Body Count fk-14

by William X. Kienzle

  “Yes, indeed,” Pat said, “a superior copy editor.” She finished her coffee.

  “Uh-oh …” Pringle was distressed. “Oh, Pat …” She turned the paper toward Pat, index finger indicating the pertinent paragraph. It was the item immediately following the one about Mayor Cobb.

  “‘And,’” Pat read, “‘speaking of making honest women of paramours with benefit of clergy, is there any truth to the rumors that Detroit Homicide detective Alonzo (Zoo) Tully and the Detroit News’s Pat Lennon are a Thing? If so, it’s going to be news to Tully’s live-in-lover, Alice, not to mention Lennon’s significant other, Joe Cox, now off to the Chicago newspaper wars.’” Pat winced. “Two for the price of one, eh?” She looked up from the paper to meet Pringle’s pained expression.

  “Pat …?” Pringle’s inflection made it a question.

  Pat smiled. “Don’t let it reach you, Pringle. She was out to get me. Remember the other night at The Fast Lane? When she claimed she had a survey that showed my reportorial skills were slipping? And I told you not to hold your breath till she published that-because there wasn’t any such survey? But one way or another she was trying to get me. I had no doubt about that. Well, here’s her best shot. I just feel sorry for Tully. He doesn’t need that. Neither does Alice.”

  “Why Tully?”

  “Didn’t you say that when you were in St. Waldo’s rectory, Tully walked past you in the kitchen on his way out?”

  Pringle nodded.

  “And that DeVere was having kittens out front trying to get into the rectory?”

  Again Pringle nodded.

  “Well, that’s probably it. Tully was supposed to get her in there and he didn’t. So, two for the price of one. I told you to watch out for her. When she’s got you in her sights, she’ll pull the trigger.”

  “But you … and Tully? That’s crazy!”

  Pat shook her head. “Yes and no.” She was thoughtful for a moment, remembering. “When you got hit by that car a few years back … well, something almost happened between Tully and me. Tully’s Alice was very, very ill. And Joe was off doing a fluff story on the Mackinac boat race-and he really ticked me off because we had to cancel our vacation for him to take the assignment.” She looked fully at Pringle. “Zoo and I were both vulnerable at the time. Like I said, something almost happened. But it didn’t.”

  “Then how … what about this column?”

  “There may have been talk at the time. I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t bet against it. Anyway, De Vere wasn’t anyplace near this town when all that was happening. She must’ve nosed around, gotten some conjecture. That’s all she ever needs.”

  “But the column … it’s a lie and it’s libelous! Won’t you-or Tully-sue her?”

  “We probably should. But we won’t. It takes so much time and costs so much financially and in emotional drain, it’s just not worth it. But this is a good example of how creeps like DeVere operate. She deals in half-truths so much she wouldn’t recognize the whole truth if it bit her.

  “Take that piece about the missing priest: She has no idea what happened to him or where he is. Detroit Homicide is on the case. The word homicide is enough for her, so-he’s dead. Simple as that. Then she gets in a cheap shot at the wealthy parishioners and is sufficiently sarcastic and just plain nasty to get people sniggering and joining her fun and-most important-quoting her. They’ll probably have a chorus or two of ‘Sometimes I Feel Like a Shepherdless Sheep’” at The Fast Lane.

  “And the piece about the mayor? I’ll bet she hasn’t the slightest idea what’s going on in his life. Maybe one night she spotted Cobb and a woman get into his car. And he’s got the blacked-out windows. Take over, imagination!

  “And if you happen to become a victim, you’d better grin and bear it. The alternative is madness. But the same thing that happened before could happen again.”

  “You mean-?”

  “Yeah-she screwed a bunch of people when she was working her way up the Freep ladder on her back-and the same ones thumbed their noses at her as she slid back down and out. It could just happen again.”

  “Let us pray,” Pringle intoned.

  They both laughed. They needed that.

  13

  It was several hours after the end of his shift, but-not unusual-Lieutenant Tully was still at work. Frequently he worked late or arrived early or both. What was odd was that he was not working on a homicide-his life’s obsession; rather, he was trying to close an obstinate missing persons investigation. He had gathered all the material his team had uncovered and brought it into the office of his immediate superior, Inspector Walter Koznicki. The two were going through it together for what Tully fervently hoped would be the final time.

  Tully knew that Koznicki would be under continuing pressure to keep this investigation going-pressure from the chief, the mayor, and … what’s his name … Dunstable. That was the direction from which this missing persons case had emerged. And if the investigation were to be abandoned, each man would have to convince the next man, in reverse order. So it would be a tad more difficult to convince Koznicki it was over. Koznicki himself would see the light easily. But the inspector would have to anticipate objections from the chief, he in turn from the mayor, and so on.

  Still it was important to close the book on this case and move on to more appropriate investigations. So Tully dove in.

  “I must admit, Walt,” Tully arranged the notes and documents so the inspector could view them in some sort of order, “when we started on this thing, I didn’t think we had any business getting … involved.”

  “You made that eminently clear, Alonzo.” Koznicki almost smiled, “And now …?”

  “Now I have to admit that Keating not only started out for Detroit a week ago, he got here-certainly his car did-and he may not have left Detroit.”

  “You think, then …?”

  “There’s no reason in the world for him to be a missing person of his own free will. As far as we could determine, he had everything in the world to live for. He was head of the wealthiest parish in the Detroit diocese. Have you ever been in the priest’s house there?.”

  Koznicki shook his head as he continued to scan the documents while listening to Tully.

  “I’ve been in ritzier homes,” Tully said, “but not many. I didn’t think priests lived that high. He didn’t get any more money in salary than any other priest, but he plugged into the lifestyle of the richest people in the Bloomfield Hills area. Vacations in the Caribbean, Vail, you name it-around the world, literally. Why would anyone want to leave that?”

  Koznicki thought for a moment. “You may have touched on a possible reason, Alonzo. I agree with everything you have said thus far. In many ways, Father Keating has been living an enviable life. But, generally, I believe you are correct in your belief that priests do not live such a luxurious lifestyle. So, is that not the material from which conflict is made?”

  “I don’t-“

  “What I mean, Alonzo, is that I can imagine a priest who lives that well experiencing … what might be called a crisis of conscience.” Koznicki selected one of the documents and indicated an item on it. “From your own notation, Alonzo. I believe this is part of your conversation with Father Koesler, when Father tells you of the bequest left Father Keating by his parents. Instead of being as generous to their only child as they might, they left the bulk of their estate to various charities and only enough to their son so that, with prudent care or management, he would be fairly comfortable for life-but not really wealthy.

  “That indicates to me that the parents, though very well off themselves, felt that the vocation their son chose should bear some witness to the life of Christ. Catholics sometimes refer to their priests as ‘other Christs.’”

  “God knows, Walt, I don’t know much about religion. But the word poverty doesn’t come to mind when I think of that priest’s house-or the neighborhood, for that matter.”

  “Exactly, Alonzo. Thus the conceivable conflict. I
t was not that he was schooled or trained to live lavishly. True, his parents were wealthy, but they definitely communicated moderation, particularly in their bequest. According to Father Koesler again,” Koznicki adjusted his bifocals, “Father Keating’s seminary experience was indistinguishable from the others. He was comfortable with the benefits that money can bring. But he was ‘one of the boys.’ And in his earlier days in the priesthood he continued to be ‘one of the boys,’ joining his fellow priests in modest vacations and trips. It was not until he was assigned to St. Waldo’s that he began to lose touch with his confreres. As you have pointed out, in recent years he seems to have changed, living on a considerably higher scale than most other priests.

  “Put it all together, Alonzo, and I believe we come up with a considerably different picture than that of a priest enjoying the life of Riley. On the surface he could easily be described as having the best of all possible worlds. But I believe it very possible that inwardly he may have felt very deeply that he might be betraying his vocational commitment. While seemingly not disturbed, he may have been very touched inwardly. He might even have been extremely distressed-depressed even. Did your investigation turn up any suggestion that he might be suffering from clinical depression-even a hint of something of that order? Was he seeing a psychotherapist of any sort?”

  Tully had in no way anticipated Koznicki’s line of thought and inquiry. Nor did he agree with the inspector’s hypothesis. But he gave Koznicki’s questions some thought.

  “I don’t know that anyone can answer that question, Walt,” he said, finally. “Seems Keating was away and unaccounted for a good bit of the time. Where he was, what he did when he was away from the parish, has to be anybody’s guess. He could just as easily have been seeing a shrink anywhere from once in a while to regularly. But if he was, he kept it real quiet. There were no notations on his calendar of any such appointments, although there were recorded appointments with his regular GP and his dentist.”

  “And what did his doctor have to say?”

  “Reluctant at first, naturally. But when we convinced him, he opened up. Even so, he still didn’t say much. Keating was in good shape for his age; a bit overweight, but he handled it well. There was no mention at all of any emotional problem, or any referral to a shrink. But, like I say, anything was possible in all the time he was away. And there was nothing, now that I think of it, on any of his check stubs that showed a payment to any shrink. Though God knows he had enough accounts. I can’t say we even found all of them. The guy is simply hard to pin down. He may have been torn up inside, but he sure as hell didn’t show it on the outside. Everybody we talked to painted a picture of somebody who really enjoyed life-had everything to live for.”

  “So …?”

  “The bottom line is, we haven’t found him-dead or alive. And we really tried. I can’t think of another missing person who’s had as many cops looking for him. The ’burb cops did a very professional job. Together we talked to just about everybody who might have an informed opinion. Nada! It was like everybody could think of hundreds of people who might just walk away from things, but not Keating. Not Keating.”

  “And the Costello family?”

  Tully scratched his five o’clock shadow. “That is where I changed my mind on the necessity of our getting involved in looking for him. I didn’t buy the possibility that he might be dead until I heard that his car had been found in that neighborhood.”

  “And what of the fact that the car was found just outside the Costello home? Why would they leave such a clue?”

  “Another answer I haven’t got. Of course, the families are notorious for sending messages: the dead fish, the genitals in the mouth, that sort of thing. The car seemed dumb-too dumb not to mean something. Mangiapane came up with the theory they were thumbing their nose at us: Here’s his car. Right at our front door. Let’s see you make a case of it. We’ll hand you the clue on a platter. But you’ll never pin it on us. And you’ll never find the damn body either. Moore thinks it’s possible some other family left the car there. A retaliation. A feud payback. Whatever. But I sort of like Manj’s idea.”

  “You do not believe he is alive then?”

  Tully shook his head somberly. There was a sense of pessimism. “It could be anything. He might have been depressed, like you said. In which case-maybe suicide. He might have amnesia. In that case, he’s probably wandering around somewhere, and he’ll probably come back some day. But I don’t think so. I think he was iced. The mob-somebody in organized crime. Though OC couldn’t come up with anything. And we went through Costello’s home from A to Z. Nothing.

  “One thing for pretty sure though: If the mob hit him, we’ll probably never find the body. We might have his car, but I’ll bet they did something inventive with the body.

  “The thing that beats me is-why? If the mob hit him, you can bet it wasn’t an accident. He was into them for something. But what? Racketeering? I doubt it. Narcotics?” Tully shook his head. “No indication whatever. Loan-sharking? Again, no indication. Gambling? Always a possibility. You never know you got the bug till you’re in front of a one-armed bandit with a roll of quarters. But-no gambling slips. No personal checks to any notoriously shady character. Just … nothing.”

  “An individual who, for whatever reason, took out a contract on him?” Koznicki suggested.

  Tully seemed to be studying the desk. He did not raise his head, “Anything’s possible. But at the moment, that’s no better than a guess. There were people who didn’t care for him-especially people who worked for or with him. But there’s no hard evidence for that or for any kind of conspiracy. If anybody is guilty of any crime against Keating, it’s well hidden.”

  “Your conclusion?” Koznicki asked, though he knew the answer.

  “It’s over, Walt. We’ve done everything we could, at least for right now. We’ve been everywhere we could go. We’ve checked everything we could. Who knows, something may crop up later-though I can’t think what. But, you never know. Anyway we’re at a dead end for now, unless we get some more clues or tips.”

  “Are the suburban police in agreement?”

  “Uh-huh. They’re ready to close it as an unsolved missing person. There’s no place to put it but in ‘open homicide’ with all the others. They’re-we’re-ready and willing to open it up if there are any further developments. But for now …” Tully raised both hands, palms up, in a gesture of futility.

  “Very well,” Koznicki said. “I will relay this decision to the chief.”

  “He’s not gonna like it.”

  Koznicki nodded in unhappy agreement. “Nor will the mayor. But I am satisfied we have done all that could be done. We can consider the matter closed-at least for the moment … at least for you.”

  Tully gave a sigh of relief. He was convinced he had done his best. But it was beyond doubt a dead end. The police had no alternative at this point but to go back over all the ground they’d just covered. And they could have done that forever. But the prospects of a breakthrough were practically nil.

  Koznicki gathered up the documents and reports, put them in a folder, and the folder in his desk drawer. “Another day’s work done,” he announced. The two men left the room together.

  On the elevator Tully asked about the two homicide cases that had particularly interested him before he had been drawn into the Keating investigation.

  Ordinarily, Tully would have been up on their status. It was his practice to take an interest in everything that was going on in the division. But the search for the missing priest had occupied all of Tully’s attention, mostly because of his efforts to resolve it and get on with more appropriate matters.

  Given Tully’s indisputable interest in the total homicide case load, which was common knowledge, Koznicki was a bit surprised that the detective could be unaware of what was going on in other investigations. But it was a gratifying surprise-indicating the total dedication he had given to the Keating case.

  “We have someone in cu
stody,” Koznicki explained, “in the case of the lawyer who was killed. Actually, it was odd that it took so long for an identification given that the attack occurred at noon on a crowded downtown street. But the crowd was part of the problem.”

  “Yeah,” Tully agreed, “that noontime crowd crossing Jefferson near the Ren Cen can be overwhelming. Like you could pick up your feet and be carried across Jefferson.”

  “That was the precise problem,” Koznicki said. “The killer got directly behind the victim and stabbed him with a poisoned-tip umbrella. But there were so many packed together, a lot of them wearing coats and carrying umbrellas. There was a promise of rain, and it was overcast. We had to interview an unlikely number of witnesses before we could filter through to the likely suspect. Many of the prime witnesses were, of course, reluctant to acknowledge that they’d seen anything-“

  “Don’t tell me,” Tully interrupted, “they were all going to the john at just the time of the killing.”

  Koznicki chuckled. “Something like that. In any case, the identification we did come up with led to the husband, or I should say former husband, of one of the lawyer’s clients, A divorce case. Messy. And expensive.”

  Tully chewed his lip. “That was more of a platter case than I expected,” He was now grateful he had not been involved in that case, He had not anticipated that it would be handed to the police on a silver platter, but it evidently had: The most likely suspect apparently was guilty. However, it hadn’t been signed, sealed, and delivered yet. Tully would keep an eye open for developments in the case of the lawyer killed in broad daylight.

  “As to the other case,” Koznicki said, “there has been very little progress on the News reporter’s death. Once again, the initial problem lies with the witnesses. There were many potential eyewitnesses, but this time it happened in the dark of night, again in a crowd with many qualifying circumstances. At this point, the investigation does not seem promising.”