One thing was clear at first glance: This was a popular flight. A planeful of people were waiting in the gate area. Seated in the unupholstered, bolted-down chairs, pacing restlessly, reading paperbacks, conversing with friends and/or relatives who were seeing the traveler off. But, a religious habit?
There was a nun in a white habit. Koesler recognized it instantly as that of the Maryknoll Missionary order. There was a priest who was approximately Koesler’s age. They did not know each other, but they nodded and smiled at each other. Oh, the incomparable camaraderie of the priesthood! No one but a priest could fully appreciate it.
But, no gray habit. Brother Paul, if he was here, had disappeared, perhaps forever. If he was here, he was John Reid, and in his layman’s guise he had thrown an extra challenge at them to find him.
With no set plan, the three slipped into a sort of practical search configuration, with Koesler in the point position and Tully and Moore behind to his right and left.
Koesler moved slowly, only inches at a step, in order to try to take in each and every person in this vast congested area. The only consolation was that, sooner or later, everyone emplaning would have to pass, single-file, through the boarding gate. But the sooner they could identify Reid the better for all of them.
Assuming he was here.
The check-in agent began speaking over the microphone in the peculiar childlike singsong cadence that seemed to be a required course in airline personnel school.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We will now begin boarding at Gate 10 for Flight 393 to Chicago. We will begin boarding those with small children or those who may experience some difficulty in boarding.”
There was a general stir throughout the area. A couple of people with babies stepped up to and through the gate. They were followed by a woman hunched in a wheelchair, being pushed by an attendant. Koesler looked sharply at the attendant.
A ragged line began to form, stretching from the gate out into the concourse.
Koesler continued to pour his every ounce of diligence into the search. But no John Reid.
The priest began to doubt himself. Did he really remember Brother Paul all that well just from yesterday’s meeting? That was foolish; of course he remembered. But there were so many people here, all moving this way and that. So many people. He reminded himself that he was looking for a tall man, almost as tall as himself . . .within an inch, anyway. So he confined his search to eye-level height.
“We remind you, ladies and gentlemen: This is Flight 393 to Chicago, now boarding through Gate 10. We will now board passengers holding seat numbers 1 through 8. Please have your ticket and boarding pass ready for the attendant at the gate.”
More activity. Not many first class passengers, evidently. But more people getting in line.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we will be boarding passengers holding seat numbers 20 through 32. We remind you at this time that FAA regulations allow only two carry-on items per person, and that all carry-on luggage must be able to fit under the seat or in the overhead bin.”
It’s him!
Oh, my God, Koesler thought, there he is!
Dressed casually in a white, short-sleeved, open-collared shirt and black trousers. Hatless. Peculiar: From a cord around his neck hung a huge ornate metal cross—as if he could not quite relinquish his religious persona. Strikingly handsome man. Looked as if he could light up a room with his smile, but also looked as if he seldom tried.
Tully and Moore sensed it. They moved up to brace Koesler. “You made him, didn’t you?” Moore said.
Koesler nodded.
“Where?” Tully asked. “Which one?”
Koesler stammered, something he seldom, if ever, did. “H . . . he . . . he’s in line now, about tenth from the front . . . see? In the w . . . wh . . . white shirt and black pants. Th . . . the . . . the cross . . . see it? On a cord around his neck, lying against his chest . . . see it?”
“It’s okay, Father,” Tully reassured, “we got him. You just stay right here.”
Tully nodded to Moore; both had heard Koesler clearly. They moved forward slowly, seeming to follow some prearranged strategy, though Koesler had not heard them discuss it. Quite clearly they operated together. Maybe they had executed a similar maneuver previously. The priest watched them move ever so casually toward their prey.
Reid was now about eighth in line. He began to look around, his head pivoting slowly, in an owl-like circumference. Too late it occurred to Koesler that he should have taken a seat or, better, left the area entirely. Reid caught sight of him, seemingly startled as the tall clerically garbed man came into his vision. In that instant he knew who Koesler was and in the next instant guessed why he was here. Of course: Koesler—the only one who could identify me.
He wouldn’t be here alone; there must be someone with him. Cops. Where?
Reid’s eyes were fiercely alive, darting here and there. That black guy. He was in the chapel with the girl who got cured. He was in the singles bar with the reporter. A cop. He had to be.
With one eye on Tully, Reid tried to bulldoze his way up the line, drawing irate comments for his pains. He was unaware that Moore had moved up almost even with him on his blind side.
“Oh!” Moore cried out, feigning a twisted ankle, as she fell against Reid, forcing him out of line.
He was about to shove her aside when she suddenly displayed her badge and ID and said, firmly, “Police! You’re under arrest!”
Moore thought her reflexes were fast, but she learned something from Reid, who, in a split second, wrapped his left arm around her neck, spinning her and gripping her against himself as a shield. His right hand drew the knife from its camouflaged sheath in the vertical bar of his pendant cross. He pressed the blade to her throat as he maneuvered her between himself and Tully.
Some screamed, some shouted; all backed away, leaving Reid plenty of room.
“Back off, cop! Back off, or she’s dead!” Reid retreated toward the gate leading to the plane, dragging Moore with him.
Tully, who had drawn his gun, was now immobilized. An almost extraneous thought crossed his mind: You go all your life without drawing your weapon, then in one week it’s hardly ever out of your hand.
Moore’s shoes were not spike-heeled, but neither were they flats. As Reid dragged her toward the gate, in one motion she lifted her right leg higher than was called for and with all her strength brought her heel down on Reid’s instep.
He howled in pain and relaxed his grip for just a moment. For just the moment she needed. She slipped out of his grasp, fell to the floor, and rolled away from him.
He was now without a hostage. Nothing stood between him and Tully’s gun but his knife. He edged menacingly toward Tully.
Tully smiled for the first time in a long while. It was not a pretty smile. “In the immortal words of Clint Eastwood, ‘Make my day!’“
Reid’s shoulders sagged. He almost smiled. He dropped the knife.
No sooner did the knife clatter to the floor than Reid was overpowered by a potpourri of airport security personnel, sheriff’s deputies, and Detroit police. All of them had been in the vicinity and, in the short period that Reid had held Moore hostage, the cohort had closed in. Now, just a few moments later, Reid had been cuffed, Mirandized, and led off. His knife had been carefully retrieved by one of the officers and taken away as evidence.
Tully hastened to Moore, who had been largely ignored during the officers’ brief scuffle with Reid. She had dragged herself to one side and was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, trying to calm herself.
Tully knelt at her side. “How you doin’, Angie?”
She looked at him, grateful to be alive to talk to anyone. “I’ve been better, Zoo. That was kind of dumb, wasn’t it—getting taken by that turkey!”
Tully shook his head. “He was fast, Angie. It could’ve happened to anybody. Anyway, you did good. And we got him and—wait a minute: What we got here?”
Blood was stainin
g through the right shoulder of her blouse. He traced the flow, brushing aside her hair till he found the cut. It was just below her right ear.
“He cut you, Angie. Not bad . . . must’ve got you when he let go and you fell away from him.” He pressed his handkerchief firmly against the gash, trying to stanch the flow. He didn’t want to alarm her, but actually the cut was deep. He was surprised that Reid could inflict so serious a wound with such a relatively small knife.
Tully lifted her to her feet. “I’ll get somebody to take the priest home. I’m gonna get you to a hospital. They may have to take a few stitches, but don’t worry: you’ll still be able to wear your bikini.”
It was over.
Almost.
CHAPTER
23
Father Koesler was running a little late, extremely rare for him. After this morning’s excitement at the airport, it had taken him a while to calm down. Little by little the day had gotten away from him. Mary O’Connor had to postpone his final two appointments of the day or he would not have made it to dinner at all.
Proprietor Moe Blair met him just inside the door of the Wine Barrel. “The others are here already, Father. I’ll take you to the table.”
“Thanks, Moe.” As they made their way through the restaurant, Koesler said, “Moe, remember you asked me about those monks—the Congregation of St. Stephen? Well, as it turned out, I did have a chance to look into it.”
Blair smiled. “I know. I read about it in the paper.”
“Oh, that’s right . . .” Koesler had forgotten that Pat Lennon had interviewed him on that very subject. Things had been happening so fast for him these last couple of days, he hadn’t even had the leisure to read the papers. “Anyway,” he went on, “from what I’ve seen of the outfit, I wouldn’t put much faith in it. Of course, the archdiocese intends to pursue the investigation. Or, maybe, I should say intended. I’m not sure there’ll be any need to go on.”
“I know. Radio and TV news is full of the bank fraud story. I agree with you: I think this is the end of that group.”
“But more important, how is Betsy?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Thing’s all cleared up.”
“What was it?”
Blair chuckled. “What it always is when the doctor doesn’t know, a virus.”
They reached the table, where Koesler was welcomed by Koznicki and Tully. The officers had drinks. Blair took Koesler’s order of a Chablis.
The policemen raised their glasses in salute. “Welcome, Father, the hero of this morning’s arrest,” hailed Koznicki.
Koesler waved a hand. “Oh, no; no, I was along for the ride. Lieutenant Tully and Sergeant Moore were the heroes. By the way, where is the sergeant?”
“She has been admitted to the hospital,” Koznicki said. “She was in shock. Then, after she was stabilized, she was in some pain. They want to keep her in observation overnight.”
“That’s too bad,” Koesler said. “Her life was really on the line this morning.”
“She’s a pro,” said Tully. “Not exactly all in a day’s work, but she knew what to do and did it. But this little party is in your honor, Father. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
Koesler’s wine arrived. “Kind of you, Lieutenant, but I merely identified him.”
“Your identification was vital,” Koznicki said. “If he had gotten out of Detroit—and he was only a few steps away from doing just that—we might never have caught up with him.”
Koesler looked puzzled.
“If we had not arrested him in Detroit,” Koznicki explained, “we would have had no idea which direction he had taken. He might have gone to New York, Chicago, any number of cities, before catching a flight to some country with which we have no extradition agreement. More than likely we would never have gotten him.”
“By the way,” Koesler toyed with his wine glass, “I didn’t think of it at the time—with all the excitement—but later, I wondered about your making that arrest. Weren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”
“We were in what’s called ‘hot pursuit,’“ said Tully. “That gave us the right. Besides, we have an agreement with the state police that makes it legal for a Detroit police officer to make arrests anywhere in the state of Michigan. Not many people know that.”
Koesler was impressed. Then another thought occurred. “But I was not the only one who knew what he looked like. The other monks . . .”
Tully shook his head. Koesler had sensed from the beginning that while this was a victory celebration of sorts, Tully’s heart was not in it.
“Something’s going on there,” Tully said, “and I’m not sure what. But we’re getting nothing out of those guys retroactively.”
“They’re not cooperating?” Koesler was puzzled. “But . . . but they’re Catholic monks. This man committed a crime, a federal crime. I can’t believe the others would not cooperate with the police.”
Tully shrugged. “I’m just telling you what’s happening. I can’t explain it any better than you can.” After a moment of silence, he continued. “They seem . . . terrified of him. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. But, why . . . ? We just don’t know.”
“Terrified? But he’s locked up,” Koesler said, “... isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Tully replied, “but not for long.”
“Not for long?”
“We feel we have a very sound case against Reid,” Koznicki said. “Although anything can happen, we really believe we will get a conviction for bank fraud. But even with a conviction, Reid is not looking at much time.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe five years,” Tully said. “With good time, he probably wouldn’t do more than . . . oh, twenty months. So, if for some reason those guys are afraid of him, they’ve got a right to be: He’s not gonna be in the lockup all that long. But, why would they be afraid of him?”
“I don’t know,” Koesler said, thoughtfully. “But what happens when you put them on the stand in court? Then they’d be under oath. Then they’d have to tell the truth.”
“They’ll never see the stand in court,” Tully said. “It’s clear they’re not involved in the bank fraud. That was a gig by Reid alone. And even though I’m certain Reid tried to kill Pat Lennon and got her friend by mistake, we don’t have a shred of evidence to bring him to trial for that. So, possibly the monks could testify to an attempted murder charge—but they’ll never have to.”
Koesler was beginning to understand why Tully was not deliriously happy. Reid was most likely going to prison, but not anywhere near long enough to satisfy Tully’s sense of justice.
Sensing that the subject had reached an impasse, Koznicki shifted the conversation. “Well, Father, your commission from the Cardinal admitted you to the inner sanctum. How was your first attempt at an investigation?” His tone was not far removed from that of an indulgent father toward a son who had tried something new.
Koznicki intended the change of subject to lighten the conversation. On the contrary, as the priest considered the question, he seemed to be weighing a matter of some gravity.
“Well,” Koesler said, “I got my report in to the Chancery on the way here tonight. I didn’t go into much detail. Just enough to tell the next batch of examiners that in my opinion I don’t think there was anything genuinely miraculous going on. The priest, Father Robert, had an interesting explanation of how it felt to . . . what?—work a miracle, or at least to rouse enough emotion to trigger a psychic cure—a psychosomatic cure. I have no idea which of these took place. But I didn’t feel there was enough clear indication that it was a miracle to call it one.”
“Well, that is understandable,” Koznicki said.
Koesler seemed to draw further inside himself. “But there’s more,” he said, after a pause. “More that I didn’t touch on in my report. It’s not tangible or definitive, maybe just a feeling, but . . .”
Koznicki grew more sensitive to his friend’s evident distress. “Perhaps if you were to tell us what
you really think, it will help you deal with the matter.”
“The talking cure.” Koesler smiled. “Well, why not? It’s worked before.” He sipped the wine, as he considered a course of presentation. “There was something about that priest, Father Robert . . .”
“Yes . . . ?” Koznicki prodded.
“It wasn’t any one thing, just a bunch of odd, curious, out-of-the-ordinary things that started me thinking and wondering.”
Both Koznicki and Tully had the strange sensation that Koesler was about to impart something of vital importance to their investigation. Tully particularly sharpened his attention.
“Well, as you very well know, Inspector, I was at sea when I was appointed to conduct this initial investigation. So, before I got into it, I tried to reduce my involvement to its least common denominator. Which was: What I could do was evaluate my brother priest, in this case, Father Robert. After all, we are about the same age, he being a little older. We both came from the same preconciliar era. We were trained almost identically. We share the unique character of the priesthood.
“It may sound silly to call it unique. All I can say is you’d have to experience it to understand it. For instance, this morning at the airport, I spotted another priest, and we nodded and smiled at each other. Now, this is not like a couple of soldiers or a couple of anyone else meeting as strangers yet sharing something in common. I could have sat at a counter with that priest, had coffee, and immediately begun conversing as if we were long-lost friends.
“Well, that’s the sort of thing I brought to my ‘investigation.’ If nothing else, I could evaluate a priest. And . . . I don’t quite know how to say this, but . . . it wasn’t there. There was no spark, nothing between us. I know; I know that’s not much to go on. But there are specific instances.
“There was . . .” Koesler hesitated. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s any point in going into them now. They were very technical sorts of things.”
Eminence Page 31
