“Surely, Father,” Koznicki said, “you cannot mean that all priests are alike. Or even that they are cordial with one another. Or, God forbid,” he chuckled, “that they all agree with each other.”
Koesler smiled. “No, I couldn’t mean that.”
Koznicki smiled in return. Then, more for Tully’s sake than anything else, he continued, “These days, more than ever before, parishioners are deeply concerned over which priest will be assigned to their parish. Years ago it did not much matter who the priest might be.”
“I guess that’s pretty much true, Inspector,” Koesler replied.
“One might be a better preacher. Another might be better at administration. But the theology was just about the same no matter who the priest was. Of course,” he added, “that would have to have been pre-Vatican II.”
“It is far different today, is it not, Father?” Koznicki said. “Today’s priest might teach anything from that fine old war horse, The Baltimore Catechism, to Liberation Theology.”
“Yes . . .” Koesler hesitated again. “. . . but . . . but that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
As it happened, Tully couldn’t have cared less about the distinctions Koznicki was making. However, he found himself intensely interested in what Koesler was intimating. “What is it? What do you have in mind?”
Koesler felt somewhat self-conscious. “It’s an impression, just an impression I came away with.”
“What impression?” It was like pulling facts from a rock.
Tully was growing impatient. He was sure he knew what conclusion Koesler had reached, but he could do nothing until the priest said it.
“My impression,” Koesler spoke slowly, deliberately, “my impression was that Father Robert was not a priest.”
“Not a priest!” Koznicki exclaimed. “But . . . but how could that be?”
Koesler waved his hand as if admitting he could not completely satisfy the Inspector’s objection. “It’s just an impression. Nothing I could prove in any definitive way. But some of the things he did . . . some of the things he said . . . well, I just came away with the overpowering feeling that he was not a priest. Or—perhaps more precisely—that he was not who he claimed to be. And that leaves me with a dilemma.”
“A dilemma!” Tully clearly was eager. “What sort of dilemma?”
“Well, to pull off what the real Father Robert did—”
“The real Father Robert!” Tully interrupted.
“Yes, the real Father Robert. His was a master stroke of manipulation of Church law. He would have to have been a genius, at least when it came to Church law. And the Father Robert I talked with the other day made a serious canonical blunder. There’s that. And there were other things—those technical errors I alluded to before.”
“I think I know what you’re driving at,” said Tully, “but I want to hear you say it.”
“Well,” said Koesler, by now extremely self-conscious, “the conclusion that I reached—and it’s just a personal conviction—is that I doubt very much that the person called Father Robert is a priest. I have no idea what they might have done with Father Robert. He has to have been real; no one else could have unified this little group and got them through the maze of Canon law and off the ground—but I can’t see any Father Robert anywhere in that group.”
“Say that again, Father,” said Tully.
“What?”
“‘I have no idea what they might have done with Father Robert.’“
“I have no idea what they might have done with Father Robert.” Koesler had no idea why he was asked to repeat it.
“You got a good look at their living quarters. Tell me what you saw,” said Tully.
“Well, gee . . . let’s see. Ummm, it’s all very, very simple—spartan, I’d say. Each one has a cell, a small cubicle to live in, enclosed by plasterboard partitions. And in the cells—what?—just a lumpy bed, a chair, a small table, and ... on the wall of the cell . . . uh . . . nightclothes, an extra habit, and a discipline.”
“A what?”
“A discipline. Very monastic. A ritual whip. To use as a reminder of the necessity to do penance.”
Tully was clearly excited. “No carpet?”
“No . . . no carpet.”
“No carpet, lots of kneeling, a terrazzo floor, a whip, a knife, and no Father Robert,” said Tully.
It was Koesler’s turn. “What?”
“You gentlemen must excuse me,” said Tully, as he stood, “I gotta go.”
“You’re leaving before dinner?” Koesler said.
“I gotta go. The way I feel now, I couldn’t keep it down if I ate it.” Tully turned to leave, then turned back. “Father, I like you so much I could almost become a Catholic!” Then he left.
Koesler and Koznicki looked at each other wordlessly for some moments. “You know,” Koznicki said finally, “for Alonzo, that was rather effusive.”
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
CHAPTER
24
Tully visited the Wayne County Jail as infrequently as possible. His job could be depressing enough without enduring floor after floor of raucous, malodorous, obscene, angry losers. But today’s call was as much pleasure as business.
As always, he deposited his gun at the desk and, as always, a deputy sheriff took him through a series of formidable doors that were unlocked before them and locked behind them. Finally, Tully was situated in one of the miserable little interview rooms containing a small table and two chairs. Shortly, John Reid was ushered into the room. Tully made no move to rise, offer his hand, or extend any greeting. Nor did Reid greet Tully. Each heartily disliked the other and both knew it. Yet they would conduct their business with a sort of distant civility.
Briefly, Tully considered and rejected opening with a meaningless pleasantry. Instead, he asked, “Was it worth it?”
Reid returned Tully’s steady gaze, eye to eye. “Worth what?”
“The million. A million bucks isn’t worth what it once was.”
Reid smiled without any humor. “Oh, a million, tax-free, properly invested, isn’t bad. Besides, it was going to be lots more than that. Time ran out.”
Tully noted that Reid shied from admitting responsibility for any failure on his part. Rather, he blamed it on “time.”
“Still,” Tully said, “it seems like a lot of trouble for even somewhat more than a million. Hell, guys play a little ball these days for millions.”
“Yeah, but they sweat more than I did. It’s not that hard to set up a dummy corporation. Anybody can incorporate, open an account, open a numbered Swiss account. It wasn’t tough. In fact, it was sort of fun.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Tully said, “I meant the murder.”
The smile was gone. “There wasn’t supposed to be any murder. That wasn’t part of the original plan.”
Tully tilted his chair onto its two back legs. “‘Not part of the plan.’ Reid, we’ve been building quite a file on you. You mess up pretty regular. Snafu could be your middle name.”
For an instant, naked fury transformed Reid’s countenance. He looked preternatural. Then he checked himself again. But he made no reply.
“Why the murder?”
Reid was smug. “I was temporarily insane.”
“That’s your plea. But it’s not going to hold water. Just between us, what drove you to ‘temporary insanity’?”
“That fool, Robert. He wouldn’t go along. He just plain refused. No matter how hard I tried to . . . uh . . . persuade him.”
“Yes, the beating.”
Reid waved a hand, seeming to dismiss the matter. “You wouldn’t have anything on me but the bank job if you hadn’t found the body.” He snorted. “Finding the body. No more than a fluke!”
“No fluke, Reid. Good detective work from an unlikely source: Father Koesler.”
“Koesler.” Reid repeated the name as if sometime in the future he might seek revenge.
“If Koesler hadn’t seen through your bogus Fathe
r Robert, you might just have gotten away with that one. We had you on a platter for the bank case and I wanted you for the attempt on who you thought was Lennon.” Reid smiled briefly. Tully noted that. “But we might never have suspected anything more if Koesler hadn’t been suspicious that your substitute wasn’t Father Robert or even a priest.
“It was a sweet bit of deduction on Koesler’s part. He wondered what you’d done with Robert, and then he mentioned the whip. That’s when I remembered the ‘bum’ whose autopsy I happened to watch a week ago Saturday. His body was covered with contusions—from your whip. His knees carried markings I thought strange at the time—but they match perfectly with your terrazzo floor. And finally, his throat was cut with the knife you used on Sergeant Moore. It even had a flaw in the serrated edge that matched the cut on the real Father Robert.”
Reid’s lip curled. “Convenient that you knew where to find the body.”
“We would have found it even if I hadn’t seen it in the morgue. Once Koesler demonstrated that the real Father Robert was missing, we would have gone looking. And the first place we would have looked was where we actually found him—in the morgue.
“And, speaking of convenient, it was lucky—since you say you didn’t plan it—it was lucky you found a replacement for the real Father Robert.”
“One of the original group,” Reid said. “In the dim lighting of that chapel, plus the fact that anytime that priest got close to people he was wearing the cowl, one old man can look pretty much like another. Besides, your case against me would be no more than circumstantial if you hadn’t gotten the others to talk.”
It was Tully’s turn to smile. “Strange: the kid I shot was on the center table at the morgue. The real Father Robert was on one side. And a woman I thought figured into the Lennon case was on the other side.”
At the mention of Lennon, once again Reid smiled his mirthless grin. Once again, it was noted.
Tully continued. “There were plenty of witnesses as far as the woman’s killing, but they were all afraid to talk—until we got the guy on circumstantial evidence. Once they were convinced he couldn’t hurt them, they talked.
“Same thing with the Brothers. You had ‘em scared stiff. Until, with circumstantial evidence—that is lots stronger than you think it is—we could put you away. They knew if we got you for the bank fraud alone you’d probably be out in less than a couple of years. They were convinced you’d come get them then. But once we showed them what we had on you and that you’d go up for life with no parole, they started to talk.
“You terrorized them and then you scared them shitless by forcing them to watch you kill the priest after you’d tortured him. They’re eyewitnesses, Reid. And their testimony is icing on the cake.”
Reid sighed. “Tully, you say this and I say that. What the hell are you doing here anyway?”
Tully tipped his chair upright. “I want you to tell me about your attempted murder with the car.”
Reid smiled broadly, almost genuinely. “Lieutenant, you think you’ve got me for Murder One. What more do you want?”
I want to put you away so deep for so many things that some future governor won’t be tempted to commute your sentence, thought Tully. But he said only, “Tie up loose ends. Close the file on a pesky case. Oh, and speaking of closing files on cases, we’ve got you for beating up some dame while you were AWOL from the monastery on a date. Shame on you! It could only have complicated your grand plan.”
“You got her? Out of the woodwork?”
“She ID’d you from your picture in the paper and just showed up today. Surprise!”
“Well, here’s one for you. Did she tell you where I met her?”
The question surprised Tully. He shook his head.
“In Murray’s singles bar.” He let that sink in a moment. “While you were making your move on the Lennon broad.” A pause. “If things get dull, I may just let your live-in know about your roving eye. How is the lovely lady, anyway? Still enjoying her miracle?”
“She’s doin’ fine, Sleazeball. And if we can’t survive you, we don’t deserve to be together. Matter of fact, now that you mention it, Alice is doing fine . . . and so is Mrs. Whitehead. And so is the Congregation of St. Stephen.”
Reid’s eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
“The Archdiocese of Detroit is doing everything it can to discredit them—the miracles debunked, the fact that there isn’t a real priest among them. Still the crowds keep coming—and the contributions keep pouring in.”
Reid laughed. “One born every minute.”
“Maybe. They seem to think they’re doin’ the Lord’s work.
“Now, about that attempted murder—and, hey, lucky for you it’s likely to stay at an attempt: The McPhee girl is stabilized. The docs think she’s gonna make it.”
“Who cares?” Reid tipped his chair back, matching the former nonchalance of Tully. “Look, Tully, you haven’t got a thing—nothing—or you wouldn’t be asking me about it, you’d be telling me about it. I don’t care what happened to—what’s her name?—McPhee. And if whatever happened to her should have happened to the Lennon dame, I’m sorry the guy goofed up. It was Lennon who screwed up everything by calling for that Church investigation. If she hadn’t done that, I could’ve pulled it off.”
“You ‘could’ve pulled it off’!” Tully’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“You are a walking, self-destructing jerk, Reid! You are a first-class screw-up. You’ve done it all your life. We’ve got a psychiatric evaluation on you, says you’re attracted to failure like a moth to flame. You ‘could’ve pulled it off’! You couldn’t knock over a kid’s piggy bank and get away with it. Face it, Reid: You’re a loser! Just a goddam born loser!”
As he delivered this verbal abuse, Tully stood and looked down at Reid and watched as, once again, Reid’s facial appearance changed into a hard mask of hate and pent-up destruction.
Suddenly Reid leaped to his feet. Almost in the same motion, he swung his heavy wooden chair over his head, screamed a curse and, with animal strength, swung the chair at Tully’s head.
Tully found room to flatten himself against the wall, and not an inch more. The chair missed him by a hair, splintering against the wall.
It was the sound of the chair crashing that alerted the deputy. With all the shouts, yells, and hubbub going on throughout the floor, the guard would have paid no attention to Reid’s verbal outburst in the general din. It was the unexpected explosion of the chair that caught his ear.
It took only an instant for the deputy to get the door open. Although he was a huge man, and although Tully pitched in with the desperate strength of one whose life was threatened, it took every ounce of their combined force to subdue the enraged Reid.
However, once he was restrained, Reid tried, not altogether successfully, to return to his structured civility. By this time several more deputies had arrived. They were no longer needed, but they would stay with the prisoner until he was securely back in his cell.
Tully left in the manner in which he’d arrived: through the series of successively unlocked then relocked doors. His gun was returned and he slipped it back in its holster. He then took stock of his clothing. Disaster! The struggle with Reid had been so brief that Tully hadn’t expected such extensive damage. His summer suit was wrinkled, soiled, and torn in several places. His only comforting thought was that he was in an appropriate part of town to look like a bum. He’d have to return home, shower, and change. And probably bandage some cuts he would become aware of only when the shower spray hit them.
For the last time before his inevitable court appearance, he thought about Reid.
Now that the bank had recovered its money and the rest had been returned to the monks’ account, Reid was literally observing his make—believe vow of poverty. Tully was very familiar with Reid’s court-appointed attorney, Al J. Calhoun—Big Al, the criminal’s pal.
When every other alternative defense was fruitless, Big Al traditional
ly relied on “temporary insanity.” He hardly ever got it to work and it certainly wouldn’t work in Reid’s case. Brother Paul had bought the big one. Murder One. Life with no parole.
In his heart, Tully knew Reid had driven the car with which he had, over and over, savaged an innocent, helpless woman. Probably they would never be able to nail Reid for that one. The woman—the eyewitness—who swore she would never forget the face of that driver, had failed to identify Reid in a show-up.
As Jack Kennedy, among others, had said, life is unfair.
What gave it a semblance of fairness in this case was that Pat Lennon had gotten the story earlier and in greater detail than anyone else in the media. And she and the recovering Pringle McPhee would be free to go and come as they wished for the rest of their lives. And John Reid would not.
As for Tully, he was headed home for repairs. Alice would be there to greet him, and together they would put her miracle to the test. By now, neither of them doubted that the miracle would continue to pass.
LATER, THE SAME DAY
CHAPTER
25
Junk mail!
Father Koesler, although not a gambler, was almost willing to bet that priests had the dubious distinction of receiving more junk mail than anyone else in Christendom.
He had just finished a very light lunch and had a few minutes remaining before his first appointment of the afternoon. A few minutes during which to get a little more caught up. What with the excitement of the past few days—his investigation of the monks followed by his unexpected involvement in the police investigation—he had fallen behind in his parochial duties. Thus he tried to utilize every spare moment, as he was now, in plowing through the mountain of mail on his desk.
There was a soft knock at the door. He looked up to see the always deferential Mary O’Connor smiling and holding a plate on which was a large glass of iced tea.
“Thanks very much, Mary,” Koesler said. “That looks terrific. But I expect Mrs. Rozicki any minute now. And it wouldn’t do for me to be sipping tea while dealing with the head of the Christian Service Commission.”
Eminence Page 32
