Body Count

by William Kienzle

  9

  “Uh-oh,” Tully said with feeling.

  Koesler turned sharply to face the officer. But Tully was looking past him toward the rectory.

  Following Tully’s line of vision, Koesler about-faced to see a woman heading determinedly toward them. His first impression was of a mannequin whose paint had not quite dried. She wore a gray business suit, but no hat. As she cantered, a double string of pearls bounced against her ample bosom. There was something wrong, not necessarily with her figure. But her headlong dash seemed entirely out of character.

  As she drew closer, Koesler realized what had made him think of wet paint: Her lips were well overglazed with bright red, and she was wearing far too much rouge, eyeliner, and mascara. An overcharged mannequin whose paint had not dried.

  Koesler breathed a sigh when the woman zeroed in on Tully. “Zoo!” she half gushed, half shrieked, “you’re in charge here, or so they say. And they won’t let me in the rectory!”

  “Who won’t?” Tully was ambivalent about his nickname. Normally he was unconcerned as to what people called him. Almost the sole exception was this woman. He shuddered inwardly anytime she waxed familiar.

  “The cops! Your cops”

  “Maybe they don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Who?”

  “The people who live in the rectory.”

  “The priests?”

  “Well …”

  “You’re kidding! They’re supposed to be available all the time. Where do they get off not wanting to be disturbed?!” She seemed to notice for the first timethat Tully was not alone. “And whom have we here?” Her face was only inches from Koesler’s. That made him uncomfortable.

  “Lacy De Vere,” Tully said, “meet Father Koesler.”

  She had her notebook out and was scribbling in it. “Is that K-e-s-s-1-e-r?”

  “K-o-e-s-l-e-r,” Koesler corrected.

  “Who are you?” Lacy asked. “I mean, what are you doing here? Did the archdiocese send you? Are you the new pastor?”

  “Hold on,” Tully said. “We’re just consulting with Father. He’s providing us with a little background information.”

  “That’s it,” Koesler said. “I’m a consulting adult.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them.

  A peculiar expression crossed Lacy’s face. “Just what we needed—a priest who does one-liners. Okay, then, Father Koesler, why you? How did you get to be the sourceperson?”

  “Well,” Koesler said, “if it comes to that, who are you?”

  “Lacy’s got a column in the Suburban Reporter. She’s only been back in Detroit about a year.” Tully turned back to Lacy. “Father Koesler’s helped us before. He’s helping us again.”

  “A priest-detective? Father Brown lives again?”

  “We’re investigating a missing priest, Lacy,” Tully said.

  Lacy’s attention was once again focused completely on Tully. “Is he dead?”

  “Who?”

  “The missing priest—Keating.”

  “Lacy! Right now it’s a missing persons case.”

  “Then what’s Detroit Homicide doing on it? Out in Bloomfield Hills?”

  “Just cooperating with the ’burb departments.”

  Lacy did not look convinced. “Maybe, maybe not. But if I don’t get in that rectory to ask some questions, I’m going to see that somebody’s ass gets burned.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about it, Lacy.” Tully motioned Koesler on toward the rectory.

  When the two reached the front door, Tully leaned close to the uniformed officer standing guard. “See that lady with the paint job?”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer hooked his thumbs under his belt.

  “She doesn’t get in here even if she has the Pope with her.”

  “Yes, sir!” He had tangled with her earlier, and based on that skirmish alone he had hoped that someone would make his life easier by countermanding the order excluding media people from the rectory. Now he knew that if that woman got by him, he’d be sweeping out the police barns. At this moment, it was difficult to decide which would be worse: fighting her off or cleaning up after the horses.

  Tully and Koesler were met at the door by a very nervous, impressed, and—once Tully had shown her his badge—deferential housekeeper, who led them into a large, rather cluttered room. There, seated in an overstuffed leather office chair behind a king-sized desk, was a young man wearing an open-necked brown shirt, under an orange cardigan.

  “Hello, Fred,” said Koesler.

  The young man’s eyes widened. He smiled broadly. “Bob! Fancy meeting you here. How many times have I invited you over? And now that you’ve finally come, the pastor isn’t here.”

  Tully realized that he had a lot to absorb here. He had seldom been in a house whose furnishings and decor were as opulent, almost to the point of garishness, as this rectory. The one and only priest he knew to any extent was Father Koesler, who lived a Spartan existence. Tully had assumed that all priests lived more or less at that level. Evidently not Father Keating. Then there was the associate priest—for that surely was who “Fred” was. Not only completely out of uniform, but joking about the pastor’s unaccountable absence. Interesting. “We haven’t met,” Tully said.

  “I’m sorry,” Koesler apologized. “Father Fred Mitchell, this is Lieutenant Tully. He’s in charge of the Police Department’s investigation of Father Keating’s disappearance.”

  Tully and Mitchell nodded at each other. Mitchell made no move to stand. Nor did he invite his visitors to sit. So Tully took the initiative and the chair closest to the desk. Koesler, noting that he now stood alone, also seated himself.

  There was a moment’s silence while Tully continued to take in the details of the room. Mitchell studied Tully. Koesler was uncertain just what he should do. Then Mitchell spoke. “This case should be solved any minute, now that you’re on it, Bob.”

  Koesler reddened. “The lieutenant asked me to come along. I’m trying to help him get some insight into Jake’s life.”

  “Good luck,” Mitchell said.

  “What is this room?” Tully asked. “A study?”

  “His study.” Mitchell emphasized the possessive.

  “His?” Tully repeated the emphasis.

  “Definitely,” Mitchell said. “I’m not allowed in here. Far as I know, none of my predecessors was allowed in. No one comes in without an invitation. Leave your money at the door.”

  “When the cat’s away … ?” Koesler smiled.

  “Exactly,” Mitchell said. “This mouse is going to play in the master’s den.” He pushed the chair back, drew his legs up, and deposited his feet on a desk top that undoubtedly had never before experienced shoes.

  Koesler had never lived in a rectory where any room was declared off-limits to any priest, resident or visitor. He knew such rectories had existed, but he was surprised to find one in this day when there were so few available clergy that priests could pretty well pick and choose where they would live and serve.

  Such arbitrary and arrogant exercise of authority had to be one reason why Keating couldn’t keep an associate pastor more than a comparatively short time. At a different period—not all that long ago—priests simply went where they were sent and remained until they were ordered elsewhere. A system that generated a number of pastors who were notorious as tyrants.

  But, no more.

  Koesler knew that Jake Keating would not return to St. Waldo’s. Perhaps, he thought, depending on who would take Keating’s place, Fred Mitchell just might set a new record for longevity here.

  Tully had been studying a painting hanging on the wall facing the pastor’s chair. He inclined his head. “Who’s that?”

  “The master,” Mitchell responded.

  “The pastor? Father Keating?” Tully was surprised. The portrait had been expertly executed by some gifted artist. It showed a man in a clerical collar and a black suit whose folds suggested soft and expensive silk. The man
was leaning forward. His jet black hair flowed in gentle waves. The face was sharply masculine—handsome in the same sense that Humphrey Bogart could have been considered handsome.

  “That’s something, eh?” Mitchell said. “The old man sits here—as often as he’s here—and eyeballs himself.”

  Koesler did not appreciate having Keating, several years his junior, being referred to as “the old man.” “Come on, Fred, it’s not unique that someone has a picture of himself in his own office.”

  “A portrait? In oil? With professional lighting? Painted by Alfredo Pomponi? That’s not exactly a framed Polaroid!”

  Tully thought of all the pictures of cops on the walls of the various corridors at headquarters. Most of Detroit’s top brass were there. So Koesler’s point that it was not unusual to find pictures of individuals exhibited where they work seemed valid. But … an expensive portrait? The only one Tully could recall was of the mayor, and it hung in Maynard Cobb’s office. Maybe there was something to be said for arrogance. The more Tully learned about Father John Keating, the less likable he appeared.

  “You don’t like him very much.” Tully’s inflection made it a question.

  “It shows?” Mitchell said sarcastically.

  “Look,” said Tully, “it doesn’t make any difference to me whether you get along with him or not. We’ve got to find him. The sooner the better. Up till now, so my officers tell me, nobody here—housekeeper, secretary, janitor, everybody—including you—none of you have knocked yourselves out being cooperative.”

  “That’s probably true,” Mitchell said. “But what you’ve got to understand, Lieutenant, is that nobody who works for our pastor likes him. Oh, maybe at first, but he doesn’t wear well at all. Not with employees. Only nobody but me is going to come right out and say it. Keating will return and you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll find out what people have said about him. For Nancy and Mary and Sam and the rest of them, that means if they tell you the truth they’ll be unemployed. Me? I won’t be unemployed. I’ll just be shipped to another parish. And that will be fine with me.”

  “Then why didn’t you say all this to the other officers?”

  “I wasn’t all that keen on finding him. But now, I understand: It’s your job. So ask away and I’ll try to be helpful.”

  “Okay.” Tully took out his notepad and pen. “After all you’ve just said, this may seem silly, but did Father Keating have any enemies?”

  Mitchell snorted. “All right. I get your drift: By ‘enemies,’ you mean anyone who would—like—kill him.”

  It was evident that, even taking into account the way Mitchell felt, he was unwilling seriously to consider Keating dead, let alone murdered.

  Tully nodded. That is what he had in mind.

  “No,” Mitchell said, “I wouldn’t say that. Not to my knowledge anyway. On the one hand, he certainly has left a trail of unhappy people in his wake. All the people he has fired over the years—for no serious cause, as far as I know. Then there are the priests who have been assigned here, and left as soon as they decently could. But I can’t think that any of these people could hate him enough to … do that.”

  “How about parishioners?”

  “No way! Especially not parishioners. He got along famously with them. To give the devil his due he was a forceful preacher. I mean by that … uh … pro forma. He had a great voice, partially seasoned by large quantities of very good scotch. But a great voice anyway. He knew when to dish out hellfire and brimstone, I think they used to call it—and when to assure everyone that all was well.”

  “But,” Tully said, “it doesn’t seem he was here much. Gone part of Sunday, all day Monday and Wednesday. They put up with that kind of part-time service here?”

  Mitchell chuckled. “These people out here know what the score is. They’re not only wealthy, they’re well informed. They know that someday—and not that far down the road—there will be priestless parishes. And while Waldo’s is not going to be among the first of those, this place will take its turn—eventually. They’ve got a pastor they like; they want to hold on to him.

  “And don’t let that ‘out of town’ schedule fool you. If a parishioner wants to see him, it doesn’t matter when, Keating will meet Monday, Wednesday, whenever. If somebody’s in the hospital or there’s a death in the family—Keating’s there.”

  “That sounds more like it,” Tully said, “There had to be something to balance this picture.”

  “I don’t want to spoil this image of pastoral service,” Mitchell said, “but to be perfectly honest, there’s a fringe benefit to all Keating’s availability: He lives his parishioners’ lifestyle,”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean tickets to plays, the opera, ballgames; tickets to events that are sold out, tickets when there aren’t any tickets. Trips in company planes. Trips around the world. Trips to play golf with Palmer, Trevino. Vacations with the incredibly rich and brain-dead.”

  No wonder, thought Koesler, that the gang hadn’t seen Keating on any of their rather modest outings lately—not to mention days off. But why hasn’t Mitchell mentioned Keating’s gambling? Is it possible that Keating could have hidden a vice for which he’d been murdered from a priest who lived with him?

  “Then,” Tully said, “if you can’t think of anyone who would or could physically harm him, how about the man himself? As far as you know, has he had any personal problems? Blackouts? Serious forgetfulness? Has his health been okay?”

  “Keating? Healthy as a horse, far as I know. And where would he go? He’s found the promised land right here.”

  “You mentioned scotch. Not a drinking problem?”

  “Amazing! Built up a tolerance, I guess. Doesn’t seem to affect him … not seriously, at any rate.”

  “Okay, Father. Anything else you want to say?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Just that if he’s off on a wingding, I hope he doesn’t hurry back just for my sake.”

  Tully rose. He handed Mitchell a card. “If you think of anything else—anything at all—call me at this number. If I’m not there, they’ll know how to reach me.”

  As Tully and Koesler reached the door of the den, they were met by the substantial figure of Sergeant Mangiapane. “Zoo, we just got done tossing Father Keating’s room.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing—oh, hi, Father Koesler.”

  “Hello,” Koesler said. Now what was his name? Something Italian …

  “Nothing, Manj? Nothing that would give us any idea where he might have gone?”

  Manj. Manj. Of course: Mangiapane. But don’t tell me there were no betting slips! Nothing that would tip the police that the guy had, to be a compulsive gambler?

  “No,” Mangiapane repeated. “We did come up with a private phone and address book. A lot of entries. We’re gonna check ’em out. But as far as we were able to tell, Father Keating was planning on coming back here Friday night. All his clothes are here—pretty expensive stuff—his shaving gear; everything’s in place. We went up to the attic. All his luggage is there, neat as you please.”

  Of course he intended to return Friday night, Koesler thought. And he would have if he hadn’t met up with Mr. Vespa. It was so frustrating not being able even to hint at what the police should be looking for. Nothing he could do but count on the police finding out what had happened to him on their own. Koesler believed they could do it. But how in the world would they ever find the body?

  “Okay,” Tully said, “check out his address book. It’s about the only lead we’ve got right now.”

  They became aware of a commotion just outside the front door. Two distinct voices, a man and a woman, shouting at each other. The woman’s voice was the clearer. And she was using language she never learned, or should never have learned, from Mother. Then another male voice joined in.

  The door opened narrowly and a uniformed officer—the one to whom Tully had spoken on the way in—squeezed through. No doubt about it, he was harried.

  “
What the hell is going on out there?” Tully demanded.

  “It’s that crazy bi—“ He spotted Koesler’s clericals. “It’s that crazy lady, Lieutenant—the one you told me to keep out.”

  “And?”

  “She found out that another reporter is in here. Somebody from the News—McPhee. She’s in the kitchen interviewing some of the help. Somehow she got invited in the back door. Anyway, that crazy lady just heard about it and is … well …” He gestured toward the door through which Lacy’s purple prose continued to penetrate.

  “What’s with her?” Tully wanted to know.

  “Hogan spelled me for a little while. I’m going right out soon as I pull myself together. It’ll probably take the both of us …”

  “Unless one of you shoots her,” Mangiapane contributed.

  Somehow, no one found that humorous.

  “Come on,” Tully said to Koesler, “let’s get out the back way.”

  As they started toward the kitchen, they were met by Angie Moore. “Father Koesler: Good to see you again.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Who was she? Koesler met so very many people.

  “Zoo,” Moore said, “they found the car.”

  “Keating’s.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The flow of their departure was temporarily interrupted when they reached the kitchen to find Pringle McPhee in conversation with the housekeeper and the secretary, who started guiltily as if caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

  Tully scowled, angry that his cordon had been breached. But after a moment’s thought he not only could see no actual harm done, but also see the humor in it. Though he refused all comment in response to Pringle’s questions, there was the hint of a smile on his face as he, Koesler, and Moore exited, leaving Father Mitchell to play press secretary.

  Meanwhile, Lacy De Vere continued to assault the battlements. To no avail.

  10

  Koesler was riding in Tully’s car. Moore and Mangiapane were following in another. Tully had explained to Koesler that when they arrived at Keating’s car, which had been found parked on a well-maintained residential street in northwest Detroit, there would be a complete complement of Detroit police specialists performing their specialties.