Body Count

by William Kienzle

  “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.”

  They left 1300 Beaubien, Police Headquarters, and stood for a moment on the broad sidewalk. Koznicki looked out of the corner of his eye. He could almost see the wheels moving in Tully’s head. “Are you interested, Alonzo?” he asked almost needlessly.

  Tully smiled. “Oh, I guess, maybe. I think I’ll just go back upstairs and run through that file.” He turned and hustled back up the stairs. Of course he couldn’t wait to get started. Here was a mystery that, unlike the Keating case, had an obtainable answer. Somebody had killed a Detroit News reporter. All Tully had to do was find out whodunit. And more often than not that was how Tully solved cases. They might never find Father John Keating–dead or alive. But, by God, Tully was going hunting for whoever had killed the reporter.

  Part

  Two

  14

  Earlier in the twentieth century, Detroit’s theater district–such as it was–was located bordering along Woodward not far from the river on streets such as Larned, Congress, Fort, and Lafayette. Many of those legitimate stages later became movie houses. All were now long gone.

  Now, later in the twentieth century, the theater district–such as it is–of downtown Detroit lies above Grand Circus Park, about a mile north of where it once was. And the streets surrounding this district can be dangerous.

  It was just after 10:00 on a balmy September evening when the show at the Fox Theater let out. A generally satisfied audience spilled out onto Woodward Avenue, which had the distinction of being M-l, the first highway in Michigan.

  Most of the patrons had parked in the large adjoining lot. But Father Koesler, in a tribute to frugality, had parked in the underground garage beneath Grand Circus Park, which, even though evening rates had been drastically reduced to attract customers, was nearly empty. The garage was only a block or so south of the Fox, but a lot could happen in that short distance. And if anything did happen, chances were it would not be pleasant.

  The four priest friends who had attended tonight’s performance had come in two cars. Father McNiff had chauffeured Fathers Marvin and Mulroney and had parked in the Fox lot. Indeed, of all those in attendance this night, Koesler seemed the only one to have parked any distance from the theater. Since the four had agreed to meet at Carl’s Chop House for an after-theater meal, Frank Marvin volunteered to go with Koesler so he would not be alone. Thus the two set off, walking briskly down Woodward.

  It was eerie.

  The area just outside the theater was brightly lit and swarming with happy, chatting people. Two steps from that scene and it was like a set from a wartime movie. There were streetlights, but it was nowhere near as illumined as the overlit Fox marquee. And there were no people. The impression that the infrequent pedestrian had quickly passed into some sort of no-man’s-land was due in large part to the contrast between a small zone comprising noisy people packed together like sardines and a desolate street–all within a few feet of each other.

  The two priests could not help but be aware of their isolation.

  “Is it worth it?” Father Marvin asked.

  “What?” Father Koesler returned.

  “The five or so bucks you save by parking in the garage.”

  “A penny saved, et cetera,” Koesler said flippantly. But he didn’t feel that insouciant. As nonchalantly as possible he glanced over his shoulder to see who, if anyone, was behind them as they walked. There was no one in front of them as far as the eye could see.

  But there was someone behind them.

  A lone young man, possibly a teenager, in jeans and T-shirt. Somewhat lightly clothed, even for this mild weather. Definitely not part of the theater crowd. A casual pedestrian headed … where? Home? A rendezvous? Nowhere in particular?

  Koesler did not want to alarm Marvin. But he certainly wanted to stay alert to this potential threat.

  They walked in silence a few more steps. Koesler again glanced over his shoulder. The young man maintained his course in their wake. He stayed about eight to ten yards behind them, matching their pace. But something was added now: a car, old, weatherworn, so dirty it was difficult to tell how many passengers were in it.

  Koesler did not wish to turn around and confront the young man or his companions, which very likely the occupants of the car were. The car was creeping down Woodward at the same slow speed as the priests and their shadow.

  “Bob,” Marvin said softly, “somebody seems to be following us.”

  “Oh?” So Marvin had also noticed this small procession. Koesler did not want either himself or Marvin to panic, but there was an unmistakable sense of serious danger here.

  Of course it was possible the young man was simply out for a walk on an inviting evening. He might have been keeping a date.

  And if Koesler flapped his arms, he might fly. No, that steady pace kept both by the pedestrian and the suspicious car boded no harmless explanation.

  The fact that their quarry were priests apparently carried no weight with these predators. It was as if two animals had allowed themselves to be cut off from the herd and were now being stalked by wolves.

  Koesler felt they would be lucky to be merely robbed. Yet he saw no alternative to playing this out and seeing what would happen. Though he was extremely apprehensive, he tried to act casual for his own sake as well as Marvin’s.

  The two priests reached the corner of Adams and Woodward. Across the street was Grand Circus Park, beneath which was the parking garage, and safety–if they could reach it.

  Ordinarily, they would have crossed with the light at the corner. But Koesler opted for a shortcut. He nudged Marvin to jaywalk toward the center of the Adams block and the ramp leading down to the garage.

  They turned sharply to the right. Koesler glanced back. The young man also turned right. Now there was no doubt: He was following them. Whatever was going to happen would happen in just a few moments.

  But something else was happening. The car did not turn right. It continued south on Woodward. That unexpected event was followed by another. The young man veered off and followed in the direction of the car.

  Surprised, both Koesler and Marvin stopped to see what was going on.

  They saw a marked blue and white Detroit police car, which had unobtrusively pulled up behind the other car. The officer had turned on neither siren nor flashing lights. But the police car had been spied by the driver of the car following the priests. And when the young man noticed his companions veering off, he also abandoned the chase.

  For a brief instant Koesler thought the single officer in the car might give them a ticket for jaywalking. He would have welcomed one considering what the policeman had saved them from. But the blue and white simply glided by, the officer therein neither smiling nor showing any sign of concern. Probably he too was glad nothing had happened.

  The two priests hurried to Koesler’s car. Koesler paid the dollar parking fee, then drove up the exit ramp. Both men looked in every direction. They were not being cautious of other traffic as much as making sure their potential muggers were nowhere in sight. Coast clear, they headed in the direction of the restaurant.

  Well on their way, Marvin spoke. “Thank God for the Detroit police!” It was said with fervor and sincerity. Thereafter, neither spoke.

  McNiff and Mulroney had arrived at the restaurant only moments before Koesler and Marvin. It was late in the evening and this was one of the few eateries still open and offering everything from a snack to a full dinner. There were three main dining rooms, only one designated as nonsmoking. At this hour, that meant little; heavy smoke hung almost motionless everywhere.

  Most of the tables were empty; the quartet was seated almost immediately. I
t took several moments for their eyes to become accustomed to the soft lighting and the smoke. When they were able to see more clearly, McNiff immediately observed, “You guys look like you saw a ghost!”

  “Damn right!” Marvin answered. “The ‘ghosts’ almost were us!”

  There followed a graphic, detailed, and somewhat embellished narration of their memorable if brief stroll down Woodward. As he told the story, Marvin grew progressively more animated as well as more resentful of Koesler’s penny-pinching style that almost got both of them murdered.

  Following this, there was general agreement–Koesler dissenting–on the danger of Detroit streets, especially after dark.

  Responding to one of Koesler’s attempts to diffuse so sweeping an indictment of the city, McNiff countered, “What about that News reporter, Salden? What does that say about your safe streets? Here’s a guy just trying to do his job. And the job is covering religion, for God’s sake! And he gets killed!”

  “Not too good an example, Pat.” Mulroney, it was generally acknowledged, was well read and well informed on current affairs. “According to reports I’ve read, whoever shot Salden wasn’t firing at random.”

  “No?” When challenged, McNiff tended to react defensively.

  “No,” Mulroney responded calmly. “It seems that all the shots–or all the shots that can be accounted for–hit Salden. The other people who were wounded were hit by bullets that went right through Salden.”

  Marvin shuddered. “Do you mind? Koesler and I just went through an experience where we might have been used for target practice. I’d just as soon not talk about how bullets go through bodies.”

  Koesler seconded the motion. He was no more eager than Marvin to converse about murder. “There’s tonight’s play.”

  “Yeah … doesn’t it make you feel good to know that one of the brethren wrote it?” McNiff said.

  With that, their waitress arrived, looking the worse for wear. She appeared quite elderly. Her white stockings hung loosely from swollen legs and ankles. Her wispy white hair was frazzled. One could be forgiven for wondering why she continued working this late at night, if indeed at all. One could only assume she really needed the money.

  “Get you something to drink?” Putting her weight on her left leg, she listed to port.

  McNiff ordered a manhattan, the others beer. The waitress shuffled off.

  “Yeah,” Marvin picked up McNiff’s observation, “imagine a Detroit priest getting a play he wrote staged at the Fox!”

  “He deserved the break,” Koesler said. “A Consequence of Heritage is a good play. Humor, conflict, a gentle touch, even a bit of tragedy. And did you notice in the program notes that Cliff mentioned how even though his play is about a Polish family, it could be understood as being indicative of any ethnic group?”

  “I’d agree,” Mulroney said. “The tendency is to think of it as a slice of Polish life, because that’s the way it’s presented. But, with minor changes, it could portray almost any ethnic group. And even at that I wonder if it has to be ethnic.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks. “Ready to order?” She shifted her weight to her right foot and listed to starboard.

  “How’s the soup?” Mulroney asked.

  “Like water. It was better earlier. Don’t order it now.”

  The four were surprised at her candor. They all grinned.

  “Okay,” Mulroney said, “I’ll have the deluxe hamburger, well done.”

  “You don’t want it well done,” she replied. “It’ll be like shoe leather. Get it medium.”

  “Uh …” Mulroney was not sure how to respond.”… but I … well, okay, if you say so.”

  “And,” she added, “don’t get it deluxe. By this time the French fries are greasy. Get cottage fries. And don’t get them on individual orders; get an order for the whole table.”

  By now, the priests were laughing heartily.

  Their laughter did not seem to affect their waitress one way or the other. But she pretty well managed to order dinner for all of them, one by one,

  After she left, Koesler returned to the topic at hand. “Getting back to Mo’s question about whether the play had to be ethnic; I think it not only had to be ethnic, but also a slice of the past. I mean, the kind of home life Ruskowski is portraying seems to me to be typical of what we had in the thirties and early forties, but certainly not sustained after World War II.”

  “No, no.” McNiff stirred the ice in his drink with his index finger. “I’ve seen lots of families like that.”

  “Lately? Come on!” Koesler said. “There were only two sets in the entire play. The principal set was the home. A living room took up almost the whole stage with one upstairs bedroom where Grandma just lay in bed with her back to the audience waiting to die. Her granddaughter comes home and has to put on a nun’s veil to visit Grandma who hasn’t been told that the girl left the convent years ago. And the other set was the grandson’s room in a rectory. How many families do you know of today with two kids, one a nun, at least previously, the other a priest?”

  “Okay,” McNiff conceded, “maybe not a priest and a nun, not anymore. But that wasn’t the point. The fact that the kids had religious vocations was incidental to the point of the play, It was this close-knit family that depended on each other. And that’s not uncommon any time.”

  “I didn’t think they depended on each other so much as they devoured each other,” Marvin said.

  “Now, pay attention,” Koesler admonished McNiff. “Frank used to review plays for the Detroit Catholic.”

  McNiff, grinning, drew a large imaginary circle, then mimed someone dealing playing cards.

  Marvin laughed. “Okay, I get it: big deal!” He nodded. “Maybe so. But remember Grandma up on the shelf: Everyone and everything eventually had to revolve around that still, silent figure. That signified the unhealthy relationship that bound that family together. There wasn’t much free choice going on there.”

  “Yeah,” Koesler agreed, “Grandma was the central character of that play. She was the patron saint of that family. That is, she was the saint until she spoke her last words–which were also her first words in the play.”

  “There goes the ethnic thing again,” Marvin said. “She cried out much the same as Christ did on the cross. But her last words were in Polish. Which the mother first translated as ‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.’ But to her priest son, she admitted that Grandma’s last words were, ‘Shit! I don’t want to die!’ And there went her sanctity.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Koesler said through his laughter, “like the priest grandson said in the play–minus the vulgarity–that’s about what Christ said through his torment and death: ‘I don’t want to die.’”

  “Even including the vulgarity,” Marvin said, “there’s no reason why that should argue against her cause for sanctity. It doesn’t seem to be hurting Clem Kern.”

  Koesler choked on his beer.

  No one reacted immediately, but as the choking continued, McNiff began to pound Koesler on the back, perhaps more vigorously than necessary.

  Koesler waved him away as the breathing passage cleared.

  It wasn’t news to Koesler that Monsignor Clem Kern had been nominated for sainthood. When his cause had been initiated years earlier, it had been big news, and played as such by the media. But that was a long while ago. And at the time, Koesler had subconsciously packed the item away in the recesses of his awareness. After all, wasn’t the aphorism something to the effect that one should be slow with unqualified praise after the manner of the Church, which didn’t canonize people until some three hundred years after their death? Since Monsignor Kern had been dead not even twenty years, Koesler had given the cause little thought. Even when Guido Vespa confessed the bizarre entombment of Father Keating with Clem Kern, Koesler hadn’t adverted to the ongoing cause for sainthood.

  “You okay?” McNiff wondered.

  “I’ll be all right,” Koesler wheezed. “Just
went down the wrong way.”

  “Clem Kern wasn’t vulgar!” McNiff turned back to Marvin.

  Marvin grinned. “He could be earthy when the occasion demanded.”

  “Besides,” McNiff said, “what chance has old Clem got? A parish priest from Detroit? Now, if he’d been a martyr …”

  “Not so,” said the resourceful Mulroney. “It’s not all that out of the question … at least not today.”

  Their salads arrived. There were no further drink orders, and their lugubrious waitress departed.

  “For the last thousand years,” Mulroney continued, “Popes have been doing the canonizing all by themselves. Officially, since A.D, 1234-an easy date to remember. But the point is, in all this time there have been less than three hundred saints named.”

  “So?” McNiff said.

  “So,” Mulroney replied, “in 1988 alone the present Pope named 122 saints. So he likes saints; that’s obvious. He can and he does make lots of them. As a matter of fact, he kind of prods the Congregation for the Causes of Saints to keep the machinery going. As we all know, just from watching TV, the Pope gets around. For centuries, the Popes were the self-proclaimed ‘prisoners of the Vatican.’ Well, Paul VI got around pretty good. But he was a stay-at-home compared with our current guy. And, usually, when he visits a country, he likes to make one or more of the natives a saint.

  “Say, for instance, he were to come to the States again—“

  “Spare me,” Marvin interjected. “Have we finished paying for his last visit yet?”

  That brought an appreciative laugh.

  “Seriously,” Mulroney continued, “if he came back to the States, he’d probably want to name a saint or two, Why not good old Clem Kern?”

  “Because, for one thing, Solanus Casey is ahead of him,” Marvin observed.

  “Well,” Mulroney said, “a doubleheader then. Casey and Kern,”