Kane surveyed the city room. All the staffers seemed busy, some programming into the VDTs, others on the phone. With one notable exception: Seated two desks removed from Kane was Joe Cox, reading a book.
“Yeah,” Kane said conspiratorially, “I’ve got somebody loose.
“Cox.” Kane growled just loudly enough for the reporter to hear.
Cox closed the book and circled to Kane’s desk. He received the assignment, returned to his desk, and picked up his notepad. He started to leave, then turned back to Kane. “Did you say the priest’s name was Koesler?”
“Yeah, Koesler. Why?”
“Nothing. It just seems that every year or so we keep running into him.”
As Father Ward came around the bend in the corridor, he saw three men silhouetted outside the door to his suite. From a distance they did not appear very large. But, as he neared them, he realized it was because all of them Were so very near the same height that none appeared outstanding. Close-up, they were.
Koesler made the introductions. Ward led them to the spot in the hallway where the assault had taken place and told the story in his characteristic unemotional manner. Then it was question and answer time.
“Let me get this straight, Father,” said Lieutenant Harris. “Why were you carrying a skull?”
Father Ward looked at the tall, well-dressed black detective appraisingly. “It was for my class. A prop for my class on Hamlet.”
“I thought I’d heard everything”—Harris could scarcely conceal his amusement—“but I never heard of a mugger attacking somebody who was carrying a skull. In this dark hallway and on Halloween, it must have scared the sh-- pants off him.”
“Well,” said Koznicki, “it seems to have confused him sufficiently to have caused him to fail.
“You say he escaped down this staircase, Father?”
Ward nodded.
“He seems to have planned his attack with a handy escape route in mind,” Harris observed.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Koesler interrupted, “but did you say ‘mugger’? Aren’t we talking about attempted murder?”
“We don’t know yet what we’re talking about,” Harris replied. “It could be an attempted mugging or attempted murder… or”—he shook his head—“possibly even a Halloween prank that went awry.”
“But you will continue your investigation?” Koesler persisted anxiously.
“For the time being at least,” Koznicki replied. “This patch of floor where the attack occurred”—he indicated the spot—“it has been mopped?”
A large clean area where the men were standing was framed by a thin layer of dust that ran the length of the corridor in both directions.
“I did fall down,” Father Ward cast about for some explanation, “and I had to struggle to get to my feet.”
“No, this area is too large for just your activity, and it seems well scrubbed,” said Koznicki. He turned to Harris. “Have them look into this, will you, Ned?”
“Sure thing.”
“And the knife used in the attack, Father; where is it now?” Koznicki asked.
“In my apartment.”
“We will take it with us and see if there are any fingerprints on it. Other than yours, Father.” Koznicki seemed disappointed at the dearth of evidence.
The four turned to go back to Father Ward’s suite.
“Well,” Harris said, as a figure appeared at the end of the corridor, “it wouldn’t be the scene of a crime without the presence of the press.”
“The press!” Ward was startled.
“That is the bad news, Father,” said Koznicki. “The good news is that this is Joe Cox, one of the more competent reporters in the city. If your story must be told, better it be told accurately.”
As the reporter approached, Koznicki made a mental note to find out just who or what had put Cox on the trail so quickly.
“Just give him your story as we walk along,” Harris advised Father Ward. “Hopefully you’ll be finished with him by the time we leave.”
“Leave?”
“Yes, Father. We would like you to come to headquarters and enter a preliminary complaint report,” Koznicki explained. “It will take only a short time.”
“I don’t understand all this fuss,” said Ward. “After all, nobody was hurt.”
Joe Cox was wrapping up his report to Nelson Kane on the attempted knifing.
“Do you want to go with it?” Cox concluded.
“Sure. Give me eight or nine ‘grafs. We’ll tuck it inside Section A somewhere. Hang it on the ‘Is nothing sacred?’ hook.
“Any idea who did it?”
“None.”
“Motive?”
“Not yet. But Harris said one guess could be robbery.”
“Not a bad guess for that neighborhood.” Kane knew the characteristics of the various sections of Detroit as well as anyone in the city. “Strange place, actually,” Kane reflected. “Used to be heavily Jewish. In fact, at one time there was a synagogue kitty-cornered from the seminary. Now the neighborhood’s almost completely black, but an odd mixture. A lot of wealthy blacks on the boulevards—Chicago and Boston. Very few middle-class in the neighborhood. Most of the rest—white or black—are dirt poor. Almost everybody’s got weapons. B and Es and armed robbery are a way of life there.”
Cox was mildly surprised at the city editor’s rambling discourse. Kane rarely used two words if he could think of one, especially when his audience was a staff writer who had just been ordered to write eight or nine paragraphs on deadline. Cox’s surprise mounted slightly because Kane was not finished with his off-the-cuff assessment of the crime and its scene.
“Yeah, robbery would be a good guess. Especially when the victim is a parish priest. All the seminary priests are diocesan. And all muggers know that parish priests do not take a vow of poverty.” Kane tucked tongue firmly in cheek: “Now, if the guy had mugged a Jesuit at U. of D., all he’d have got was a bag of golf clubs… and they would have belonged to the order.”
Cox was uncertain whether to laugh or gravely agree. Instead, he asked a question. “When did you become a talking encyclopedia on priests?”
“I’m a Catholic. Born and raised. Even parochial school,” Kane acknowledged.
This exposition genuinely surprised Cox. “I’ll be damned. All these years I never knew you were Catholic. You mean you actually go to church?”
“Every goddamn Sunday.”
Cox departed to deposit in the VDT eight or nine paragraphs that would speak to such vital points as who, what, why, when, where, and how.
“Sporting Goods,” blinked the neon sign atop the unpretentious building. Another sign, this one hand-painted and mounted in the front window, read, “Gun Shop.” The store was empty of customers. It was near closing time.
For the past quarter of an hour, a man had been standing outside, looking through the window, studying the interior. Finally, with but a few minutes till closing, he entered. He made his way directly to the “Gun Shop” at the rear of the store, where he proceeded to study a limited variety of handguns in the display case.
“May I help you?” The clerk would not have approached a customer this quickly except that it was so near closing time.
“I... I want to buy some bullets.”
The clerk noted the man was approximately five-feet-five, with a rather high-pitched voice.
“What kind of bullets?”
“For a gun.”
The clerk sighed. “What kind of gun?”
“What?”
“Is it an automatic or a revolver?”
“I’m not sure.”
The clerk pointed to an automatic—“Does it look like this?”—then to a revolver, “or this?”
“Like that.” The man indicated the revolver. In gesturing, he tipped over a full ashtray. Cigarette and cigar butts and ashes cascaded over the counter onto the floor.
The clerk sighed again.
“Sorry,” said the man.
&nb
sp; “It’s O.K.,” said the clerk without the slightest sincerity. “What caliber?”
“What?”
For less than two cents, the clerk would have shot him.
“Oh, caliber.” Comprehension lit up the man’s eyes. “Just a minute.” He left the counter and moved to the pay phone on the nearby wall. He fumbled with a change purse, extricated two dimes, and put them in the slot. He again delved into the purse, displacing several coins, which dropped on the floor. As they rolled in several directions, the man seemed to be performing an odd dance. Finally, he succeeded in stepping on one of the errant coins, picked it up, and inserted it in the slot.
Shooting was too good, the clerk decided. The store stocked ropes and knives. Perhaps hanging, drawing, and quartering….
The man returned. “.38 caliber,” he ordered.
“Very good.”
In a few more moments, prolonged somewhat by the man’s attempts to corral his change, dump the coins into his change purse, and stuff the bills into his wallet, the sale was completed.
The clerk, teeth clenched, locked the door after his departed customer, cleaned up the ashtray debris, and hammered a punching bag for a few minutes. He did not want to carry all this pent-up rage home to his wife.
In 1960, ground was broken for Cardinal Mooney Latin School. In 1965, the Second Vatican Council was concluded. In 1967, Detroit experienced fearsome riots that resulted in forty-three deaths, extensive looting, and the burning of wide areas of the black ghetto to the ground.
The three events bore an odd correlation for Detroit’s Catholic community.
In the early sixties, seminary enrollment continued to climb. Not realizing it had crested in Detroit, the archdiocese erected a separate high school building on the campus of Sacred Heart Seminary. This was in addition to the mammoth structure which for nearly half a century had been more than sufficient to house the seminary’s high school and college students. Also at this time, serious consideration was given to building a second gymnasium.
In the middle sixties, Vatican Council II was convoked by Pope John XXIII and concluded by Pope Paul VI. Among the many consequences of the Council was that for the first time in centuries, Catholics were encouraged, or at least permitted, to question Church doctrines, morality, and law. Prior to this, Catholics, including the clergy and religious, had been expected to learn, not question. Change was everywhere—most notably in the ancient Latin liturgy, which now was permitted in the vernacular. As one thoughtful conservative observed at the introduction of the vernacular, “Change one word of that Latin Mass and the whole thing will fall apart.” He may have been right.
In any case, one of the most prominent phenomena of the postconciliar Church was the return to lay life of thousands of priests and nuns. These left a vocation which hitherto had been unfailingly lifelong, if not eternal. Concurrently, the number of young Catholics entering the seminary or convent began to decline dramatically.
In 1967, the area surrounding Sacred Heart Seminary erupted in a riot that in less than a week spread to other areas and drastically changed the character of the city. Gangs, spawned or emboldened during the riot, began to escalate terrorism. Young white boys were mugged while waiting for buses near the seminary. The area was no longer safe for blacks or whites. The blacks who lived there could not afford to leave. Whites who had a choice decided, in great numbers, not to travel into trouble from their enclaves on the fringes of the city or from the suburbs.
Each of these factors, singly or in conjunction, contributed toward leading Detroit to near missionland status.
These factors also helped explain why the two detectives assigned to this case by Lieutenant Harris had a much easier time than they had anticipated. They did have to interrogate thirty-eight students. But, though thirty-eight was not an insignificant number, it was far less than the hundreds they might have expected.
Each of the students could account for his whereabouts at the time of the attack on Father Ward. Most had been at the Halloween party. Three had been in the infirmary. Several had gone home to be with their families.
Sergeant Marge Morris, an attractive black woman, and Sergeant Dean Patrick, a salt-and-pepper-haired white veteran, were nearing the end of the second day of this investigation. Both were members of Homicide Squad Six.
They were walking down the seminary corridor leading to the southeast wing, a two-story structure that once had served as convent and infirmary. With nuns no longer serving or residing in the seminary, the infirmary had been relocated and the building rented to two archdiocesan departments, the Hispanic Office and the Detroit Catholic, the archdiocesan newspaper.
The seminary department, once the raison d’être of the entire campus, had withdrawn into one small section of the building. A case of circling the wagons ever more tightly.
“Ever seen so many blind alleys?” Morris asked.
“Everybody’s got an alibi.” Patrick smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling into well-worn crow’s-feet.
“I’ve never seen a place like this, where everybody knows everybody.”
“One big, happy family.”
“Maybe not so happy.” Morris pointed to the door leading into the southeast wing. “One of them might have tried to murder that old priest.”
“Or not. It could just as easily have been someone from outside. It’s almost impossible to make this place secure, even with guards. My best count so far says there are nearly twenty outside doors, and hundreds of windows in both the basement and first floor. It’s a sieve.”
“That’s true. And this is a rough neighborhood. Did you see the record on this building over in the Tenth?”
“Yeah. These people don’t have to host an open house; most of the neighbors seem to have toured the place after breaking and entering.”
“On top of that”—Morris stepped back to allow Patrick to open the door—“the night of the attack the entire neighborhood actually had been invited in for the Halloween party.”
“Lots of suspects, huh?” Patrick smiled again.
“If we ever finish this internal investigation, we can check with the neighbors who were here for the party.”
“At least the ones who bothered to sign in.”
Morris raised her eyes heavenward, whence, she was growing certain, the next lead would have to come.
They decided to begin at the rear of the wing with the Detroit Catholic, and work forward to the Hispanic Office. Consulting their list, they determined that Irene Casey, the editor, would be the appropriate person with whom to begin.
They introduced themselves. Mrs. Casey seemed flustered. Most people were when meeting homicide detectives.
“How many employees do you have, Mrs. Casey?” Patrick asked.
“Let’s see, twelve, including me.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of any of them on the evening of Halloween last?” Experience prompted Morris to cut right to the heart of the matter.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, all of us were at the Halloween party.”
“All of you?”
“All of us.”
“Did anyone leave around 9:00 p.m.?”
“No, no one left at any time during the evening. All of us were here from beginning to end.”
Morris glanced heavenward once more. Still no singular help.
Outwardly, Father Phil Merrit was behaving no differently than any of the others of the seminary faculty. Each had put on a brave front. However, Merrit was frightened. He wondered how many others felt this fear.
The way he figured it, one of their number had been viciously, if unsuccessfully, attacked. And none of them could feel secure until Father Ward’s assailant was apprehended. From all he could learn, the police were getting nowhere in their investigation. And they had been at it for more than a week.
It was a few minutes past six on this November morning. The weathercaster had predicted another relatively mild day. Detroit’s winter had not yet gotten serious. It would.
<
br /> Merrit was readying himself for his regular trip to nearby Saint Gregory parish, where he would offer the 6:45 Mass, as he had for the past several years. Most of the priest-faculty assisted in parishes with daily Mass as well as weekend liturgies.
Merrit tried to distract himself from the disquieting thoughts of the attack on Ward. As he shaved, he considered the scene that would shortly greet him as he entered Saint Gregory’s.
Four or five pious souls would be scattered in various sections of the darkened church. In the sacristy to the right, where the priests vested for Mass, old Father Wonski, the pastor, would be yelling across the sanctuary toward the sacristy on the left, where three or four small boys would be either getting into their cassocks and surplices or fooling around. The shouted threats never changed. They were always in roughly the same vein.
“Hey, you boys over by that other sacristy there! How do you mean fooling around when there are the candles for you to light and the wine and water and the chalice over by the safe for you to get out and get over by the altar! Yes, and that includes you, Tyrone Jones, with your fooling around! Do you want to lose that mouth!”
Once, only once, Merrit had stayed after Mass to breakfast with Wonski. Merrit had requested a couple of poached eggs on toast. The housekeeper had served them on a plate that was superheated. The eggs, of course, had continued to cook aboard the hot plate. In consideration of the rubbery eggs, Merrit had decided on the spot he would never eat there again.
However, it was on that occasion that Wonski had confided in Merrit. He had given a brief history of his star-crossed ecclesiastical career. It seems that from the very beginning of his priesthood, the bishop had given him one rotten assignment after another. “Until, finally,” said Wonski, “I told the bishop to go to hell.”
“And,” Merrit replied in jest, “did he?”
“No,” said Wonski, “he sent me.”
To know all is to forgive all.
Bundled against the cold of even this mild November day, Merrit descended to the first floor whence he would exit through the back door, descend two short flights of steps to ground level and enter his car parked nearby.
Assault with Intent Page 3