Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

He said the car had hit the woman from behind as she was trying to run from it. The impact hurled her into the air like a rag doll. She had somersaulted remarkably gracefully, almost like a circus performer. She came down headfirst, her skull hitting a glancing blow on the roof of the car. He was quite sure she also hit the trunk before her body slammed to the pavement.

  He recalled every detail because he had never seen anything like this before. Not even in movies.

  What happened next, he said, was the most incredible thing of all.

  On impact, John Reid thrust himself forward as if to add the weight of his body to that of the car in smashing into the woman. He could see her body as it catapulted from the ground and disappeared from view over the windshield. He felt and heard the thud as her body hit first the roof then the trunk of the car.

  He slammed on the brakes, and skidded a few feet before stopping. He thrust the gear into reverse far more violently than necessary; his adrenalin was racing. As he shot backward, he could feel the satisfying bump as he rolled over her body. Back in drive gear, he ran over her again. Then he drove off, almost demolishing two parked cars as he turned down the drive returning to Orleans.

  “That’s what I can’t understand, officer,” the male witness said, “why would he do that? I mean, if a guy has an accident, why would he back up over the victim?”

  “It don’t look like no accident to me, mister.” The officer was taking notes of the witnesses’ account in the lobby. “It looks like that guy wanted to get her pretty bad . . . you sure it was a man driving?”

  “No, not really. I was sort of watching the action and didn’t get a clear view of the driver. I guess I just assumed it must be a man.” He brightened. “This might be helpful: He was driving a late model Pontiac. An ‘86 or ‘87 Pontiac. One of the 6000 series.”

  The officer stopped in his note-taking. His quizzical expression telegraphed his question: How in the world could you know all that in that brief a time?

  The witness caught the unarticulated query. “I’m an engineer at G.M. It’s my business to know the various models.”

  The officer smiled and entered the information on his notepad. “But you didn’t actually see the driver?”

  “No. But my wife may have.”

  The officer turned to the woman, who was approaching a state of shock and being comforted by a friend who had left her own apartment to see what all the commotion was about.

  “Ma’am,” the officer said as gently as possible to the distraught woman, “your husband says you got a look at the driver. Is that correct?”

  “What? Oh, dear. Yes, I guess I did. What I remember most is his expression. It was one of . . . well . . . the kind of look you get when you’re enjoying something very, very much. I couldn’t believe his expression. It was so . . . so . . . inappropriate.” She looked up at him. “Could I be wrong about that expression, officer?”

  “I don’t think so, ma’am. I think you probably got it right.

  “Do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again, ma’am?”

  “Oh, dear. Oh ... I think so. I don’t think I’ll ever forget him. Even now, I wish I could forget him. But I don’t think I ever will.” A pause. “Maybe that poor girl—the victim—maybe she’ll know who he is.”

  The officer closed his notepad and looked at the taillights of the departing EMS van. “Maybe, ma’am. But I don’t think she’s going to tell us about it. I don’t think she’s going to tell anybody anything.”

  “You mean . . . oh, dear. That poor woman.”

  Her husband, who had been holding her supportively, along with the friend, assisted her from the chair. As the three entered the elevator, the woman wondered if, indeed, she would ever see that man again. As much as she would desperately like to forget him, she vowed to hold his image in her memory. Someone should speak for that poor girl, God have mercy on her soul.

  CHAPTER

  15

  There was an unusual amount of high intensity activity in Homicide for so late in the evening. In fact, for any time of a normal day or night, the busyness was extraordinary. The reason: It wasn’t normal; the brother and sister-in-law of a homicide detective had been murdered. And the brethren had gathered.

  Officers, without being called in to duty, had come voluntarily. The phones were in continuous use. Markers were being called in. Whoever had killed those two people either did not know they were related to a homicide officer, or the guy was an idiot. He was going to be caught.

  Lieutenant Tully had come back to work even before getting word of this special emergency. He’d been away much of the day with Alice at the Monastery of St. Stephen. After her “miracle,” after all the media attention, and after they’d returned home, Tully had stayed with her longer than he had intended.

  She had been so agog, he couldn’t possibly have left her. She had to talk to someone and she wanted to talk to him. She had to reassure herself and him that she actually did feel better—much, much better.

  In their mutual joy, they had even made love, quite spontaneously, throwing their former caution to the winds. To their grateful surprise, she didn’t break.

  To some degree, Tully had pretended to be as hopefully confident as Alice was. He did not believe in miracles, he doubted the power of Father Robert, and he suspected the Big One, Brother Paul, of something. Tully wasn’t yet able to label it, but his well-honed instincts told him that something in Brother Paul was rotten.

  Put it all together and Tully was less than convinced that Alice was completely out of the woods. But, for her sake, he masked his doubts.

  In any case, after Alice had expressed every excited thought and fresh emotion she felt, and had calmed down, Tully headed for work. It was what Alice had expected. She knew where she and the Department stood in his life. If anything, she was gratefully surprised that he had accorded her first place, if only for a few hours.

  Tully had returned to Headquarters intent only on catching up on the backed-up paperwork. For two consecutive days he had spent an unplanned and unexpected amount of time away from his desk, and the files were piling up.

  No sooner had he reached the Department than he was told about the intensified investigation going on. In moments he was brought abreast of the matter and had joined in the hunt.

  When Inspector Koznicki passed the open door of the squad room, Tully was seated at his desk massaging the back of his neck and stretching.

  Koznicki stepped into the room and approached Tully’s desk. “My heartiest congratulations, Alonzo. Everyone has heard of Alice’s miraculous improvement.”

  So like Walt, thought Tully, to carefully choose his words even in informal conversation. Koznicki had dropped the word “miraculous.” But because he knew Tully’s view on miracles, the inspector had used the word “improvement” rather than “cure.”

  “Thanks, Walt. She is better, no doubt about that.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Time. We gotta give it time. Plus we gotta get her to the doctor, no matter what the priest said.”

  Koznicki cocked an eyebrow. “No matter what the priest said?”

  For the first time, a more complete grasp of what had happened occurred to Tully. It hadn’t been reported, at least not yet, that the priest had advised—no, better, commanded—Alice to substitute faith and trust in him and God for a continued reliance on medical science.

  Now Tully recalled the scene before the priest with crisp clarity.

  There had been few people close enough to Father Robert to hear everything he said. But Tully remembered. He remembered the priest’s saying those words. Alice heard, of course. He’d heard. The Big One heard, and reacted—angrily? And Pat Lennon heard—and reacted. If anyone were to report the entire scene and draw the appropriate conclusions, it would be Pat. But it was too early for her story to be in print.

  However, Koznicki was entitled to some explanation. “Yeah, Walt, just before Alice got to . . . feeling better, the priest told her
she had to trust in God and not in doctors.”

  “He said that!”

  “Uh-huh. Told her some story from the Bible about a woman who spent all her money on doctors and was worse off than in the beginning. But when she believed in Jesus, she was cured. Just like that.”

  Koznicki shook his head. “Dangerous, dangerous. Well, let us at least hope that in Alice’s case, this is the end and that whatever cured her is lasting.”

  “Amen.”

  “I will just get out of your way now so you can get back to work.”

  Tully nodded toward the phone. “Just waiting for a call from one of my snitches. He says he can ID the house where Morgan’s brother was killed. Personally, I think he’s blowin’ smoke. Probably wants a few honor points against his next bust. We’ll see.”

  Sergeant Angela Moore’s head appeared in the doorway. As she leaned into the squad room she first saw Koznicki, registered slight surprise, and nodded to the inspector. Then she turned her attention to Tully. “Zoo, something just came in I thought you’d be interested in.”

  “On the Morgan case?”

  “No, another case.”

  Tully wondered why Moore was being so vague. It was not like her. Almost as if she were loath to bring the subject up in Koznicki’s presence.

  “What other case?” Tully asked.

  “An attempted murder. It just came in.”

  “Moore, we’re workin’ on the Morgan case.”

  She hesitated. “I thought you’d want to know about this one. It’s the one you asked me about yesterday.”

  Tully drew a blank. “The one yesterday?” He thought a moment. “Lennon? Pat Lennon?”

  Moore nodded.

  Koznicki took in the exchange with interest. Why had Moore not simply stated that fact in the beginning? She had seemed inhibited by his presence. Why? And now, Tully looked stunned. Koznicki could not recall ever having seen his lieutenant so affected.

  Without another word, Tully rose, slipped on his jacket, and left the room.

  Koznicki continued to wonder about it, and with the wonder came concern.

  Tully scanned the report and then headed out. Before entering traffic from a parking space restricted to authorized vehicles, he placed the flasher on the car’s roof. He reached Harper Hospital in record time. After checking at the desk, he took the elevator to the Surgical Intensive Care Unit.

  Pat Lennon was standing in the hallway.

  He almost ran to her. “What happened? You’re supposed to be—”

  “When a fella needs a friend!” Lennon cut in. “I don’t know what brought you here, but, boy, am I glad to see you!”

  “The report said that . . . that you . . .”

  “I know. That’s the same way I got the information.”

  “What—”

  “I was in the city room wrapping up a story when a call came in from our police beat that I had been hit by a car and was near death at Harper. Well, of course I wasn’t. The guy who took the call told the reporter I was alive and well and standing right beside him. So we checked and found the ID was tentative. I was pretty sure I knew who it was, so I got down here right away. I’ve been here only a few minutes.”

  “So, who is it? Do you know?”

  “Pringle McPhee. She’s a friend—works with me at the News.”

  Tully became aware that his heartbeat was stabilizing. His blood pressure probably was returning to normal. He could read the fear in Pat’s expression.

  “Can you help me find out what happened . . . how she is?” she asked.

  His smile tried to provide reassurance. “Sure. Come on.”

  He led her into the inner sanctum. Pat was used to barging in to restricted places armed only with her press card and a healthy measure of brass. But even she was impressed with Tully’s style. For starters, his police badge and the magic word “homicide” drew lots more cooperation than her press pass ever had. Then there was his gift of raw authority in demeanor. He raised brass, gall, and nerve to chutzpah.

  This combination got them to the victim’s bedside and to the attending physician, who, as they entered the room, was standing with hands in pockets, the ever-present stethoscope draped around his neck. He was just standing there contemplating the victim.

  After introductions, Tully and Lennon joined the doctor in the silent study of human life evidently hanging on by several threads.

  Tully had seen it all before. But seldom had he seen anyone so plugged with support systems.

  She had been extremely attractive before this, although it was impossible to tell now. Her face was distended and discolored. Both eyes were swollen shut. A white sheet loosely covered her body. From his experience in asking doctors the purpose of various medical devices, he knew the tube in her nose was supposed to decompress the stomach.

  A ventilator was connected to an endotracheal oral tube. There were multiple IV lines and multiple hanging bottles. Tubes and wires peeked from beneath the sheet. One tube drained blood for her right side. Another, attached to a Foley catheter, drained urine. The wires led to a cardiac monitor. Both her legs were elevated, wrapped, and in traction.

  Without being asked, the doctor volunteered, “We’ve taken X-rays of her facial bones, her legs, her skull, the cervical spine, chest, pelvis. And we’ve done a CAT scan.”

  There was a pause.

  “And?” Tully prompted.

  The doctor shook his head. “She has bilateral broken legs, a closed head injury, a skull fracture, a fractured pelvis, fractures of the facial bones, suspicion of abdominal injury, and six broken ribs on the right side.”

  Tully almost whistled silently. Instead, he exhaled audibly. “The prognosis?”

  The doctor shrugged. “She’s alive. She must have been in awfully good physical condition. That, and youth and luck, and I don’t know what else, is helping. We’ve got her pretty well stabilized now. It’s a matter of watching her extremely carefully. Nature should begin healing something sometime soon. Nature will give us our cue.”

  “Is . . . is she going to . . . make it?” Pat asked.

  The doctor didn’t answer immediately. Then, “I don’t know. Officially, she is ‘very critical.’“

  “That’s just this side of deceased,” Tully said.

  The doctor nodded.

  Tully took Pat’s elbow. “Come on, Pat. We’ve got to talk.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Pat turned and left the room with Tully.

  When they reached the hallway, in the glare of the lights Tully saw that Pat had been crying. Tears still flowed freely. He handed her his handkerchief. Over the years he had become inured to so many emotional reactions, tears among them. But his immunity stopped at the threshold of those he very much cared for.

  As he saw Pat’s tears, he felt his own eyes begin to fill. So, he seated her in the visitors’ lounge and returned to the emergency room desk to check the police report on admission. He scanned the report, noted the name of the reporting officer, and phoned the man.

  “Hoover!” the officer barked when Tully finally reached him.

  “Tully, Homicide.”

  “Oh . . . yes, Lieutenant.” His tone became conciliatory.

  “I’m at Harper. It’s about that woman you wrote up this evening. Why did you ID her as Patricia Lennon?”

  “That ain’t her name?”

  “No.”

  “Uh-oh. It’s the only thing we had to go on. There were some business cards in her coat pocket. Said ‘Patricia Lennon.’ Works at one of the papers. I forget which now.”

  “No purse?”

  “Couldn’t find one. Somebody probably swiped it.”

  Nice people, thought Tully. “What happened?”

  Hoover cleared his throat for no other reason than that he needed a moment to recall the details. “Subject was walking—no, make that running; heavy rainstorm, still is—”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. Subject was running from the parking garage to admi
ttance doors of Lafayette Towers East. It’s a heavily parked area on both sides of a pretty narrow driveway. Just enough room in the center strip for a single car to get through.

  “Doorman tells me it was solidly parked tonight ‘cause of the storm. Anyway, when the subject reached the open area in the drive, she was struck by a vehicle. It was hit-and-run, Lieutenant.”

  “The driver?”

  “Witness says it was a male Caucasian. Says she might be able to ID him. We gave her a chance to calm down a bit, then took her in to look at shots. She’s still at it. No luck yet.”

  “Any possibility this could’ve been a chance hit? DWI, drugs?”

  “Negative, Lieutenant. According to the witness, after the car struck the woman, it stopped dead, then it backed over her, and then drove over her again. We logged it as an assault with intent to commit murder.

  “Uh . . . one more thing, Lieutenant: When the woman hit the ground, her momentum carried her partly under one of the parked cars. So when the guy ran over her again, all he could get were her legs. Geez, her legs must be in bad shape!”

  “Her whole body’s in bad shape.”

  “Yeah, goddam!” he exclaimed. “Somebody really had it in for her.”

  “Hoover, keep me informed on this one. Especially if that witness makes somebody.” Tully did not wait for a reply.

  He returned to Pat Lennon, who was trying, not altogether successfully, to compose herself. He sat beside her and took one of her hands in his. “Tell me what happened, Pat.”

  She nodded. “Pringle and I were going to get together last night, but she had a date. The date didn’t go very well. She was really down when I saw her at work today. So we agreed to get together tonight.”

  “Wait,” Tully said, “this date: who was it?”

  She hesitated. It was an occupational hazard. She spent so much time protecting her sources, her first inclination was to protect everyone’s identity. But this was a most serious investigation; she totally trusted Tully; this was not a privileged secret and, finally, she was not the only one who knew about Pringle’s affair.

  “Fred Parker.”

  “Fred Parker.” He let the name rattle around the computer in his mind. “Fred Parker, the ad guy?”