Koesler nodded.
Costello shrugged. “The debts would have to be out of sight. But, yeah, sure: It’s like you’re doin’ business with somebody and you don’t like the business he’s in. But it’s business … so ,you go along.”
“He’d kill a priest?!”
Costello nodded. “And go to confession too. If that’s what the contract called for.”
“Okay,” Koesler said. “Now we come to the last part. The bit about burying Father Keating with Monsignor Kern.”
Remo snorted and was about to laugh when a glance from Costello silenced him. Koesler had virtually forgotten there was anyone else in the room.
“That’s what turned this whole thing around,” Koesler said. “The matter was completely closed until they exhumed Monsignor Kern’s body. The police had discontinued their investigation into Father Keating’s disappearance. My lips were sealed permanently. Then came the matter of identifying Monsignor’s remains. And Father Keating’s body was nowhere in sight. I guess at that point, I was pretty sure Guido had lied to me. And I thought, if he lied about that, then about how much more?
“Anyway, at that point, Guido decided he’d better come clean. So first he told the guy who gave him the contract. Does that make any sense?”
“It would have been the honorable thing to do,” Costello said.
Somehow, in Koesler’s eyes, “honor” didn’t seem to have much of a role in this case.
“He was going to break a very important provision in the contract,” Costello explained. “One of the principal stipulations of the contract was to keep you on ice by confessing. Now Guido was gonna violate that part of the contract by telling you the confession was a fake. He had to tell the guy. It was the honorable thing to do.”
There goes that word again, thought Koesler. “But nobody would have known about any of this if he hadn’t added that bit about the burial. Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Why would Guido do a thing like that?” Costello closed his eyes tightly as if shutting out past memories. “Because that was part of Guido’s style. He always went too far. He thought it was clever. He did foolish things. Other times he bragged so much he made up stuff just to be a big guy.
“In the old days, he’d go out to make a collection. Then he’d come home with the money and tell us he broke the guy’s fingers for making us wait. He’d be a big guy, hot stuff. ‘The Enforcer!’ Then we’d find out he hadn’t done it: He got the money okay but he didn’t do anything to the guy. He’d learn a little. But what he learned was to brag about things we couldn’t check out—at least things he thought we couldn’t check out.”
“So,” Koesler concluded, “in light of his past boasting, it makes perfect sense that Guido would lie to me for no other reason than that he wanted to add a sensational but fictitious touch. Sort of like his signature?”
“Sort of like his signature,” Costello agreed. “Yeah, it got so he couldn’t help himself. If he didn’t think that what he had to do was very imaginative, he’d make up something. Just to impress people. I don’t know where the priest’s body is. Maybe only Guido knew. Now, nobody’ll know.” He shook his head. “I told Guido a hunnert times he had to quit doin’ that. He wouldn’t listen. Now. …”
There was silence for several moments.
“Is that all you wanted to know, Father?” Costello asked finally.
“Yes. You’ve cleared up a lot for me. I couldn’t figure out why he volunteered that bizarre story. I thank you very much for explaining it for me.”
“It is for us to be grateful to you. You went out of your way to get Guido a Catholic burial. We appreciate that, especially Mama. Like I said, we are in your debt. Anytime you want somethin’, you come to me. Hear? You come to me.”
For the life of him, Koesler could not envision a time when he would need any favor that Costello could provide. But one never knew. The future was unpredictable. Koesler rose and accompanied the trio to the front door.
After they left, Koesler reviewed the visit.
There certainly was no doubt who headed that family. Remo was around only to serve and protect Carl Costello. And, after the initial greetings, Mrs. Costello had been so still it was almost as if she had not even been present. So in charge had Costello been, Koesler wondered that the Double C had let Guido get away with his penchant for weird exaggeration. Such a futile vice. It was almost guaranteed to get him in trouble. And in this instance, it certainly had. Koesler could only ascribe Costello’s forbearance to the Indulgent Grandpa Syndrome.
Koesler returned to his office and slumped down in his chair.
At least it was over. Too seldom in life did all the loose ends get tied up in a neat, tidy fashion. When it did happen, it brought a sense of satisfaction. And he was sure that, at least as far as he was concerned, the matter of the missing priest was concluded.
Jake Keating, despite having grown up in a wealthy family, had proven himself a poor gambler when he lost all that money in stocks and bonds. What few people ever knew was that he also was a compulsive gambler. Put the two together—an unlucky and compulsive gambler—and you have the making of a peck of trouble—or tragedy.
So, inevitably, Jake got in over his head Koesler could imagine the bookies or whoever Jake dealt with being at first amused that “Father” lived to gamble and that, in addition, he proved to be a patsy. Then the amusement fading as Father ran up staggering debts. Undoubtedly there were threats. Finally, Don Whoever, the head man, hired Guido Vespa to kill Keating. It certainly would be an outstanding lesson throughout the gambling world that the bookies were deadly serious about collecting what was owed: Even a priest, even the pastor of Detroit’s wealthiest parish, was not untouchable.
If Guido had let it rest there, the gambling community—and they alone—would know what had happened to Jake Keating. The police had written it off as an unsolved case. Koesler and Dunn would have shared a memorable experience they could share with no one else.
But Guido had to add his distinctive touch to the plot. It was one of those exaggerations of his that would satisfy some inner compulsion and, at the same time, be safe, since no one would ever check it out.
Except that Guido didn’t anticipate the exhumation of Jake Keating’s purported resting-in-peace partner, Monsignor Clem Kern.
Guido then decided he had to pick up the pieces of his fumbled plot. He would tell Koesler that the confession had not been genuine, that it had been part of the contract. Then, in some strange way, he felt duty-bound to inform the contractor that he was going to really confess what had really happened—though not sacramentally.
Either Guido told the contractor where the meeting was to take place or he was followed. In any case, Guido was killed and Koesler had come closer to death than he’d ever been.
Thank God the police had no further need of him. There wasn’t anything he could any longer assist with. The case had gone well beyond his field of expertise. The police were looking for the gamblers to whom Keating had been so deeply in debt. Koesler would, naturally, continue his interest in the case, but from the sidelines.
And just as well. The dull discomfort his wound was imposing made it difficult to concentrate on anything for very long. And the helplessness of his right arm was fairly frightening, as well as discouraging. He tried to put his faith in the therapist who promised that, with fidelity to exercise, things would improve.
He promised himself that he would be faithful. A little prayer wouldn’t hurt either.
At least the police wouldn’t need him anymore.
21
Father Koesler continued sitting at his desk. He had corrected the slump and was now sitting upright. He eased his arm out of the sling, and with his left hand carefully placed his right forearm on the desk top. He tried to raise the injured arm unaided, but simply could not. He tried to slide it around the desk top and was able to accomplish that. He tried to take heart in this small feat. Every little bit, he thought.
&nbs
p; Again he heard the doorbell. He hoped Mary could take care of whoever it was. His long visit with the Costellos had tired him. That was another problem: a lack of stamina.
He heard Mary’s heels clicking toward his office, and his heart sank a little. Mary was well capable of handling most parish matters on her own. She would not subject him to visitors unless it was necessary. She was about to announce the arrival of someone she thought genuinely needed to meet with him.
Speculation ended as she appeared at the door and announced, rather sadly, he thought: “Lieutenant Tully to see you.”
Koesler nodded, thanked her, and waited for the lieutenant’s appearance.
Koesler had not seen or heard from Tully since that first day in the hospital. Tully’s companion at that time, Inspector Koznicki, had been back to look in on him a couple of times. It was possible that Tully was here for the same innocuous reason. But Koesler doubted it. Wincing all the way, he tucked his arm back into its sling.
“Still sore, eh?” Tully said, as he took the chair lately occupied by Carl Costello.
“Yeah,” Koesler said through clenched teeth.
“Have you thought any more about the other night … the shooting?”
How about that, thought Koesler; not even a “How are you?”
“No, Lieutenant. In fact, I’ve sort of tried not to think about it. Although this arm kind of reminds me of it.”
“Well, try to remember it now,” Tully virtually commanded. “Can you remember seeing anyone at all in that area … besides Vespa, of course?”
“How come now, Lieutenant? Why didn’t you ask me in the hospital?”
“Couple of reasons. You were in real bad shape the morning after. And since then, some other things have surfaced that make it important for you to try to remember all you can.”
Koesler obediently tried to picture that night. “No, I didn’t notice anyone. I got there first, so I was looking for Guido Vespa. Since I was actually looking for him, I surely would have been aware if I’d seen anyone else. But even when he got there, I didn’t see him until he addressed me.”
“Did he come up from the rear?”
“Uh … yes.”
“Which way were you facing?”
“Lemmee see … away from the river, so … north.”
“The guy who shot Vespa and you: He wasn’t more than a few feet away. You didn’t see anyone, anything?”
Koesler tried especially hard to remember. As he used to do while trying to meditate in the seminary, he made an imaginary composition of place. He concentrated until that meeting came alive in his memory. It was so dark in that marketplace. There were no lights in any of the nearby structures. Few street lights were working. Even though his eyes had become accustomed to the dark, he could barely make out anything. He could hardly see Vespa. He saw Vespa’s outline. He couldn’t discern any of Vespa’s features. But he clearly recognized Vespa’s voice.
“Lieutenant, I barely saw Vespa. In fact, I couldn’t swear I actually did see him, it was so dark. I did recognize the voice though.”
“So you didn’t see anybody come up behind him while you were talking? Think carefully.”
“I am. I am.” Koesler tried to remember something he couldn’t remember. There was a theory that one could remember forgotten or suppressed details through hypnosis. However, he was not under hypnosis. He doubted it was even possible for him to be hypnotized. “No, I’m quite sure I didn’t see anybody else. You say the killer was only a few feet from us?”
Tully nodded.
“Boy! I don’t know why I didn’t see something. I think I may have been straining to pay close—singular—attention to Guido. It was as if I needed glasses to hear. I couldn’t make out his features, just his form, and the voice. I remember sort of leaning toward him to make certain I caught every word.”
“Did you know there is a tunnel underneath the market?”
“There is?” Koesler was astonished. “Imagine living my whole life in this city and not knowing about a tunnel under the market!”
“It’s possible the killer used the tunnel. But, let’s go on. The moment of the shooting—what about that?”
Koesler was too courteous to call an end to this interrogation. The last thing he wanted to remember was that moment that not only took a life but changed his future by, in effect, disabling him. But he dutifully thought back. “The noise was overwhelming. Everything happened so fast I’m having a difficult time trying to get it to go in slow motion. There was the noise, and Guido seemed to … uh … levitate for a second. Then, it was as if someone hit me in the shoulder, very hard, like with a baseball bat. I never fell so fast or so hard in my life. Or if I did, I was a lot younger and in lots better shape.”
“Okay,” Tully said, “now this is important: What about the sound of the gun?”
“I told you: It was loud—ear-shattering.”
“No, I mean the way the gun was fired—the cadence. Do you have any idea how many shots were fired?”
“Wait a minute.” Koesler thought. “Six … yes, six.”
“How do you know?”
“They came in bursts of three. Two bursts. Like, bang-bang-bang, very close together. Then another bang-bang-bang.”
Tully wore one of his rare smiles. “That ties it.”
“What?”
“Father, you remember the shooting death of that religion writer for the News?”
“Sure, of course: Hal Salden.”
“Interestingly enough, you and Vespa were shot with the same gun that killed Salden.”
“No! How did you … ?”
“A hunch. I was investigating the Salden case, so I was familiar with the weapon and the type of bullet used. It was the same as the one used on you and Vespa. The distance was roughly the same, just a few feet away. A couple of bystanders were hit by slugs that passed through Salden. And you, of course, were hit by one of the slugs that went through Vespa. That kind of gun and ammunition is not all that common. And, finally, what started me thinking about a possible connection was religion.”
“Religion?!”
“He was a religion writer and you’re a priest. Probably no one thing got my attention, but when you put them all together. … The killer even set the machine pistol to fire in bursts of three in both shootings.”
Koesler scratched his head. “Boy! Isn’t that incredible? The same person in both shootings.”
“The same gun,” Tully corrected. “And we’re going on the theory that the gunman was the same too.”
“But why? I mean, what does that do to the premise that whoever shot Guido was the same person who gave him the contract?”
“Really messes it up. But we can’t wish it away. It’s reality. There has to be some connection between Vespa and Salden.”
“Could Hal Salden have found out about the threat to Father Keating’s life? That could explain the need to kill Salden.”
“Maybe. If that’s true, that might be the reason Salden was killed several days before Keating disappeared. If Salden learned about the contract, or even suspected it, he could have warned Keating and the guy wouldn’t have walked into what must’ve been a trap.
“Keating drove into the city. Maybe the bookies arranged the meeting. Maybe they told him they were gonna work out something where he could pay it off. It seems pretty sure the guy walked into it blind. He couldn’t’ve had any idea they were gonna kill him or he’d never have gone. If Salden got wind of it, he could’ve screwed the whole deal by warning Keating.
“But, as of now,” Tully summed up, “that’s all guesswork. We gotta get the facts. What really happened with Salden and why?” Tully looked searchingly at Koesler. “I know you’re not feeling too great just now. But every bit of time that goes by means we have less and less chance of breaking this thing. So, would you mind going with me to the News? I want you to look at something. Maybe it’ll mean more to you than it did to me.”
“Oh, Lieutenant, I don’t think—”<
br />
“It’s what’s in Salden’s CRT—his notes. Remember? That’s the outside connection: You’re a priest and he was the religion writer.”
They had him again! He also realized that during the Costello visit and now during this conversation with Tully, his injury hadn’t bothered him noticeably. It probably helped to be distracted. Trying to help the police might be just what the doctor ordered.
Koesler agreed to go, asking for a few minutes to make sure all the day’s pastoral matters were covered.
22
Pat Lennon arrived in the city room a little late and breathless. This was shaping up as a day of frustration if not downright disaster.
She’d had an appointment with the city councilman who was the swing vote on whether the mayor would get his long-awaited wish for his private airplane. First, the guy was more than an hour late for the appointment. Then he claimed he hadn’t yet made up his mind. The vote was scheduled for this afternoon. If he had come through, as he had promised, she would have had a dandy page-one scoop. The guy knew damn well what his vote would be, she was sure of that. He was just too chicken to tell her.
Added to that, she was not feeling at all well. She had awakened—a bit late—with a migraine. Groggily, she had neglected immediate medication, and now the monster was evading her control.
Added to that, Joe Cox had called last night. He stated—he did not ask or say, he stated—that he would be coming to see her this weekend.
It wasn’t that she’d had anything scheduled. But where did he get off issuing ultimatums like a victorious general! During the disagreeable conversation, he only thinly disguised the fact that he had read the item in DeVere’s column, which undoubtedly a “friend” had sent him.
Lennon, in no uncertain terms, told Cox that if he insisted on coming there would be no one- nor, for that matter, two-night stand. And he could stay elsewhere, since he would not be welcome at what had been their downtown apartment.
In all, she was already in a mood most foul when she became aware that something was amiss. Someone was in the city room who shouldn’t be. And that someone was where she shouldn’t have been,
Body Count Page 24
