a reconciliation. At the moment, she was expertly steering Nash Enterprises along unfamiliar paths. Ford Park plans had been discarded, and all the small animals indigenous to that sanctuary were frolicking freely.

  Mary Lou had been furious. Realistically, almost everyone had taken advantage of her. From her reputed mother, to a best friend who had been as a sister to her, to Charlie and Ted Nash and their fake lawyer from Chicago.

  As some people need time to mourn, Mary Lou needed time to pout. When that time expired, she was won over by explanations and assurances from Maureen and Brenda that no other way could their plan have worked.

  And there was the money. Brenda cut her in for a not-insignificant percentage. Mary Lou had tried it poor and tried it rich. Rich was better.

  Yet, despite her newfound funds, she held on to her job at St. Raphael’s. One could never tell when the Pope was going to get real about this celibacy thing.

  Then, there was the side issue of Inspector Koznicki finally getting his man. Koznicki and Zoo Tully had painstakingly tracked down and followed up every thread of evidence. They were, of course, convinced Chardon had murdered Agnes Ventimiglia. It was a matter of gathering enough proof to make an extremely strong case with circumstantial evidence.

  In the end, they convinced the prosecutor’s office. Chardon was convicted of first-degree murder of the Ventimiglia woman.

  In a separate trial, he was convicted of the murder of the security guard. He was sentenced to two concomitant life terms without parole. Now the other states who wanted him could have their days in court with Rick Chardon.

  As yet, Chardon had said no word implicating anyone else. And, while it was unlikely that he would, there was always the possibility. In any case, Inspector Koznicki had never felt more satisfied about an investigation. And probably never would.

  Father Arthur Deutsch was now rather redundant. And so he had retired once more to his Boca Raton manse, there to regale his fellow “senior priests” in retirement with tales of power and excitement and that crazy, meddling pastor of Old St. Joe’s. In Boca Raton, with the return of the patron of most of the senior priests, the sun never climbed above the yardarm.

  Last, but definitely not least, in Father Koesler’s thoughts, was his dear cousin Maureen. He was aware of the Native American aphorism, “Never judge a man until you have walked a mile in his moccasins.” No one, Koesler felt, deserved such consideration more than Maureen.

  Certainly hers was an abiding hatred, a deeper, stronger, and more bitter hatred than he had previously encountered. But she had been pushed over and over again by a callous, underhanded, and thoroughly un-Christian Charlie Nash.

  Now that it was finally over, and, with the death of the senior Nash it certainly was, what would Maureen do? To this date, nothing had happened. Everyone seemed busy with something or other except Maureen. Once Brenda was ensconced in her expanding empire at Nash Enterprises, Maureen had quietly disappeared from view. Further, neither Oona nor Eileen nor Koesler had been able to contact her. If this continued much longer, he resolved to get serious about locating her.

  In the meantime, he hoped she was well. And he prayed that she was at peace with God. For now, he could do no more.

  KOESLER GLANCED at his everpresent watch. Time’s up. For all you people out there who haven’t come to confession, time is up. Time to lock the church, retreat to the rectory for a little TV, some reading, and a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s Sunday schedule.

  C H A P T E R

  33

  FATHER POOL, pastor of St. Raphael’s, sat lost in prayerful thought. There were so many for whom to pray. The ailing parishioners he’d visited this week in hospitals and at their homes. The men and women out of work with no good prospects. Children with that age-old antagonism to their parents. The elderly with only loneliness to keep their infirmities company. There surely was no dearth of favors needed from God.

  Father Pool was about to commence his litany of favors received from the all-good Lord when there was a knock on his confessional door. The janitor was reminding him that it was time to close up and lock the church. Without that prompting, Pool probably would have drifted on in prayer for God only knew how long.

  Indeed, it was due to Pool’s praying in the church till all hours that the janitor had assumed the responsibility of at least getting the priest off to his rectory at a reasonable hour.

  Pool smiled at the janitor’s intervention, and began gathering up his belongings, mainly books. He was about to leave the confessional when he heard the outside door open, then shut. He waited. It might be a penitent.

  Shortly, someone entered the penitent’s compartment. As with most church confessionals of the current era, one side was set up to allow priest and penitent to sit informally facing each other with no screen or wall separating them. The other side was an older-style confessional where priest and penitent were separated by a screen that preserved the penitent’s anonymity.

  It was into the latter style confessional that this penitent had entered.

  Father Pool shifted his chair so he could hold a whispered confession in the darkened recesses of this boxlike compartment.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the muted but distinctly feminine voice. “It’s been a bit more than thirty-three years since I’ve been to confession.” There was a pause. “Father, I’m Maureen Monahan. You know…”

  “Bob’s cousin!” The smile of recognition colored his voice. “Maureen, what are you doing over there in the dark? If you come in this other door, we can sit and visit.”

  “I … can’t.”

  “But you’ve already identified yourself. There’s no need …”

  “I know. But this is the only way I’ve ever gone to confession. I guess it’s silly… but I’ve got to do it this way.”

  “That’s okay. It’s not silly. I forgot this open confession was introduced a long time after your last confession. You just relax. There’s nothing wrong with doing it this way.”

  “Well, I don’t know whether I should make one of those ‘general confessions’ that go back to when I was a kid.”

  “Does anything back there trouble you? Is there anything back there that bothers you?”

  “Mmm … not really.”

  “Listen Maureen, God loves you no matter what you’ve done. Just relax, and whatever’s troubling you, let’s get rid of it.”

  “Okay.” She sounded grateful. “Well, thirty-some years. A long time. I’ve missed Mass, oh, I don’t know how many times. Not every week … but often. Then, there were
those petty things. You know, gossip and anger, occasional bad language, and—oh, who’m I kidding? What’s really bothering me is the relationship I had with Charles Nash. You probably heard about it.”

  “If I’ve got eyes and I can read, yeah, I did. But that was a while back.”

  “Well, that’s it. The worst thing about it is all the time I spent hating him. I despised him. I wasted thirty-three years plotting against him. Now that it’s over, I just feel drained.

  “Looking back, I can’t believe that I could be that mean-spirited. But I was. I was obsessed. I lived and ate and breathed my anger, my hatred of him. And, God forgive me, I won. I beat him. And you know what? It wasn’t worth it. Now that I look back, I wish I hadn’t done it.

  “But I’m still sort of confused. I don’t know whether I’m sorry enough for God to forgive me.”

  “Maureen, believe me, your contrition sounds solid to me. If nothing else, you sure are headed in the right direction. If you aren’t yet as sorry as you’d like to be, remember, God knows you’ve had a tough time, trying to take care of those girls all by yourself. You’d have had to be superhuman not to have been affected. But you’re moving in the right direction now. You’re okay. Believe me!”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  He could hear the relief in her voice. “Anything else?”

  “Just what started this whole thing: my affair with Charlie.” She paused, obviously recollecting. “In my favor, I certainly didn’t know he was married. And the only reason I went ahead and slept with him is because I was sure … I was so sure… he was going to marry me.

  “But… that doesn’t excuse it. We had relations probably two or three or more times a week for a couple of years. And, for a while, I was taking the pill. Does that figure in the sin?”

  “Not really. Is that about all?”

  “I guess so. No, wait. There’s one more thing. It’s kind of odd. But, once …” She stopped. From the silence, he gathered that she was pulling herself or her memories together. Finally, it seemed that she had come to a decision. “Well, you see, I had dated—plenty more than my sisters ever did. And on those dates, I may have necked and petted and gone pretty far. But I never went all the way. The only person I ever had sex with, really, was Charlie Nash. Toward the end of our affair … this is embarrassing … but I began to wonder if… well … if it was the same with everybody … or whether sex felt different…” She fell silent again.

  “And…?” Father Pool prompted.

  “Well, there was this one night about three months before Charlie and I broke up. Charlie was supposed to pick me up after work. He called and said he couldn’t make it; something had come up. I asked one of the guys at work to drive me home. On the way, I got to wondering … about other men.

  “Well, the thing is, I invited this guy in, and we had sex. That was the only time, and…” She took a deep breath. “I guess that’s it.”

  Three months before the break-up. Father Pool hesitated only a few moments. “That’s it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then, you make a sincere act of contrition while I give you absolution. And know, Maureen, that God loves you. ‘The Lord Jesus Christ absolves you. And, I, by His authority, absolve you …’”

  Acknowledgments

  Gratitude for technical advice to:

  Robert Ankeny, Staff Writer, The Detroit News

  Ramon Betanzos, Ph.D., Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University

  Gerald Dziedzic, Executive Assistant, Wayne County Clerk’s Office

  Sergeant James Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department

  Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Pastoral Care, Mercy Hospital, Detroit

  Marge Hershey, R.N., Pulmonary Care Unit, Detroit Receiving Hospital

  Timothy Kenny, Assistant Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney

  George Lubienski, Attorney at Law

  Charles Lucas, M.D., Professor of Surgery, Detroit Receiving Hospital

  Thomas J. Petinga, Jr., D.O., FACEP, Chief of Emergency Services, St. Joseph Mercy Hospital, Pontiac

  Werner U. Spitz, M.D., Professor of Forensic Pathology, Wayne State University

  Karen Webb, Social Worker

  Inspector Barbara Weide, Criminal Investigation Bureau, Detroit Police Department

  Any technical error is the author’s.

  In memory of Commander Robert Hislop

  Dead Wrong copyright © 1993, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

  Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC

  an Andrews McMeel Universal company,

  1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

  www.andrewsmcmeel.com

  This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.

  ISBN: 9781449423728

  Cover design by Kevin Williamson. Photos by IstockPhoto/duncan1890, StockXchange/lustfish, StockXchange/Capgros.

  William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.

  The Father Koesler Mysteries

  1. The Rosary Murders

  2. Death Wears a Red Hat

  3. Mind Over Murder

  4. Assault with Intent

  5. Shadow of Death

  6. Kill and Tell

  7. Sudden Death

  8. Deathbed

  9. Deadline for a Critic

  10. Marked for Murder

  11. Eminence

  12. Masquerade

  13. Chameleon

  14. Body Count

  15. Dead Wrong

  16. Bishop as Pawn

  17. Call No Man Father

  18. Requiem for Moses

  19. The Man Who Loved God

  20. The Greatest Evil

  21. No Greater Love

  22. Till Death

  23. The Sacrifice

  24. The Gathering

  Here is a special preview of

  Bishop as Pawn

  The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 15

  “I’m being sued,” Father Bert Echlin stated.

  Father Ernie Bell snorted. “If you lose, you’ll have to borrow money to pay off.”

  “They always think we’ve got an infinite pile of money back of us,” Father Henry Dorr said.

  “Well, we have, in a way.” Father Frank Dempsey chuckled. “If any one of us gets into enough trouble, they can always sell the Sistine Chapel.”

  “Who’d want it?” Echlin wondered.

  “Why? What are you getting sued for?” Dorr asked,

  “My sidewalk.”

  “You got a sidewalk?” Dempsey joked.

  “I got a sidewalk, okay,” Echlin said. “It looks like it got bombed. I mean, I’m used to potholes in the streets. But in the sidewalks?”

  “So it’s an eyesore. What’s so different about that?” Dempsey shook his head. “If people in this city sued over eyesores …”

  “A woman fell on my sidewalk,” Echlin said.

  “Fell?” Dorr said.

  “Fell, or took a dive. Anyway, she’s suing. After I got a call from her lawyer, I walked around the parish. I’ve got the best sidewalk in the neighborhood.” Echlin half grimaced. “I think I got spoiled by my previous parish. In Monroe, if you got problems you get a notice from the city: Either you fix it or the city fixes it and sends you the bill.”

  “Welcome to Detroit,” said Dorr.

  It was nearing 10:30. The quarterly meeting of the city priests was winding down. The catering crew, having cleared away the food, had departed. The liquor supply and a few priests remained.

  Much of the evening’s conversation had cent
ered on the city in which these priests lived and ministered. They griped about the mayor, one Maynard Cobb; about the Common Council; about city services, or more realistically the lack thereof; about the provision for snow removal, which was the periodic but fairly dependable forty-plus degrees of temperature; about street lighting, which was spotty at best; about city pockets where police protection was intense in contrast to the larger stretches of the city pretty much left to shift for themselves; about the erratic mass transit boondoggle; about the pervasive presence of drugs with their concomitant violence, which was all too frequently fatal, and at the very least overwhelmingly vitiating.

  These were all “safe” topics. Practically every gathering of two or more citizens in metropolitan Detroit, whether in the suburbs or the city, griped about the selfsame things.

  Members of the select group of priests who called themselves the “hard core” of the core city were easily as concerned about Big Brother as they were about their wounded and limping city.

  Big Brother was embodied by the various layers of Church bureaucracy, which seemed to these priests to be obsessed with how they were functioning liturgically, canonically, and socially.

  Some few of their colleagues were aligned quite frankly with Big Brother. Thus, in these meetings, conversation was steered along “safe” paths. That way there would be nothing to report; even bureaucrats complained about the city and its many failings.

  However, once those who felt some allegiance to the power structure were not present, the “hard core” group felt more free to talk about what interested them: their Church and their ministry.

  But tonight, their aim was to discover just where this Don Carleson fit into the scheme of things. Their technique, traditionally, was not a frontal assault; rather, they would sound out the newcomer on his opinion of and approach to some of the points of common interest to them all.