Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  “None that I’m aware of. They seem to confide in him. He probably knows more about what goes on here than the entire faculty put together. He will make a fine priest.”

  As Koesler’s gaze turned from the young man in question to his tablemate, for the first time he noticed a slight bruise on Ward’s forehead, as well as a skew in his eyeglass frame.

  “Say,” Koesler’s tone was clearly solicitous, “what happened to you, Father? Didn’t walk into a door, did you?”

  Ward flushed slightly. He did not enjoy being the center of attention. Almost apologetically, he recounted his hairy Halloween adventure.

  “Have you told anyone about this?” Koesler asked.

  “Well, no. I didn’t want to bother anyone. After all, nothing really happened. That is, no one was seriously hurt.”

  “Seriously hurt! Why, it sounds like an attempt at murder!”

  Ward hesitated, as if weighing his words. “I am not afraid to die,” he said finally.

  Koesler reflected that anyone who could make such a statement after having come so close to a violent death must sincerely mean it.

  “Supposing,” Koesler offered, “whoever attacked you did not intend you to be his victim? Suppose he was just waiting in the hall for anyone who came along? Suppose he tries it again? Suppose he actually kills someone?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  Koesler was reluctant to invade this very private man’s life, but was genuinely shocked that anyone would attack a harmless old priest.

  “You have no idea who it was?”

  “No, none. There was so little light. I couldn’t see very well. And then when my glasses fell off…”

  “Is there anyone who might have a grudge against you? Or against any other faculty member that you know of?”

  “A grudge? No, I can’t think of anyone. Of course,” he hesitated, “there are always students who become angry with their teachers. But that has been going on since the first lesson ever taught. And there are employees who are angry at the way they are treated or because they are dismissed. But I know of no one who bears me a grudge.

  “Of course,” another slight pause, “I can’t speak for any of the others on the faculty.”

  “Well,” Koesler prodded, “has anything like this happened before? I mean, to you, or to others, to your knowledge? Angry words? A threatening gesture? Anything this side of a physical attack?”

  Ward reflected. “No. I don’t believe so. No, nothing that would hint at violence.”

  Koesler, normally slow to jump to conclusions or act precipitately, was clearly concerned.

  “Frankly, Father, I’m worried. Someone lay in wait for you—or at least for some faculty member. Someone armed with a lethal weapon. His attack was unprovoked. It’s likely he would have actually killed you but for a series of extraordinary accidents. Whoever this character is, he’s obviously got a problem, and he’s still out there—and he very well might try again.

  “I think we should go to the police about this,” Koesler concluded. “Would you mind, Father, if I contacted them in your behalf?”

  “If you think it best, Father …all right.” Again the elderly priest hesitated. “There wouldn’t have to be any publicity, would there?”

  “I don’t think so. I have a few friends on the force; I’ll ask them to keep it as quiet as possible.”

  With that, Koesler excused himself and set out for downtown Detroit and police headquarters. He feared that no one at Sacred Heart Seminary was safe with what might well be a homicidal maniac on the loose.

  2

  Father Koesler sat on a bench in the hall on the fifth floor of police headquarters. His mind wandered in a stream of consciousness. There were times he was convinced he had mastered the art of daydreaming.

  He wondered where the city had found these uncomfortable wooden benches that were distributed throughout the building. He could think of no source other than some church that had decided to be kind to its parishioners and replace its pews with something more comfortable. A blunder. A decided blunder. He visualized a series of men and children in the congregation drifting off to sleep. Women, in Koesler’s experience, seldom went to sleep in church. From time to time he wondered how they managed that.

  A large, well-dressed black man strode by. He wore a plasticized police department I.D.; Koesler assumed he was a detective. The man glanced at Koesler in passing. He carried a dark attaché case. On it was engraved, in gold, the single name, “Tibbs.”

  Koesler pondered that. He had seen two movies in which Sidney Poitier had portrayed a brilliant police detective named Tibbs. Koesler decided the Detroit officer must be kidding. Here was a clear indication that even members of the Homicide Division had a sense of humor.

  Gradually, Koesler became aware of a beehive of police and civilians passing to and fro. It was a busy and constant procession. It brought to mind a couple of observations he had made at Tiger Stadium.

  The first had been made many years before when it had fallen Koesler’s lot to chaperone his parish Boy Scout troop at a Tigers-Red Sox game. During the entire game, Koesler had sat sidesaddle while an endless series of little boys passed before him, en route to or from the restroom, souvenir seller, refreshment stand—or just to keep moving. At game’s end, he could not tell which team had won—though he was fairly certain Ted Williams had hit a couple of homers and had bunted successfully down the third-base line against the Williams shift.

  The second had occurred when he got a reserved seat at a subsequent Saturday afternoon game. Having experienced life in the left-field bleachers, now Koesler had an excellent vantage behind first base. He gazed for many minutes at the throng of youngsters in the bleachers. It resembled an anthill. At no time during the game was a majority seated. He thought he might have discovered the epitome of perpetual motion.

  Koesler was many months and some miles away when he became conscious of a massive man standing next to the bench, patiently awaiting the priest’s return from distraction land.

  “Father Koesler,” said a beaming Inspector Walter Koznicki, “how did you know my day was going so badly that I needed you to lighten it?”

  Koesler rose to greet the Inspector. Koznicki was one or two inches taller than the priest’s six-foot-three, but bigger-boned. Larger than life, while a cliché, aptly described Walter Koznicki.

  “Been having a particularly bad day?” Koesler asked as he was ushered into Koznicki’s busy office.

  “We’ve just found another murdered coed.” Koznicki was referring to a current series of homicides that was being spotlighted and graphically labeled by the news media, who had applied their own lurid epithet to the killings.

  “Are you sure this is another one of them?”

  “It’s ‘the Ripper’ all right. There’s no doubt.”

  Koesler knew better than to ask what the calling card might be that enabled the police to identify the work as that of the Ripper. That would be strictly a police affair, at least until the case was solved and closed.

  “But what brings you here, Father?”

  “I’m almost embarrassed to tell you. It seems inconsequential compared with the horrible death of that poor woman.”

  Koznicki waved his hand as if clearing his desk. “Perfectly all right, Father. We are geared to handle more than one investigation at a time.” He paused. “I assume you’ve come on a professional matter.”

  Koesler and Koznicki had become fast friends during several Detroit criminal investigations involving the Catholic community. Thus, the priest’s visit could well have been merely sociable, though this was unlikely in the headquarters setting.

  “Oh, yes,” Koesler hastened to assure. “In any case, I think I’ve come to the right place.”

  “If you have any doubt, Father, tell me what is on your mind and let me be the judge.”

  Koesler related the story Father Leo Ward had told a few hours before. During the narration, Koznicki sat back in his suit
ably large chair, fingers entwined over ample abdomen. Only his eyes, alert and occasionally darting from the desk surface to the priest’s face, betrayed his growing interest in and understanding of the matter.

  At length, Koesler concluded a fairly faithful rendition of the assault upon Father Ward and Yorick.

  “When did this happen, Father?”

  “A couple of evenings ago—Halloween, to be exact.”

  “And this has not been reported to date?”

  “No.” Koesler hesitated. It would have helped if Koznicki knew what sort of person Ward was. “You see, Father Ward is a most private person. It’s probably difficult to understand, but… he just didn’t want to be a bother to anyone.”

  “Be a bother!” Koznicki arched an eyebrow. For him, an emphatic expression. “Is it probable it could be one of the students?”

  “Father has no idea.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “There’s no way this could have been just a prank—a Halloween joke? You’re satisfied the attack was in earnest?”

  “I know only that Father Ward’s face is bruised; his eyeglass frame is bent… and that, according to Father Ward, who is not given to hyperbole, a dangerously sharp knife found itself embedded in the woodwork too near Father Ward’s head—a knife that, unlike the vision that Lady Macbeth imagined, is all too real.”

  The Inspector nodded, acknowledging the reality.

  “How is security at the seminary?”

  “Not bad, I suppose. There are guards day and night. They try to make sure the doors and windows are locked. But the neighborhood is so crime-ridden, and there are so many doors and windows accessible...” Koesler’s voice trailed off.

  “Well, Father, it seems we have something here that falls somewhere between felonious assault and attempted murder. It also seems that you are in the wrong place. This sort of investigation should at least begin at the precinct level.” Koznicki took a chart from his desk drawer. “Let me see—the corner of Chicago Boulevard and Linwood, isn’t it? Just on the fringe of the ’67 riot?”

  Koesler nodded.

  Koznicki’s searching finger settled on a spot adjacent to the map’s near west side. “That would be Precinct Ten. I know the officers; there are some excellent people there. I can give you a reference, make a phone call —”

  “I was hoping,” Koesler interrupted diffidently, “I mean ... I didn’t know whose jurisdiction this might fall under... I guess I just instinctively came here. It seems clear to me that someone tried to kill Father Ward. And you’re in charge of Homicide. And Father Ward is such a tender person. I was hoping you might see your way clear to…” Koesler’s voice trailed off. It was getting to be a habit.

  Koznicki smiled and waved his magic hand again. “Good friends need only to ask, Father. Of course we can handle it. If you will wait just a minute, I will call the precinct and inform them we are beginning this investigation. I think Lieutenant Harris is available. We will just get our coats and go right over with you.”

  “With me?”

  “Of course. We are about to begin an investigation that involves a seminary, the very hub of Catholic life. You have had more experience than most priests in the hows and whys Catholics murder or are murdered in Detroit. You surely do not want to be excluded from the investigation, do you?”

  “I certainly do. In the words of the late Sam Goldwyn, ‘Include me out.’ I want no part in another murder investigation. Or even an attempted-murder investigation. I’ll be glad to introduce you to Father Ward. But then I will head out to my rustic little parish where I will take care of the sacraments while you solve the crimes.”

  “That is too bad.” Koznicki smiled.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Lieutenant Harris will be so disappointed you are not part of the team.”

  “I’ll bet,” Koesler retorted, recalling Harris’ studied lack of enthusiasm over having a priest as excess baggage in a murder investigation. “I’ll just bet.”

  Father Phil Merrit almost literally steamed down the corridor. He stepped along at a brisk pace, puffing furiously on a cigarette, the hem of his cassock fluttering out behind him. His passage suggested that of an animated locomotive.

  Father Merrit hated afternoon classes. The students were groggy after a steady stream of morning classes followed by lunch. Added to that, afternoon was usually when his ulcer most pained him. Yet here he was, hurrying to a class in which he would try to teach English to a group of young men many of whom thought their ability to merely speak the language, however indifferently, entitled them to a passing grade.

  He passed through the doorway at the moment the bell sounded. Twin jets of smoke escaped his nostrils. He butted the cigarette in the ashtray on his desk. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…"

  Merrit led prayer as if he were angry with the Lord. But then the aura of anger was as mother’s milk to him.

  Prayer completed, the students sat down and quietly arranged their books and papers. There was little sense of frivolity in a Merrit-taught class.

  “Gentlemen.” Merrit’s square face appeared to compress as if it were a TV image and someone were fooling with the horizontal button. “Gentlemen ... eh ... eh ... I believe the assignment was to write a poem.”

  Rustling sounds as students searched through their papers for their homework. Several scrunched down, each hoping he would not be called to give a verbal report.

  “Eh… eh… Wygoski…”

  He had hit on one of the scrunchers.

  “... read your poem.”

  Herbert Wygoski stood reluctantly, clutching a paper that betrayed a slight tremor of his hands.

  “Eh… what’s the title of your poem, Wygoski?”

  “Taps Are Like the Sound of Night.’”

  A slight pause. “Eh… dammit, Wygoski, is it ‘Taps is’ or ‘Taps are’?"

  “Well, I suppose it’s ‘Taps is,’ but I thought ‘Taps are’ sounded better.”

  Another slight pause. “Eh… dammit, Wygoski, how far can poetic license go!” Obvious disgust. “Read the poem, Wygoski.”

  Wygoski read his two-stanza poem. An extended silence followed.

  “Gentlemen… eh… that was a perfect example of doggerel.” More disgust. “Sit down, Wygoski.”

  Red-faced, a thoroughly mortified Wygoski resumed his seat.

  And that bastard probably expects me to write another poem someday, he moped.

  “I will not speak with her,” Michael Totten read.

  Father Leo Ward did not mind afternoon classes. He also liked morning classes. By now, teaching was his life. Just a few more lines from Hamlet and he would euchre William Zimmer into reading the role of the mad Ophelia.

  “She is importunate, indeed distract;/Her mood will needs be pitied,” read Andrew Umberg.

  The students knew what Ward had in mind. They had been through similar setups too many times. They knew Zimmer was a particular favorite of Ward’s. But while Ward’s wrath could cut through a sluggard or laggard student, being among the brightest also had its drawbacks. The best and brightest were frequently singled out to prepare reports. Or they were singled out for outrageous roles such as that of the forthcoming mad Ophelia.

  “Let her come in,” read Totten.

  Reading the part of Ophelia would not embarrass Zimmer. He would do so with good grace. Father Ward had few enough gratifications. If Ward got his jollies by maneuvering Zimmer into the Ophelia role, the seminarian was willing to cooperate.

  “To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is,

  Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss

  So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

  It spills itself in fearing to be spilt, " Totten pressed on.

  It was time for Ophelia’s entrance. Going along with the mood, Wangler, as Horatio, walked over to escort Zimmer to center classroom. All—even Zimmer—but Ward smiled.

  At that mo
ment, a student knocked, entered the room, and gave Father Ward a message: Father Koesler and two police officers were waiting to see Father, now if possible.

  Drat! Ward hated to postpone Zimmer’s reading of Ophelia even for a day, but there was no helping it.

  “Study the next act,” he commanded. “Quietly,” he added.

  He hoped this would not take much time. After all, nobody had been hurt.

  Punctuated by static, the off-and-on drone of the police radio held all the charm of a dripping faucet. Brian Fogerty, one of the Free Press reporters assigned to police headquarters, was fighting slumber. He decided a stroll was the only way of averting going to sleep on the job.

  He started his tour on the third floor, where most of the police brass were. All present and accounted for. And nothing much going on. He climbed two flights to the fifth floor, where Homicide, among other departments, was located. Beginning, as was his wont, at the top, he checked Inspector Koznicki’s office. Nobody home.

  “Where’s Koznicki?” Fogerty asked an officer in the adjacent office.

  Fogerty, of course, was not interested in talking with Koznicki, just in his whereabouts. You never knew where an innocent question might lead.

  “He and Harris went with… uh, what’s his name… Koesler—Father Koesler. Seems someone tried to stab a priest at Sacred Heart Seminary.” It was an unusually comprehensive reply.

  Stab a priest, Fogerty pondered. That was a little out of the ordinary. He checked the seminary’s location. Precinct Ten. Using a nearby pay phone, he called the Tenth Precinct. No, no one there was investigating an attempted stabbing at the seminary. Odd, again.

  He decided to call his city desk.

  “Kane,” barked Free Press city editor Nelson Kane.

  Flatly, Fogerty reported what he had learned.

  “No record at the precinct, eh?”

  “None. Listen, Nellie, this may be a dead end. But there’s something else I want to check out here. And if you’ve got somebody loose there, you might want to cover this.”