Body Count

by William Kienzle

  Ankenazy sensed this. “What exactly are you looking for. Zoo?”

  “This desk doesn’t look like it’s even been used in this century. Is this just as it was when Salden was working at it?”

  “Uh-huh. Some cops were here right after … right after Hal died. But they didn’t take anything.”

  “Didn’t he keep any notes? Things he was working on?”

  “Sure. That’d be in his basket.”

  “His what?”

  “The CRT there. The word processor. If he had anything going currently, if he just wanted to leave himself some message or reminder, it would more than likely be in there.”

  Tully stared at the silent screen. “Well, Okay. How do I find out what, if anything, is in there?”

  “His immediate editor—I’m not the guy—would have his password to get access to the basket. But he’s not here just now. Wait a minute; maybe this’ll work. Pat!”

  She had just entered the room. Tully recognized her instantly, though he hadn’t see her in nearly three years.

  She approached Ankenazy, a slight smile on her lips. Then she caught sight of Tully and the smile froze.

  Pat was obviously completely surprised. It was one of those rare times when she had no comment whatsoever.

  Tully tried to gauge the situation. Was this some sort of sick gag? Coming on the heels of the De Vere column, he wondered if someone was putting him on. If so, Pat Lennon was not in on the game. Her surprise seemed most genuine. Either that or she deserved an Oscar.

  Ankenazy? Again, he gave no indication that this was a setup on his part.

  Perhaps it was a coincidence. Odd; he’d been so obsessed with the gossipy item, his memory so filled with Lennon—and now, here she was.

  “Pat’s worked with Hal in the past.” Ankenazy completely overlooked any sort of introduction; for whatever reason he obviously felt none was necessary. “She’d be as good as anybody to help, or answer questions. I’ve got some stuff to get organized. So, if it’s okay with you …”

  Tully had expected to be shuttled off to someone else. He had dropped in without an appointment and could not have counted on Ankenazy’s being available or even being in. But Pat Lennon? Coincidence? Miracle? Or, always possible, some sort of joke?

  “You got a few minutes, Pat?” Ankenazy asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Lieutenant Tully here is investigating Hal’s death. He gets carte blanche on any of our resources—library, files, whatever.” Excusing himself, Ankenazy left them.

  “Well, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” So she was going to be formal. Maybe, under the circumstances, not a bad idea. However, he wouldn’t match her with Miss or Ms. Even without their previous association he would have gone immediately to a first-name basis.

  “I want to get inside Salden’s head,” Tully said, without preamble. “I’m pretty certain this was not a random shoot. Somebody wanted him out. Any ideas, Pat?”

  “About who killed him?” She folded her arms and shook her head. “He was a nice guy. What can I say? Sometimes he was kind of hard on this or that religious leader. But—not like that. I can’t imagine any of them … no.” She shook her head again.

  From what little he knew of them, Tully thought she might be selling religious leaders a bit short. He could well imagine some threatened religious figure getting violent. Who knows; the investigation might turn up something along that line. And if such a thread were to be uncovered, Tully would be ready to follow it up.

  “Maybe it’d help if I knew something more about him,” Tully said. He remained seated at Salden’s desk.

  Lennon shifted her weight to her left side and leaned against the desk. The position accentuated the lovely curve from her narrow waist over the full hip to her knee. Tully appreciated the view, one of nature’s masterpieces.

  “I’ll try to give you a thumbnailer.”

  “As detailed as possible, please.”

  “Okay,” Pat agreed, “something more than a thumbnailer.” She pulled up a chair and sat down. “Hal started as a copy boy, right at die bottom, some twenty years ago, long before I got here. He worked his way up to the sports desk and covered most of the local teams. Before his next move, he was the main writer on the Tigers. Then he moved to the city desk. Again he specialized in the local angle—city hall, the council, the mayor, Lansing. He was really very good at everything he did. The next move logically would have been his own column. It’s what many of us would like. But he turned it down—to just about everybody’s surprise—and asked for the religion beat.

  “Of course, in a way, he did get his column, because a personal column sort of goes well with that territory. But the way he covered religion was the same as he covered everything else—thoroughly and professionally. It sure as hell enhanced the value of religious news. It wasn’t the Saturday throwaway anymore. I worked with him quite a bit from time to time and I was always proud to be associated with him.”

  “Sports, the local scene, and religion,” Tully summed up. “And no enemies?”

  “Some,” Lennon admitted. “But if they were at all fair, they had to grant that Hal was objective and evenhanded. Anyway, if you’re going to do a job as a reporter, you make enemies. We all do. But we don’t expect them to get violent, and 99-plus percent of the time they don’t.

  “So there’s a bit more than a thumbnailer on Hal. Not much of a eulogy. And I feel his loss lots more than I’m expressing. But … there you are.”

  Tully was caught off guard. He had detected no strong emotion in her review of Salden’s career. And there was no sign of misty eyes. But he believed her. She probably had been deeply moved by Salden’s death. She had to be damn good at controlling her emotions.

  “Okay, thanks,” Tully said. “One last thing: I was trying to find out what he might have been working on, some of his notes. But …” He indicated the partially open desk drawers.

  “The notepads?” She smiled. “Those are mostly history. We do take notes, of course, but we usually transfer them to our baskets.” She gestured toward the CRT. “That’s the basket.”

  “Ankenazy mentioned that. But it’s just a blank screen.”

  Lennon got up. “If you’ll let me in there, I’ll see if I can’t remember his password.”

  The desk, the chair, the CRT did not offer much room to maneuver. As Tully stood and tried to trade places with Lennon, they brushed against each other. Lennon’s body probably was no softer than any other well-proportioned woman’s, but it did indeed seem so. And there was a fragrance that was more than the subtle dab of perfume with which Pat routinely started her day. It was her scent, and it was so distinct he could remember being conscious of it even years back.

  Lennon was afraid she might be blushing—something she couldn’t remember having done since high school.

  It was all so awkward. Three years ago, they had parted friends. Lennon had been aware that Tully’s companion had recovered her health, and Tully had to have known that Joe Cox had returned repentant and forgiven. Lennon and Tully’s relationship had been a classic friendship where in either would respond to a need of the other. It was just that over these past few years, such a need had not arisen.

  Both Lennon and Tully, though neither expressed it, would have enjoyed this fleeting collaboration had it not been for Lacy De Vere’s column item. And though neither expressed it, both felt like telling Lacy De Vere to go to hell.

  “Lemmee see now,” Lennon said, “I think I remember Hal’s password.” She tapped the keys and spelled out, HOLY FATHER.

  Nothing happened.

  She shrugged, tried again, and typed, HOLY SMOKE.

  The screen lit up.

  “He was a joker,” Tully observed.

  “He had a sense of humor,” Lennon amended. “I’ll rummage through here. I’ve done it before when working with Hal, though not often. If you think he had a peculiar sense of humor, wait’ll you try to figure out his unique shorthand. We’re inside his mind now.
But I haven’t the slightest idea of what we’re going to find.” She tapped more keys.

  “I knew there’d be something under ‘miracles.’ It was one of his favorite slugs. The only other person in the media that I know of who shares Hal’s fascination with offbeat religious phenomena is Nelson Kane over at the Free Press. The two of them used to get together from time to time, usually at the Anchor Bar, and try to top each other.

  “That’s what this story is. Hal told me about it when it came in over the wire. It involves a teenage girl who is allegedly possessed by the devil … not that original a story. The essence of it wasn’t weird enough all by itself to attract Hal’s interest, except for one detail: The girl allegedly had a habit of levitating. She would drift off her bed and float up to the ceiling. For that reason, the priest appointed to exorcise her had to be very tall—so he could get her down from the ceiling.

  “I can almost hear Hal topping Kane’s image-of-Christ-in-the-hot-dog-bun story with the king-size exorcist. He would have had such fun with that one.”

  Pat was smiling at the idea of the two old war-horse buddies shamelessly pulling each other’s leg.

  Then she brought herself back to the present. “But that’s not what you’re looking for.”

  “It tells me something about Salden, so that’s good. But I am looking for something he might have been working on that would cause somebody to want to kill him.”

  “Right.” Lennon continued to feel uncomfortable rummaging through Salden’s basket. As if she were invading his privacy. But she was more than eager to help find his killer. She tapped more keys.

  “Here’s one,” she said. “Granted I’m not sure I can read all these shorthand notes accurately. But this one looks like some sexism popping up at St. Andrew Episcopal Church in Rochester. As I recall, that church just recently got its first female priest, who also happened to be called to be its rector. That was a lot for some parishioners to swallow. I think this is the one Hal had in mind with this notation.”

  “A conflict,” Tully said. “If he was working on this story, he put himself in the middle of some pretty strong feelings … no?”

  “Probably.”

  “A guess might be—especially since the story was under the … whatchamacallit of ‘sexism’—“

  “Slug.”

  “Yeah, the slug … of ‘sexism’—that he would have been in a position to defend the woman priest.”

  “He would be. Yes. He wouldn’t treat the story with his opinion showing. But he could slant it in his column. That is, if I’m right that this is the story he’s referring to in this note.”

  “So those who oppose her becoming rector would be angry to damn mad. They might have no reasonable outlet for their anger at, say, their bishop or priests. So maybe they direct it at a reporter?”

  “Could be,” Lennon admitted. “But, see here—at the end of this note—there’s a ‘K’ standing all alone. I don’t know what that means. But it meant something to Hal, or he wouldn’t have added it to the note.”

  “Well, we’ll put that on the back burner. Anything else in there?”

  Pat began tapping keys as the information in the CRT kept marching across the screen. Nothing appeared to Pat to be of any consequence. Then she stopped typing and seemed to be studying the screen.

  “Something?” Tully asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s an emphasis line and an exclamation mark here. Very unlike Hal.”

  Tully studied the screen, not really knowing what he should be looking for—or at. “Whatta we got?”

  “Just some words: ‘shells, just shells! look into … trace down! could be key!’ Then again, off to the side there, another ‘K.’ But I still don’t know what that might mean.”

  “Hmmm …” Tully tried to decipher. Something was knocking at the back of his consciousness. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you say Salden used to work on the sports page?”

  “Yeah. Along time ago.”

  “But it was part and parcel of him, wasn’t it? You said he was completely committed to whatever he was working on … right?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a symbol in baseball for a strikeout: the letter ‘K.’ That’s what this might be? That he struck out on these stories?”

  “Could be. That would be just like Hal: mixing metaphors, so to speak. But that leaves us with nothing but the oversize exorcist. And that definitely is not what you were looking for.”

  Tully thought for a moment. “Anything else come to mind, Pat?”

  Lennon ransacked her mind. “Noooo …” She drew out the “no” to an elongated syllable. “There’s the story about the missing priest. It’s Pringle McPhee’s story at the moment. It would have been Hal’s. But that’s the horse before the cart: Hal was murdered before the priest turned up missing.”

  “That’s it?”

  Lennon hesitated. “I … uh … might just as well ask you: How did that De Vere column go over with your Alice?”

  Tully winced all but imperceptibly. “Not so hot. I’ll know better if ever she starts talkin’ again. And your Joe Cox?”

  “He’s out of town.” She did not care to add, “probably permanently.”

  “It would be interesting to know how he’d react to it. He’s always been the one with the roving eye. I wonder how he’d feel if the shoe were on the other foot—even if it wasn’t true.”

  Tully made to leave, “Seems like you and I got the name without the game.”

  “Yeah,” Pat agreed. “It’s a lucky thing you’re the one who packs the gun. I think I’d shoot her.”

  For the first time this morning, Tully smiled broadly. It was an engaging smile, “I think you’d have to get in line, Pat. Thanks for your time.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  He left. Lennon, rocking gently in Salden’s chair, watched as he walked away. All his mannerisms reflected his personality. The way he walked, his speech patterns, his bearing, his rare smile, all spoke of a person brimming with self-confidence. It was not the posturing of a braggart. It was the quiet statement of a dependable, mature adult.

  Take that, Joe Cox!

  Tully turned the corner and was gone. Lennon thought of what he’d said: The name without the game. The name without the game.

  Interesting.

  17

  The box containing the mortal remains of Monsignor Clement Kern had been unearthed. Evidently that was enough for that day. The grand opening of the casket had been postponed.

  Meanwhile, the unopened casket rested on a bier in the nave of the church just outside the sanctuary. And the church, quite naturally, was that of The Most Holy Trinity in old Corktown where Clem Kern had been assigned for thirty-four years.

  Tradition has it that when the Lodge Freeway was constructed, linking Detroit’s northern extremities to downtown, the highway was supposed to go right through the site of Trinity Church. This prospect made Cardinal Edward Mooney, then archbishop of Detroit, a happy man. Trinity long had been a financial loser and a drain on archdiocesan funds. Mooney was said to have been ecstatic over the proposed demolition of the building. Some thought the Cardinal himself would come and bless the bulldozer that would do the deed.

  Then, according to the story, a city councilperson, who would live in infamy in Mooney’s heart, spoke up to save the little parish that had been there when the Irish immigrants circled their wagons around it and later when the poorest of the poor had huddled within it for warmth, shelter, and sustenance. The courageous councilperson won out. And now, when motorists tool down the Lodge, they relive that administrative fiat as they head directly toward the little old church, only to veer off eastward at the very last moment. Trinity survived, to be transformed by the selfless ministry of Clem Kern into a monument for the ages.

  It was now the third day since the casket had been removed from the earth of Holy Sepulcher Cemetery. It was the day as well as the hour when the casket would be opened.

  The prime pu
rpose for this otherwise ghoulish enterprise was to establish, insofar as it was possible, that the body of the man who might one day be venerated as a true saint actually was the body of the Servant of God in question.

  There was another reason. There was always the possibility that in the process, the exhumers just might stumble upon another miracle. In the past, there had been some marvelous discoveries at this stage in the process of canonization. Sometimes the body was found in a remarkable—miraculous?—state of preservation.

  St. Catherine of Siena as well as St. Clare of Assisi were cases in point. Enshrined within altars in their respective hometowns, they looked as good as new after centuries of inanimation—or so it is said.

  Then there’s the blood of St. Januarius, which liquifies each year on the anniversary of his death, until last year. Still, not a bad track record.

  And, among many surprisingly preserved saints, there’s the case of St. Francis Xavier. He died on a small island off the coast of China. His associate buried him on the spot, taking the trouble to throw quicklime over the body. Later, after scraping away the soil and lime, Francis’s body was discovered to be remarkably lifelike, even supple. He was to be entombed in the wall of the cathedral in Goa. Workers found the hole in the wall not quite deep enough. So they simply forced the body into the space, breaking the neck in the process. Francis Xavier’s body is still on display. It is, by now, quite mummified. But, considering all that was inflicted upon the poor remains, he’s holding his own.

  Such incidents provide the special excitement and promise inherent in a canonical exhumation. One never knows in what condition one is going to find the Servant of God.

  Of course, modern methods of embalming, the better-made caskets and vaults can muddy the matter. In today’s world, is a well-preserved body a sign of God’s favor to the deceased? Could it be a miracle, or could it be the miracle of modern technology?

  Whatever.

  Still there was the undeniable thrill of anticipation. What would Clem Kern look like these many years since his death and burial? Those strong of stomach, at least, wanted to know. It didn’t much matter in the final analysis whether he had been preserved or not. If he were well preserved, in all probability it would not be accepted as miraculous. Clem would have to come up with something clearly spectacular on his own. However, in the eyes of many of his old buddies, it would be good to see him again.