Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  “In fairness,” said Koesler, “that was before I edited it.”

  “That,” said Martin, “was before you were born.”

  “In any case, Fitz died. It was the custom in those days to bury a priest with his chalice.”

  “With a chalice?” Smith marveled. “There must be a literal gold mine in priests’ burial plots.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Martin did not suffer interruptions lightly. “Anyway, when it came time to display him, the mortician couldn’t get Fitz’s hands to stay holding the chalice. His belly was too big. So, underneath the coffin lining they had to stuff something to prop up his arms so he could hold the chalice.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Smith: “Copies of the Detroit Catholic?”

  Martin nodded. “And so, Fitz and that ‘impediment to thought’ went off together into eternity.”

  Laughter.

  “Speaking of dead priests,” said Koesler, “have any of you heard the story of what happened after old Monsignor Vismara died years ago?”

  The three looked at him expectantly.

  “Well,” said Koesler, “some time after Vismara’s death, an elderly man stopped in at St. Elizabeth’s rectory and asked for Vis. The priest said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, but Monsignor Vismara died five years ago.’ And the old gentleman replied, Oh, thatsa too bad... he wasa my regular confessor.’”

  Laughter.

  They had finished their food, drunk their coffee and told their stories. They rose, said a brief prayer and strolled down the corridor to the front of the building. They reached the row of mailboxes and, routinely, each checked his box to see if there were any mail or messages.

  Koesler, with a puzzled expression, extracted a bottle of gin from his box.

  “Well,” exclaimed Martin, “a fifth of Beefeaters! Someone likes teacher inordinately.”

  “Any name with it?” Smith asked.

  “Not that I can see.” Koesler turned the bottle in his hand, examining it thoroughly.

  “How about it?” asked Burk. “Going to share the largess with your colleagues?”

  Koesler seemed lost in thought.

  “I think I’ll do us all a favor,” he said at length, “and give none of us a drink. See, here: The seal is broken.”

  Each in turn scrutinized the seal. It had indeed been broken and very carefully reglued. None of the three considered this sufficient reason not to have a drink.

  “Look,” Koesler continued, shaking the bottle slightly, “there’s some sediment.”

  Minute crystals danced near the bottom of the bottle.

  “I think,” Koesler concluded, “I’m going to ask the police to have this analyzed and see if we have something more than gin here.”

  The four, mesmerized, stared at the bottle as if it were about to do something. It did nothing. Even the crystals settled again.

  “In any case, you would have been a very, very sick man,” said Inspector Koznicki.

  The Inspector, Sergeants Morris and Patrick, and Father Koesler were seated in the living room of St. Anselm’s rectory. Koesler felt queasy. Not since his rather extensive career in amateur athletics had anyone tried to hurt him physically. But that had been man to man. Now, a faceless someone had tried to hurt him, possibly kill him. It was unsettling. The someone had failed, but the someone was still out there somewhere.

  As a priest, Koesler had been in the presence of death countless times. Frequently, because no one had thought to call a priest while the individual was merely ill, he was called to anoint a dead person. He also had been involved in the investigation of two series of murders—violent deaths. But it was a new ball game now that he himself had become a target.

  “You mean,” Koesler finally managed to stammer out, “this stuff wouldn’t have killed me?”

  “It could have,” Koznicki assured him, “but that is unlikely. You are a healthy man, so the result undoubtedly would not have been fatal. But if you had drunk that gin, you would have remembered these next few days for the rest of your life.”

  “Antabuse is a prescription drug,” Patrick explained. “It’s usually given to alcoholics to deter them from drinking. If they are taking this drug and they fall off the wagon, they get so very sick they may never try mixing the two again.”

  “But if it wouldn’t have killed me, why would anyone want to adulterate a perfectly good bottle of gin and slip it into my mailbox?”

  “That’s a good question,” Morris acknowledged. “But you see, a lot of people think Antabuse is lethal. It’s kind of routine for clinic directors or pharmacists or even doctors to exaggerate the effect of Antabuse—to try to frighten the user into staying on the wagon.”

  “Yes,” Patrick affirmed, “I’ve actually heard staff people at alcoholism centers do it. They’ll come right out with it to a patient—tell him if he dares take anything alcoholic it’ll kill him.”

  “There is the likely scenario, Father,” said Koznicki. “Probably your would-be poisoner was under the misconception that in mixing Antabuse with alcohol he was concocting a fatal dose. The intent was there. Thank God the attempt on your life failed.”

  Koesler mulled over the situation. There had been an apparent attempt on his life. In all probability, this was another in the recent series of assaults on the seminary faculty. But why would anyone assault Fathers Ward and Merrit and himself? If there were a common denominator in all this, he could not find it. He was baffled and bewildered.

  “I think, considered in the present light,” Koznicki said, “it would be good for you, Father, to reevaluate your position in this case.”

  “What?” Koesler’s contemplation was broken.

  “When we began this investigation,” Koznicki explained, “I invited your participation. We are, after all, at the threshhold of the inner sanctum, as it were, of the Catholic Church. The investigation is taking place within a seminary. Catholic priests are being assaulted. You have collaborated in previous police investigations where the Church was intimately involved. And your collaboration, I might remind you, has been most productive.”

  “You mean, do I want in on this one?”

  Koznicki nodded.

  “Yes. I’m already in. I might just as well try to discover who wants to kill me.” Even as Koesler committed himself, he shuddered.

  “But, how can he …?” Morris began to voice amazement that a priest should participate in a homicide investigation.

  “I’ll explain it all on our way back to headquarters.” Patrick had been among those police who had worked with Koesler in the past. He and Morris excused themselves and left the rectory.

  “May I get you some coffee?” asked Koesler.

  “No. Oh, no!”

  Both Koesler and Koznicki smiled; both were all too familiar with Koesler’s peculiar notoriety with even instant coffee.

  “One thing in this latest development surprises me, Father.” Koznicki leaned back, filling the ample chair. “How did you happen to notice the seal on the bottle had been tampered with?”

  “Not characteristic of me to notice the little things, is it?” Koesler acknowledged perhaps his principal failing as an investigator.

  “Frankly, no.”

  “I think it was more a coincidence than anything else.”

  “Oh?”

  “At dinner, just before I discovered the gin, we were sort of lost in nostalgia, telling stories about the good old days and the priests who went with that time.

  “Well, we were talking about old Father Fitzpatrick, one of the most colorful of an almost extinct breed. The others at table told a couple of stories about Fitz. But there was one thing that happened to Fitz that, although it is storied, was not mentioned. I was about to bring it up, but the meal was over.

  “It involved something that happened during Prohibition. Some of the then priest faculty somehow got hold of a fifth of Irish whiskey. They carefully removed the seal and replaced a small portion of the whiskey with human urine. Then they reglued the seal and put
the bottle in Father Fitzpatrick’s mailbox.

  “After dinner, Fitz found the whiskey, and said enthusiastically, ‘Isn’t this nice, now? The Little Sisters of the Poor are going to enjoy this. They need it, you know, for the old ones they care for.’ With that, Fitz headed for his room. Those who were in on the plot simply stood there … waiting.

  “Well, sir, within five minutes, old Fitz came barreling out of his room, clutching at his throat, and roaring, ‘I’ve been poisoned! It’s a Masonic plot!’”

  Both laughed.

  “So that was it,” Koznicki said.

  “Yes. A remarkable coincidence. I was just remembering Fitz finding the bottle of whiskey in his mailbox, when what is waiting in mine but a bottle of fine gin. I was almost compelled to check it carefully. Then I noticed the fine line across the seal. And then I noticed the sediment.”

  “That was most fortunate.”

  “Yes, or I would have been that very sick man you described.”

  “Heaven forbid any worse.”

  “Have you been able to trace the Antabuse?”

  “We’re giving it a try. But it is the proverbial needle in the haystack. There are clinics, pharmacies, emergency rooms all over town—and that includes only the corporate limits of the city of Detroit. Thousands more as we move into suburbia.”

  “Well,” Koesler assured, “we’ll come up with something soon.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “We’ve got prayer on our side now.”

  “I see,” said Koznicki, smiling, “more things happen through prayer than, etc.”

  The doorbell rang. Mary O’Connor, St. Anselm’s secretary, answered it.

  “It’s a young lady for you, Father,” Mary announced from the living room doorway. “A Patricia Lennon from the Detroit News.”

  Koznicki, promising to be in touch soon, excused himself. Koesler accompanied him to the door. It was, indeed, Pat Lennon. She would be followed in twenty minutes by Joe Cox.

  Bob Ankenazy slowly shook his head as he studied the CRT. The screen displayed the text of Pat Lennon’s story. Lennon, in turn, studied Ankenazy.

  It was a scene played out in newsrooms around the world. As often as a writer chanced upon an editor scanning that writer’s copy, the watching game was on. It was only natural. One liked to know where one’s story was going—all the possibilities from page one to the spike.

  It was rare that any editor shook his head over a Lennon story. She strolled to Ankenazy’s side.

  “Something wrong?”

  “This, here.” Ankenazy pointed. “Don’t you think it a bit precious referring to Koesler as a priest-sleuth?”

  “I don’t think so. He joins the ranks of hyphenated priests. Like the banjo-playing priest, the hoodlum-priest, the sociologist-priest. As a matter of fact, Koesler rejoins those ranks: He used to be a priest-editor.”

  “I don’t question the hyphen. My problem is with the ‘sleuth.’ I mean, he’s not Father Brown. He’s just a simple priest in a simple suburban parish.”

  “Oh, I’ll grant you he’s not Father Brown.” Lennon was becoming defensive. “But neither is he an unknown Father Smith. He’s worked with the police on at least three criminal investigations. And a couple of times, he’s actually come up with the solution.”

  “Yes, but when was the most recent one … a couple of years ago?”

  “More like a year and a half. But the public hasn’t forgotten. Trust me.’

  “Really feel strong about this ‘sleuth’ bit?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “O.K., we’ll let it stand.”

  They walked toward the wire copy machines.

  “What about the Antabuse? Do you really think whoever put it in the gin thought it was lethal?” asked Ankenazy.

  “Oh, yes. I think it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. I talked to a couple of alcoholics. They both recalled times when someone who was dispensing Antabuse warned them that mixing the drug with alcohol would be fatal.”

  “I wonder how the guy feels now that he knows he’s failed.”

  “That’s three failures in as many tries.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Ankenazy stroked his beard. “Remarkable coincidence.

  “What’s next?”

  “The Tridentines have another meeting tomorrow night. I thought I’d go. They’re a violent lot. I wouldn’t be overly surprised if they had something to do with all this.”

  “Any facts to substantiate that?”

  “Nope, just intuition.”

  “Go with it.”

  “By the way, Joe will be with me tomorrow night.”

  “Collaboration with the enemy?”

  “Not really.” Lennon laughed. “Joe doesn’t understand things Catholic as well as I do. I’ve had to translate for him. And now he’s in trouble.”

  “How’s that?”

  “His translator just quit.”

  “This meeting of the Tridentine Society will come to order.” The chairman gave the lectern a resounding whack with the gavel.

  Apparently, Cox’s surmise was correct. Either none of the Tridentines read the newspapers or at least none read the Free Press. Cox and Lennon had been greeted with a touch less hostility than before. If he had been recognized as a reporter who made them seem ridiculous simply by recording what they did and said, neither Cox nor Lennon would have gotten past the door. Not only was his cover not blown; Cox felt that the slight lessening in overt hostility indicated the beginning of a grudging acceptance.

  Tonight’s meeting was in the basement of Immaculate Heart of Mary Church. Which indicated, Cox thought, that either the Tridentines were low on cash and had to take whatever was offered, or they didn’t want to provide a stationary target—or both.

  “Is there anything to report?” the chairman asked.

  Hands shot up. The chairman began pointing at people, using no names. Perhaps he knew few if any names. He certainly did not know either Cox or Lennon.

  “In my parish they had a Folk Mass at ten on Sunday morning, where they used to have the Latin High Mass,” fumed a squat woman. It was not evident whether she had stood or was still seated. "And they sang ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters’!”

  “‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters,’” the chairman repeated. “And what parish is that?”

  “Shrine of the Little Flower.”

  “Holy God!” said the chairman, “old Father Charlie Coughlin will be spinning in his grave!”

  Cox was not sure which, if any, law had been violated by singing “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.” He glanced at Lennon. A smile just this side of a smirk played at the corners of her mouth. For once, he envied her her Catholic background. Obviously, these proceedings held more significance for her than for him.

  “I was at old St. Mary’s downtown last Sunday at the Latin High Mass—one of the few parishes left that has the guts to have a Latin Mass,” a balding dumpy man contributed. “There was an ex-priest there, whispering to the woman he was with. And he was laughing during the sermon!”

  “Probably thought he could get away with it because he was downtown,” another man commented.

  Cox noticed a woman in the front row taking notes furiously—a chapter-and-verse of other people’s faults. Perhaps the Tridentines meted out punishments. For all Cox could ascertain, vengeance would clearly be in character for the Tridentines.

  “Our parish council voted to close our parochial school,” charged a tall, thin woman in a sensible hat. “Two years ago, they closed the high school and now they want to close the grade school.”

  “Which school is that?” the chairman asked after catching a frantically bewildered look on the part of the female note-taker.

  “St. Ambrose,” the tall woman replied.

  “And didn’t St. Ambrose used to have the best football teams in the city?” a chunky, well-built man observed. “Used to beat the damn public schools in the Soup Bowl every year. No matter how big the damn Protestants were.”<
br />
  “Seems like a step in the right direction to me,” another voice was raised. “With what they’re teaching in Catholic schools today. Not the holy nuns of old with their holy habits. And not the Baltimore Catechism any more either.”

  Things were beginning to get out of hand. The chairman pulled in the reins by recognizing another member with another report.

  “We’ve got a young, upstart priest at our parish—Holy Redeemer, that is—hair all over his face; last Sunday, can you imagine”—the speaker was so bloated and red-faced he seemed about to explode—“he preached against the draft!”

  The basement was filled with mixed sounds of disapproval.

  “Can you imagine!” the red-faced man continued, “we are providing a shelter for young Commiesymps now! Have these young people never heard of the Holy Crusades? And who’s paying for their keep?”

  “We are!” Several replied as one to the rhetorical question.

  “Well, I say,” inveighed the red-faced one, “it’s about time we stop paying their freight. They’re not worthy of the roman collar they never wear. I say throw the bums out!”

  “Did yez see TV last night?” The man wore a yellow bowling shirt with “Kominski’s Sausage” lettered on the back and the word “Smaczne” beneath.

  Everyone nodded an affirmative with respect to last night’s TV viewing. Nielsen would have felt vindicated.

  “Did yez see the late news?” asked the bowler. “They had that there party at the Ren Cen for Mayor Cobb. And that Father Cunneen was there. You know, that guy with his Project Faith? Well, he was there. And the camera caught him holding a drink and talking to a woman who had no back to her dress. And he was enjoying himself. He was laughing right into the camera!”

  “Was he wearing his roman collar?” someone asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s always the wrong ones wear them!”

  It appeared to Cox that these people had an infinite list of things about which they were angry.

  “I heard, I heard—” Even though he had been recognized by the chairman, the little man was forced to shout to be heard over the hubbub. “I heard they retired Father Schwartz!”