Body Count

by William Kienzle

  But five grand? Why five grand? Risking a comfortable career and total security for a measly five thousand dollars? Why? Unless Koesler’s hunch gelled and there was something phony about those companies that were being checked out even as he paced.

  Come to think of it, hell was too good for the bastard.

  Dunstable, waiting for his answers, sat in Keating’s oversize chair, opened the top ledger, and began feeding figures into the computer, while giving free rein to imaginative next-world punishments for his deceased former friend.

  Mitchell pondered possible parishes to which he might flee.

  Tully crossed to the couch and sat alongside a brooding Father Koesler. The two sat in silence for several minutes.

  Without looking at him, Koesler said, finally, “You know, Lieutenant, I’ve been thinking …”

  Tully waited.

  “What if,” Koesler spoke loudly enough for only Tully to hear, “what if it turns out that Father Keating was somehow profiting from one or more of these companies? I’ve been sitting here wondering, ‘what if.’ I’ve been trying to figure out why he’d do such a thing. But then, why would he have charged Dunstable five thousand dollars when he knew the whole thing was covered by the archdiocese? To help cover his gambling debts?

  “It doesn’t make much sense unless … unless I’ve been missing the point all along. Unless I’ve been just plain wrong.”

  Tully still said nothing. It was Koesler’s ball game. If he’d been wrong before, perhaps now he’d be on target. Whatever was happening was happening in the priest’s analytical mind. Tully wasn’t as interested in the process as in the product.

  “When I was telling you about John Keating’s history, as well and as completely as I could,” Koesler said, “I didn’t tell you about how Jake once invested deeply in the stock market and lost a bundle. But it happened.”

  Tully nodded without comment. He would go along with Koesler’s premises.

  “From that I drew the conclusion that he was a poor gambler and that his tendency to gamble and lose eventually led to the gambling debts he built up recently. It was those debts, after all, that led to his murder at the hands of an assassin who had a contract to kill him.

  “Well, maybe. But maybe not …

  “I’m thinking now about that single instance when Jake in effect stole—dear God, I hate to even use that word—but, yes, stole five thousand dollars from Eric Dunstable. That was not a gamble. That was a sure thing. Well, what if Jake somehow profited from the use of these companies? Now we don’t know that he did; all we have to go on at the moment is that they’re unfamiliar to me.

  “But what if he did profit from them? It wouldn’t have been gambling. It would have been a sure thing.”

  Koesler fell silent again. He seemed to be weighing the conclusion he’d just reached.

  “So,” Tully said finally, “where are you going with this?”

  “Oh …” It was as if he’d wakened Koesler.”… just this: If what I just suggested turns out to be true, then I drew exactly the wrong conclusion about his stock market experience. The loss he suffered there wasn’t a symptom of an untreated disease he should have taken to Gamblers Anonymous. Rather it was a lesson he’d learned: Don’t gamble. You’re not good at it. Go for the sure thing.”

  Tully’s brow was well knit. “But Vespa told you …”

  “Yes, Vespa told me, in that pivotal confession … the confession that started all this. The confession that Vespa was paid to make.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Koesler continued as if Tully had not spoken. “This new line of thought seems to be opening my memory. I mean my memory of what happened at Eastern Market the night Guido Vespa and I were shot.”

  “We’ve been over that.” Indeed they had, and Tully felt they had milked it for all it was worth.

  “I think,” Koesler persisted, “I was so shocked that his confession had been faked that I lost the other things he said that night. The simulated confession seemed all that was important. Now, in the light of what I’m thinking, I can recall quite clearly what else he said. It wasn’t much. He had just begun to tell me what he really wanted to confess when we were shot.”

  “Okay,” Tully said, “this is important. Try to get it all.”

  “The first thing I told him was that I’d been at the church when they opened Clem Kern’s coffin that day. And Guido wanted to know how Father Kern had looked.”

  Tully shook his head.

  “I know it’s inconsequential. I just mention that to show that my memory of what happened and what he said is quite clear now.

  “After his question as to Clem’s appearance, he told me about the confession having been a fake. That’s the point at which my memory has pulled up short until now. But there was more.

  “When he told me the confession was a fraud, I got angry and questioned whether he even had any sort of contract. He swore he did.”

  “Don’t you sort of wonder now,” Tully asked, “when Vespa was lying and when he was telling the truth?”

  “No. Not then and not now. He seemed to know he was on borrowed time. He’d told whoever gave him this contract that he was going to make a clean breast of it to me. Lieutenant, what he said to me that night was as good as a deathbed confession.”

  “Okay, good enough.”

  “He charged himself with what his grandfather later complained of—getting too cute—in this case, by adding the fiction that he’d buried Keating’s body with Clem Kern.

  “But the most important thing he said, as it turns out now, was the last thing—the last words he spoke in this life.” Koesler paused, either for effect or in an effort to get Vespa’s last words exactly.

  Tully said nothing.

  “Vespa’s last words to me were, ‘And that ain’t all—’ And then the shots rang out and he was dead.”

  “‘And that ain’t all …’ So what’s it mean?” Tully asked.

  “What was left?” Koesler answered with a question. “He had dissected everything he had originally told me in that bogus confession except one thing, the essence of the whole thing: the fact that he had actually killed Father Keating.”

  “What?”

  “Grant you now that this whole premise rests on what we discover about those companies that are being checked out. But the way things would stand depending on those companies would be that Guido Vespa got a contract that called for nothing but the deceiving confession. That’s it. No burial with another priest. And most of all—no murder.”

  “No murder!” A novel concept to Tully. “It might make sense if Keating stood to make a bundle and then blew the scene. It all seems to depend on—”

  The phone sounded once; paper began to feed out of the fax machine.

  Dunstable immediately stood and began a silent reading of what was being sent from his office. As he continued reading, his expression intensified to half smile, half sneer. “Well, Father Koesler,” he said, “it seems your suspicions were right on target. Nothing, nothing, nothing: Each and every one of these companies you questioned never amounted to anything. Not only were they nothing when they were incorporated, but several years back they stopped sending in annual reports. As a result, their charters were canceled. They are now nonactive corporations.”

  “What does that mean?” Koesler asked.

  “Anyone can incorporate. It’s a legal process that sets up a company. The company doesn’t necessarily have to do or accomplish anything or provide any sort of service. It’s just a sort of legal fiction. They’re also referred to as ‘shells’… ” He looked at Koesler and Tully in turn. “… empty shells.”

  Instantly, Tully and Koesler looked at each other. “Shells,” Tully repeated. “Just what Salden had in his computer: ‘shells! look into … trace down! could be key!’”

  “Just so,” said Koesler. “And the ‘K’ at the bottom of that note: Keating. We’ll never know, since the poor man is gone, but probably that ‘K’ on the female Episc
opal rector item did stand for the baseball designation of strikeout. But I’ll bet the ‘shells’ belonged to Keating.

  “But,” Koesler looked at Dunstable, “did Father Keating profit from these shell companies?”

  “Oh, I’d say so,” Dunstable replied. “While we were waiting, I just did a little computing of what the parish paid these companies over the years. In excess of two million dollars! And since we don’t really know how many more of these ‘shell’ companies there are on the parish books, it may go even higher. After all, we only checked the ones you questioned. There may be more.”

  “But did Father Keating have access to them?” Koesler asked.

  Dunstable snorted. “I’d say so. A John Keating is listed as president and vice president of each of these companies.”

  “The only slight gamble he took,” Tully said, “was that somebody might get suspicious and check into these companies. But that, especially since he was a priest, was really no gamble at all.”

  “That’s right,” Dunstable agreed. “And I can speak as the prime patsy. I don’t know how many times I and the parish council and the finance committee checked these billings. It never occurred to any of us that we were paying bills of nonexistent companies. And he knew the books wouldn’t be audited until he was transferred from this parish. They wouldn’t be audited even now, even though he was missing, if it hadn’t been for Father Koesler.”

  “Something else comes to mind,” Koesler said. “I wonder if John would be content with nothing more than the money from these shell companies.”

  “There’s more?” Tully asked.

  “I was just thinking of the five thousand dollars he took from Mr. Dunstable. It seems to me his avarice was so insatiable, he would stop at nothing.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “The collections. This is an extremely wealthy parish. I would guess the weekly collections would average about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars.” He looked to Dunstable, who nodded and said, “That’s in the ballpark.”

  “So,” Koesler continued, “there was lots and lots of money to play with. You kept all the money in the parish account at the local bank?”

  Again Dunstable nodded.

  “The chancery doesn’t like that,” Koesler said. “They’d rather we banked with the chancery. But with a parish like St. Waldo’s, they wouldn’t insist. My thought is that he would give you full credit for what you gave in the collections, but he’d spread the money out wherever he wished and still have plenty to pay legitimate bills. John, I believe, handled the weekly collection pretty much by himself?”

  Mitchell nodded.

  “So,” Koesler continued, “no one actually knew exactly how much money there was except John. He could write checks on accessing accounts without question.” He pointed to an account listed in the ledger. “This, for instance: ‘The Youth Apostolate Fund.’ I’ve never heard of anything like that. My suspicion is that this and/or other funds might have been tampered with. John could put lots and lots of money pretty well anywhere he wanted.”

  Dunstable looked deflated. “He kept such good records. We professionals admired—admired—his financial professionalism. He was so good at using Treasury bills and commercial accounts. He was good, all right; he didn’t even a normal embezzler has.

  “One thing seems certain, gentlemen: Father Keating is not lost, kidnapped, or harmed in any way. He is alive and well and very well off somewhere.”

  Only Fathers Koesler and Dunn, Inspector Koznicki, and Lieutenant Tully knew of Guido Vespa’s “confession.” Thus, everyone else, including Dunstable, had never operated under the “knowledge” that Keating had been killed. Thus it was somewhat easier for Dunstable to conclude that Keating was alive. By now, there wasn’t much doubt in Koesler and Tully’s minds either.

  “Then,” Koesler said, “the murders! Hal Salden and Guido Vespa! Keating?”

  “Maybe.” Tully’s mind was now operating in leaps and bounds, “But that would be pretty tricky for him to pull off. There’s always the chance of recognition. He got his picture in the papers and on TV often enough. Then there’s the crime itself. Murder One is a long step from embezzlement. Maybe. But I’d like to find an accomplice. Somebody with as much to gain as Keating. But somebody who would go for the jugular.”

  “Well,” Dunstable consulted the fax again, “here’s a nominee … although I haven’t the slightest idea who she is.” He handed the sheet to Tully, pointing out the recurring name on the shell companies.

  “Sally Dean,” Tully read. “Each and every company lists as officers John Keating as president and vice president and Sally Dean as secretary and treasurer. Sally Dean,” He looked at the others, “Who the hell is Sally Dean?”

  It was evident no one in the room knew. But suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Mitchell opened it and four men were startled to address four women: a cook, a secretary, and two reporters—Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee,

  25

  What in hell—?!”

  “You’d probably find out in time who Sally Dean is,” Lennon said, “but we can save you a lot of that time and trouble.”

  “How in hell—?!” Tully was not having much luck in completing a sentence.

  “… did we get in? Pringle here makes one hell of a good impression,” Lennon said. “She was in the kitchen here a while back when you gentlemen were investigating the disappearance of Father Keating. You may remember seeing her, Lieutenant, and” —she turned to nod at Koesler—” Father Koesler, when you were hurrying out the back door.”

  “Yes,” Tully said, “oh, yes. But how in hell—?”

  “… did we know you were trying to find out who Sally Dean is?” Pat gestured toward the secretary, who suddenly seemed extremely uneasy. “Well, you see,” the secretary fumbled, “when I brought refreshments in here just before you started your meeting, I must have—by accident—hit the intercom button, and …”

  Dunstable glanced at the console. The tiny red light was lit. He nodded to the others: The intercom was on. The four women—of prime concern the two reporters—had heard everything. Well, not everything, but at least everything that had been said at or near the desk.

  Had the women overheard, Koesler wondered, what he had said to Tully regarding Vespa’s confession? It was most unlikely. No one else in the room could have heard that conversation. And they had been seated on the couch, a goodly distance from the intercom.

  “Okay, okay,” Tully said, “the damage is done. So who the hell is Sally Dean?”

  “Sally Dean,” Lennon said, “used to work in this town, but not very well. She left town and years later came back with a remade body but unfortunately the same mind. Now she writes under the name of Lacy DeVere.”

  “The gossip columnist?” Koesler said. He’d thought the name Sally Dean rang a bell; now he vaguely recalled her byline from the past.

  “Lacy DeVere, the gossip columnist,” Lennon affirmed. “This explains a lot, most of which you have no way of knowing.”

  “You gonna tell us?” Tully said.

  “How about a bargain?” Lennon proposed. “Pringle and I get this story on a first-day exclusive, and you get some interesting details on Lacy DeVere.”

  “Done.” It was both a good and a fair deal. All it involved was slightly delaying a press conference in return for promising details that these two reporters alone might have.

  “Okay.” Lennon began ticking off those details.

  “One: Lacy’s column contained the first intimation that Keating had been a victim of foul play and might be dead. She was first on that bandwagon because at the time there was no logical reason to suspect anything like that had happened to him. At the time, he was a missing person, nothing else. If he had turned up alive—and at the time, odds were that he would—she would have had a lot of crow to eat. But having him appear to be dead apparently is what they wanted. So he could run off with the money. And thanks to some clever planning, no one would be the wise
r.

  “Two: Hal Salden did discover the bones of what was about to happen. From what’s been said in here today, that’s what those notes in his basket were all about. Hal discovered the shell companies. This was even before Keating ‘disappeared.’ Hal could have blown the whole scheme out of the water. So he had to be killed. My guess is that Lacy did it.

  “Three: This is the murky part. The wounding of Father Koesler here seems to have gotten you back on the case. So the wounding had to be a result of the investigation. My guess is that Guido Vespa somehow learned about the plot, maybe got involved in it, was going to tell the father about it—maybe to ease his conscience—and he was killed and Father was wounded. Again, my guess is Lacy did it.

  “And four: Yesterday, just before you got to the News to look at Hal’s CRT, Lacy was there for the same purpose. Why would she do that unless it was for the same purpose? She wanted to find out if Hal had entered anything about his investigation and suspicions.”

  “Then why didn’t she kill the stuff about shell companies?” Tully asked.

  “My guess is she would have but she never got the chance. Pringle didn’t give her the password. And just after she started fooling with the machine, I came in and threw her out.”

  Tully counted this one of the best bargains he’d ever made, especially with anyone from the media. “Lemmee ask you: Why do you feel so strongly that the DeVere woman did the shootings?”

  “Easy,” Pat said. “She’s notorious for doing anything—anything— to get what she wants.”

  “Even murder?”

  “She could do it without blinking. And I think Keating blew this scene about the time he was reported missing. I think Keating found just the person to carry out the dirty end of the deal.”

  “For love or money?” Tully wondered. “Was theirs just a business arrangement—or more?” He scratched his chin. “Either way, for her to try to get into Salden’s machine, they must have felt their world was falling apart.”