Shadow of Death fk-5

by William X. Kienzle

  “I put all this together and arrived at the successor of Mr. Ruggiero: the reputed present head of Detroit’s Mafia family, Don Louis Licata.

  “Also, in the assaults against Toussaint and Koznicki, the calling card changed ever so slightly. From a black fist to an open black hand, the celebrated symbol of the Mafia. The Mafia had made its statement. As the Rastafarians attempted to carry out their clumsy plans, the Mafia, with characteristic cleverness, was there even in advance of the Rastas. And the Mafia, with characteristic bravado, supplied a calling card that could easily be associated with the Rastas and the Black Power movement. The Rastas would not even tumble to what was going on.

  “Then, with the Rastas discouraged and ready to abandon their grand scheme, the Mafia proceeded on its original plan to settle that old score. And, along the line, the calling card is changed ever so subtly into the notorious black hand.”

  Koesler looked at Licata expectantly. “Have I left anything out?”

  “Nothing of any consequence.” The smile reappeared. “You have only one problem—but it is a big one: You have no proof. There are no witnesses except those who will protect me with the ornertà, their silence. Nothing you have said would stand up in court. That is your problem—and it is a formidable one.”

  “That may be my problem, but it is not my question. My question is why? There was no trial. No one was even arrested in the death of Mr. Ruggiero. Why would you take it upon yourself to attempt to kill three people, none of whom was charged with any crime . . . all of whom must be presumed to be innocent of any crime.

  “Why, Mr. Licata . . . why? I just don’t understand.”

  Licata spread his hands flat on the desk top. “You do not understand because you do not understand us.

  “We Sicilians are most concerned about reputation, about saving face. An insult or a killing must be avenged. We cannot live with it; it must be avenged. We have an expression: Liυarisi na petra di la scarpa . . to take a stone out of one’s shoe.

  “With some who are united in ‘our cause,’ this revenge must be taken by ourselves. We care nothing for the authorities. The authorities care nothing for us. We are our police. We are our banks. We dispense justice. We have to—because nobody else ever gave a fig for us, nobody else cared about us, nobody else helped us or defended us—or even knew we were alive, except to look down on us.

  “Now, especially when outsiders dare to strike at us, they must know that we will not be satisfied even if they are punished by the authorities with merely a few years in prison. No; they must—and they will—receive our justice . . . and our cause is avenged.

  “You three, Toussaint, Koznicki, and yourself, you were tried in our court, a court where I am judge and jury. I have no need of your ‘due process.’ I have no need of your meticulous evidence. I have need only of vengeance. I hold the three of you responsible for the death of Don Ruggiero. One of you has paid his debt in full. The others will pay. I have so judged. It is inevitable.”

  “But it’s been so long! So many years!”

  Licata shook his head. “We are always willing to postpone revenge if necessary. We will wait until the proper time and the proper place. This insane plot to kill Cardinals became the proper time, and England and Ireland became the proper place.

  “You would have no way of knowing this if I did not tell you. Since Don Ruggiero had been badly frightened, perhaps even frightened to death before he was decapitated, we arranged a special surprise for your friend Toussaint before his beating. With the aid of some papier-mâché and a clever artist, we set up a special Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s just for him.

  “You look surprised. You shouldn’t be. After all, if we could discover the Rastafarians’ assassination schedule, it was nothing for us to obtain your group’s tour bus schedule.

  “I promise you, he was frightened—just as Don Ruggiero was—before your friend became unconscious for the rest of his life. We deliberately left his cranium untouched to assure he would remain conscious long enough to experience the maximum of pain and fear.

  “And you would have been able to see his fear, if you had accompanied him as you had planned.”

  “And if I had been there?”

  Licata spread his hands wide. “What can I say? You would not now be here.”

  “But, at most,” Koesler said, “Toussaint was considered merely a suspect in those killings—and that by a very few people. And on those grounds, you would have killed him . . . and Koznicki . . . and myself?”

  “I told you, we dispense our own justice. The Jews have a saying, ‘If I am not for myself, who will be for me?’ No one of us is attacked without our vengeance. All must know there is no escape from our vengeance. And now your Reverend Toussaint is enjoying a living death. Don’t you think that a most fitting revenge?

  “But enough. Now that I have told you all this, I will tell you something else: You were very foolish. Padre, to come to me. You should have known that if your theory is correct, you—and Inspector Koznicki—represent unfinished business for us. We will bide our time, but eventually, we will take care of the Inspector.

  “But for now, our business will be finished as far as you are concerned . . . once and for all.”

  He pressed a button on his intercom.

  The door opened.

  But instead of his henchmen, two homicide detectives entered, guns drawn.

  “Louis Licata, you are under arrest for the attempted murders of Ramon Toussaint, Walter Koznicki, and Father Robert Koesler. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  2.

  “No doubt about it, it was a real coup,” said Father Koesler.

  “I mean, everybody wanted the Cardinal as a guest speaker the minute he returned from Ireland. Not only was he a new Cardinal, but there was all that publicity about those attempts on his life and all. But it was old Eddie Breslin who got him first as guest of the Detroit Economic Club.”

  “You don’t suppose,” said Wanda Koznicki, “that could be because Mr. Breslin is Chairman of the Board of General Motors, and is, with bonuses and stock options, perhaps the wealthiest man in town, do you?”

  “Wanda,” Koesler replied, “I would wager that Mr. Breslin is at least the wealthiest Catholic in town. And yes, I imagine that might have had something to do with it.”

  Mary O’Connor brought in a fresh pitcher of iced tea. Ordinarily, she would not have been at St. Anselm’s on a Sunday afternoon. But, since Koesler was entertaining special visitors, the parish secretary had volunteered to return after the morning Masses to serve refreshments. And the refreshments were welcomed by all on this sunny afternoon in late July.

  “What surprises me, Bob,” said Emerenciana Toussaint, “is that you were at an Economic Club luncheon. Economics was never your strong suit. Why, if it were not for Mrs. O’Connor here, you wouldn’t know whether you were within or without a budget. You have said so yourself.”

  Mary O’Connor blushed.

  “You’re so right, ‘Ciane,” said Koesler. “And in fact, I wasn’t there. But a friend in PR at GM told me about it. Mr. Breslin had reserved a table for six. And after the luncheon and the speeches, Mr. Breslin signaled his people to come up and meet the Cardinal.

  “Well, it turned out that the first five in line happened to be Catholic and the sixth was not. So each of the five tried to genuflect and kiss the Cardinal’s ring—which, as you all know, the Cardinal would rather people didn’t do. So, each one ended up going halfway down toward the floor with his right knee before the Cardinal gave his hand a tug. It looked as if they were doing a sort of half-curtsy, my friend said.

  “And then he said that when they had all gone through the line, the non-Catholic came up to the others and said, ‘What in hell were you guys trying to do?’

  “‘We were trying to kiss the Cardinal’s ring,’ one said.

  “‘That’s crazy,’ the man said, ‘I kissed Breslin’s!’”

  Everyone laughed.

 
“The Cardinal . . . and how is the Cardinal?” asked Ramon Toussaint. He winced as he shifted slightly in the upholstered chair. Even after a convalescence of two months, he was still partially crippled . . . and would be for some time to come. But the doctors in London had decided—and Toussaint had concurred—that the rest of his healing could be better done at his home. Now, on their way back to San Francisco, the Toussaints had stopped off to visit Koesler and the Koznickis.

  “He’s fine, as far as I know,” said Koesler. “Busy as ever, they tell me. Though some say he’s a bit more reflective. But, I suppose that’s to be expected after what he’s been through.”

  “After what he’s been through!” exclaimed Wanda.

  Koesler chuckled. “On second thought, I don’t suppose what he’s been through could hold a candle to what we’ve been through.”

  “If what he has experienced has rendered him more reflective,” Toussaint commented, “the three of us ought to be in a Cistercian monastery!”

  “The three of us,” said Inspector Koznicki solemnly, “are very fortunate that we are not in a cemetery.”

  His comment transformed what had been a lighthearted gathering into a serious group forced to face the sobering, recent proximity of death.

  “The Inspector is correct,” said Toussaint, after a brief silence. “If you had not found the real cause of our being attacked. Bob, we would most certainly have continued to watch out for Rastafarians while we would have been picked off from an entirely different direction. How did you figure it out?”

  “Several suspicious incidents and a healthy dose of luck.” Koesler picked up the pitcher of iced tea and offered refills to his guests.

  “First of all, the Haitian who spoke to me in Dublin—the one who claimed to be your friend, Ramon. When he told me there would be no Rastafarian attack in Ireland, he was either telling the truth or lying. If he were lying, the only possible reason would be to lull us into lowering our guard during that ecumenical service in St. Patrick’s. Such a lie would certainly not be aimed at lowering my guard as far as my own safety was concerned; none of us had any reason to expect me to be attacked, in any case. But it was, indeed, I who was attacked.

  “So, in retrospect, I was willing to assume he was telling the truth. But if my assailants were not Rastafarians, then who? And why?

  “The Rastafarians definitely were involved in the attacks against the Cardinals. And—presumably—the attacks against the two of you. But now me. Why?

  “Well, what if we crossed out the ‘possibles’ and counted only on the ‘certains’? This point of view was strengthened by the changing of the symbol from a fist to an open hand. That would put the Cardinals in one category and the three of us in another. And, it could mean that none of the three of us had been assaulted by the Rastafarians. But, again, by whom? And why?

  “The only time I could think of that all three of us were linked was during the investigation of that series of beheadings on Detroit criminals. Inspector Koznicki was in charge of the investigation and”—he hesitated a split second, then chose his words carefully— “you, Ramon, were under suspicion of being somehow involved. While I, in addition to taking some small part in the investigation, am a very close friend to both of you.”

  The faces of Koesler’s friends were a study. Wanda Koznicki seemed engrossed; her husband professionally interested. Toussaint’s expression was unfathomable, while, strangely, Emerenciana seemed almost detached. Her face reminded Koesler of the statues of the far-seeing sibyls of old; it was as if she were listening to a tale she not only knew but had always known.

  Koesler picked up the thread of his explanation.

  “If that was the connection, then whoever was after us had to have some connection with someone associated with that series of murders—the most logical someone being one of the victims. But which one? A Mafia chieftain, a head pimp, an unconscionable abortionist, a bilking auto mechanic, a similar construction man, or the kingpin of a drug ring?

  “Then I thought back to when, on our flight to London, Ramon, you told me you were not sure where that black fist symbol had come from, but that it possibly had been adapted by the Rastafarian militants from the Black Power movement in the States.

  “It was the weak link. It was the only ‘probable,’ the only ‘uncertain.’ So then, what if it were not a Rastafarian symbol? After all, they had no known sign or symbol other than their dreadlocks.

  “I pursued that line of reasoning: If it was not Rastafarian, then what? Was there another group that used the symbol of a black hand?”

  All present seemed to grasp Koesler’s explanation. Indeed, several of his listeners appeared to be ahead of the explanation. They were, of course, familiar with the notorious Black Hand Society, which had been one of the pseudonyms of the Mafia, or Cosa Nostra, in earlier days. The black hand had become an almost universal symbol of terror as people had first become aware of it and then instilled with the fear of it.

  “The Black Hand, of course,” said Koznicki. “If only we had thought of that possibility early on. The whole concept is perfect for an organization such as the Mafia. The purpose of a syndicate murder is not profit—although that occasionally may be a byproduct. And such killings are frequently meant as a message, not just of revenge, but of punishment and intimidation.

  “No, the syndicate cannot chance the possibility that such an execution might be mistaken as an accident or as a murder perpetrated by anyone else for any other purpose; they must make their message clear, or else the revenge, the punishment and the intimidation would be missing or overlooked.

  “In addition, with the Mafia, we are dealing with a group among whom symbols are of specific importance. When we find ritual victims of the Mafia, we can tell what syndicate crime the victim had been guilty of from the appearance of the corpse. Begging the pardon of you ladies, but a man whose tongue has been cut off has violated the ornertà, the silence. He was a stool pigeon. Hands amputated indicates a thief. Genitals stuffed in the victim’s mouth shows the victim offended another member’s woman. A dead fish sent from one Mafia family to another means the recipient’s messenger has been drowned.”

  As the Inspector went on, Koesler smiled to himself; his friend was never so happy as in his role as educator.

  “Now the black fist—or the clenched black hand, however one wishes to describe it—was found at the scene of each attack against a Cardinal. Then, at Madame Tussaud’s, after Toussaint’s disappearance, we found another black hand. Only now, for the first time, it was not clenched, but open. And after the sidewalk was cleared, at the spot where I was shot . . . another open black hand. And had not Superintendent O’Reardon been on the job, there would have been a black hand to mark the spot on the Burren where the killing of Father Koesler would have taken place.

  “These black hands served two primary purposes: first, as a red herring for the police, who were meant to—and did—assume that these attacks were all being committed by the Rastafarians. After all; all other evidence aside, wasn’t there an imprint of a black hand at the scene of each attack to tie them all together?

  “And second, to focus further attention more closely on the Rastafarians and divert any thought of investigation in any other direction.

  “But there was a third purpose—and this was why the signature was changed from a fist to an open hand. When all was said and done, and all three of us had been disposed of, it was imperative— almost mandatory—that certain people get the word: This is what happens to our enemies. This is what happens to those who would strike against us. This is our revenge. This is our justice.

  “And so the ancient symbol of the Mafia—the black hand—was resurrected to deliver a message to any who might think they could strike against today’s Mafia with impunity.

  “It was suggested that the Mafia chieftain killed in that series of ‘unsolved’ murders, the Inspector glanced at Ramon Toussaint, “had been frightened to death. If you will recall,” the Inspector looked
meaningfully at Toussaint, “this was the conclusion reached by Dr. Moellmann, our esteemed medical examiner.

  “So, Reverend Toussaint, since the Mafia had convicted you in absentia in its own kangaroo court, it was obligatory to terrorize you before their very brutal attempt at murdering you. Not only was the symbolism to be carried forward, but, in effect, the murder was to be the message.”

  The Inspector paused, glancing at Father Koesler and then returning his gaze to Toussaint. “By their standards—by anyone’s standards—that deadly beating settled a few debts.”

  Koesler’s eyes flickered; Toussaint’s face remained impassive.

  The Inspector sipped his tea and then resumed. “There is no doubt whatsoever that they would have pursued their plan until it was successfully concluded. They have a phrase for their concept of revenge . . .” Koznicki searched his mind.

  “Like taking a stone out of one’s shoe,” Koesler supplied. “Mr. Licata mentioned it during our conversation.”

  “Exactly. Once Father Koesler and I were away from police protection—as one day we surely would have been—they would have struck again. And the same would have been true in your case, Reverend Toussaint. Once they realized the report was false, that you were not in a lifelong coma, they would have come for you.

  “As it was, instead of remaining in a coma, you were able to pick Licata out of a photographic lineup as the man who was not only present at your clubbing, but, indeed, as the one who ordered it. Licata thought you were in a permanent limbo, whereas actually you were gathering the strength necessary to testify against him.”

  “Yes, but that brings up another question,” said Toussaint. “I was able to make a positive identification of Licata and I was able to testify against him. Why then, did Bob have to visit Licata? Was that not taking a foolish and unnecessary risk?”

  “I think—I hope—I can answer that to your satisfaction, Reverend,” said Koznicki, “since it was mostly my idea.