Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  “That is precisely what we intend.”

  “That is out of the question.”

  “Not that far out.” Lauther reached inside his jacket and removed a document, which he presented to Koznicki. “Our contract, Inspector, with the Archdiocese of Detroit, permitting us to use sections of St. Joseph’s Seminary for four weeks, with an option for four more, to film ‘Assault with Intent.’”

  Koznicki studied the document briefly, then handed it to Patrick.

  “I wonder if there’s anything we can do about it,” Patrick murmured.

  “Perhaps,” Koznicki touched his lips deliberatively, “in dealing with the Archdiocese, we might use the good offices of our friend Father Koesler. Dean, would you be so good as to see if Father is here? I believe he should be teaching a class now.”

  As Patrick left in search of Koesler, Koznicki studied the producer and the director.

  “One thing occurs to me, now that I think of it,” said the Inspector. “The contract with the Archdiocese calls only for the use of St. Joseph’s Seminary. Yet three—perhaps four—of the attacks occurred at Sacred Heart Seminary. You do not intend to film at Sacred Heart?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dramatic license,” Lauther explained.

  “A nickel-and-dime budget,” Deutsch grumbled.

  Morris had returned by the time Patrick arrived with Koesler in tow. Koznicki explained to the priest why he had been summoned.

  “Would you like me to check into this now?” Koesler asked.

  “Please.”

  He left, and returned a few minutes later, shaking his head.

  “Archbishop Boyle had nothing to do with this. Nor is he going to have anything to do with this. I talked with the Archdiocesan controller. He said Mr. Lauther offered the Archdiocese $5,000 for permission to use these facilities for four weeks.”

  “That’s all?” Patrick exclaimed, “$5,000 to screw up our security!”

  “You should talk to the controller,” Koesler said. “Then you’d know how badly the Archdiocese needs $5,000. Especially when no one expected it. Talk about your pennies from heaven.”

  There was embarrassed silence during which Koesler crossed to Lauther’s side.

  “So you’re going to make a movie about these attacks,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. “Who’s going to play the role of Father Koesler?”

  “Father Who?”

  “Father Koesler, the third priest in the case. The one who was almost poisoned.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. You’d have to check with the production manager. Why do you ask?”

  “Because he’s Father Koesler,” said a grinning Morris.

  “No! Really?” Lauther backed away in surprise. “Say, I ?ust got an idea! Father, how would you like to assist this project as a technical adviser? We could use your expertise, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt publicity to have one of the victims as technical adviser. What do you say, Father? There’d be a modest honorarium.” Lauther was enthusiastic.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Koesler demurred.

  “Father, could I speak with you for a moment?” Koznicki beckoned his friend aside.

  “Father,” he spoke just loudly enough to be heard by the priest, “there seems to be nothing we can do about the making of this film even though it will interfere with our investigation. It would be very helpful if we had one of our own—so to speak—on the scene to keep an eye on what they are doing, keep us informed … you know.”

  “Inspector, I have you to thank for this class I’m teaching here at St. Joe’s. Now you want me to volunteer for an additional assignment … as a movie consultant!”

  “Father …” Koznicki moved closer. Koesler feared he would find himself not only figuratively but literally in the Inspector’s pocket. “Father, it is only for four weeks.”

  “Oh, all right, all right.” Koesler laughed. “But I warn you: I may never be the same after Show Business!”

  6

  The shades had been lowered, making the small room nearly dark.

  “Don’t see how we can continue with our plan,” said the First Man. “I think we are simply going to have to cut bait.” He rose from his chair and made his way to the kitchenette. It was so dark that even though his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, he had to grope along the wall until he felt the surface of the counter. He plugged in what he believed to be the coffeepot. In actuality, he plugged in a toaster. The plugs had lain side by side on the counter.

  “I don’t see why we should give up,” said the Second Man, with a trace of a whine. “After all, we’ve come so far.”

  “You don’t see why—!” En route back to his chair, the First Man tripped on the rug’s edge. He almost fell, barely catching himself. “Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. That is, if I could see your face. Why does it have to be so damn dark in here all the time?”

  “Security,” the Third Man responded. “You know we have to keep a tight lid on our meetings. Besides, I tend to agree. Even though this was supposed to be my ballgame now, I think we’d be smart to call off the whole project. Or at least postpone it for the immediate future.”

  “I think you’re being premature,” said the Fourth Man. “It may not be over yet.” He occasionally made notes on a small pad. The others never understood how he could see enough to write anything.

  “Of course it’s off,” said the Third Man angrily. “As soon as they decided to make a movie of our project, we were finished at St. Joseph’s.”

  “Yes,” the First Man agreed, “it’ll be a three-ring circus now. Say, do you think the coffee’s done?”

  “Give it a little more time,” the Fourth Man said. “I’ll get the sugar.” He rose and made his way cautiously to the kitchenette. There was the sound of sugar pouring into a bowl, followed by the sound of sugar overflowing onto the floor. The remainder of the Fourth Man’s movements in the kitchenette sounded like a soft shoe dance.

  “They’ll be moving in technicians, cameramen, I-don’t-know-whatall, to film this damn movie,” said the Third Man. “We know for certain our original plan is completely out of the question now. What I’d like to know,” he addressed the Fourth Man, who was trying to wipe sugar from his soles, “is just how you can hold out any hope?”

  An odd popping noise cut through the gloom. The room was otherwise so quiet and the noise so unexpected that it sounded louder than it actually was.

  The Fourth Man dove for the floor. The First and Third slithered under the table. The Second fell backward.

  In sliding under the table, the Third Man had caught his cufflink on the tablecloth, jerking the linen to the floor with him.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Any of you bring a gun with you?”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Shhh… wait a few minutes,” the Fourth Man cautioned from his prone position.

  Deep silence ensued.

  After a few minutes, the Fourth Man gingerly crawled across the floor in the direction the sound had come from.

  He stood and groped about. His hand touched a warm toaster. “Who the hell turned on the toaster?”

  Sheepish mumbling from the culprit. “Ummm … er … sorry; I must’ve mixed up the plugs.”

  All four brushed themselves off and returned to their chairs, the Third Man trying to be casual as he respread the cloth on the table.

  “Now, where were we?” demanded the Fourth Man.

  “I was asking,” said the Third, “what in hell gave you the idea we weren’t finished?”

  “Well, I’ve done a little research. There will be as many as ten executives and technicians here from Los Angeles. Those, at least the technicians, will be complemented by local union people. There will also be the out-of-town and local actors and extras. There will be bedlam in the seminary. A perfect time to add a little chaos of our own. All we need is to adjust our plans ever so slightl
y.”

  “But how do we get on the set? We aren’t technicians or actors. We’re not even in any union. And even if they were to hire us as extras, we wouldn’t know when we were going to be called. And we certainly wouldn’t be there every day they were shooting!” The Second Man capped his harangue with one of his emphatic gestures.

  “That’s where my research paid off,” the Fourth Man declared. “They also hire up to five or six local people they call production assistants. In reality, they’re just general factotums—gofers. They need no special training. But they’re on the set all the time.”

  The First Man got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He tasted it. It was cold. “I believe our coffeepot is out of order.”

  The Fourth Man sighed. “I’ll make a note to have it fixed.” He made a notation on his pad.

  “But how do we get hired?” the Second Man whined. “We don’t know anyone connected with filmmaking.”

  “I do,” said the Fourth Man. “This is where my position as postmaster is going to come in handy. I’ve already contacted the local production agency that’s handling the arrangements. We all will be hired as production assistants. And the job pays fifty dollars a day.”

  “But you forget,” the Second Man whimpered, “we’re all working. What are we going to do about our jobs? I just got moved up to the checkout counter at the supermarket. It’s the longest I’ve ever been employed anywhere.”

  “I just hired in at Michigan Bell,” said the First Man.

  “And at the service station, my boss said if I keep up the good work I can go from pumping gas to the repair department,” the Third chimed in.

  “Gentlemen,” said the Fourth Man, “arrange for a leave of absence. Quit. Take sick leave. I myself am taking my vacation time to be there. Do whatever you have to so we can carry out our plan. Besides, you know, if you’re going to be brutally honest, none of you ever holds a job very long.”

  “Neither would you,” the Second Man retorted, “if you weren’t protected by Civil Service!”

  “Oh, forget it,” said the First. “We’re pledged to complete our project. We ought to be grateful that one of us holds so influential a position as postmaster. I move that the three of us do what we have to do to take the job as production assistants.”

  “O.K., I’m with you,” said the Third Man.

  “Oh, all right; I’m in,” said the Second, “but I want to go on record as agreeing reluctantly. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose that checkout clerk’s job!”

  “Good,” said the Fourth. “I’ll give each of you the address where you can get your papers. I’ve been assured we can start work immediately.” He began to write, then noticed his pen had run out of ink. He shrugged, took a pencil from his shirt pocket and started to write again. The lead point promptly broke. “I’ll give you the address later.”

  “We’re still all in this together, aren’t we, men?” the Third Man challenged pleadingly.

  All agreed the project would have their unanimous participation.

  “Why does it have to be so damn dark in here!” the First Man complained. He reached up to pull the light cord, which broke from the fixture and dropped in a useless heap on the table. “Damn!” He strode toward the window.

  “Don’t!” yelled the Fourth Man.

  “The meeting’s over anyway,” the First Man said, as he tugged at the bottom of the window shade. The shade snapped to the top of the window, clattered in meaningless circles, then fell to the floor.

  “I’ll have it fixed,” said the Fourth Man. “This meeting is adjourned.”

  Maybe she was a model. Maybe she had been a model. The central foyer of St. Joseph’s Seminary was in a state of chaos. Father Koesler, his back against the rear wall, stood observing the frenetic activity, as people, mostly male, of all ages, milled wall-to-wall. A balding, middle-aged man was shouting through a megaphone. Perhaps he was a director. But not many in the crowd seemed to be heeding or obeying his directions.

  Koesler recognized seminarians from both Sacred Heart and St. Joe’s. Zimmer, Totten, Wangler, Marks, Doody, and Kulinski, among others. Obviously hired as extras. Koesler smiled. Events such as this continued to prove that things certainly were different from his seminary days. In his day, no one would ever have dreamed that a movie could be made in or about the seminary.

  Of course, in his day, faculty members were not assaulted, either.

  Of all the people in the crowded foyer, the tall priest had focused on an attractive woman holding a clipboard. She was standing near the large camera and seemed to be trying to assist the director.

  She was one of the prettiest women Koesler had ever seen. He wondered again if she was or had been a model. Her glowingly attractive face was framed by shimmering light brown hair. She was almost pencil thin, which led Koesler to ponder about a possible modeling career. He did not know for certain, but he assumed thinness was required of models so the consumer’s attention would be drawn to the product rather than the model’s figure. He decided he would be surprised if this woman had not done modeling.

  At this point in Koesler’s musings, the director called for a break. Everyone seemed to migrate centrifugally toward the coffee urns or drinking fountains against the walls or out into the corridors for a smoke. Koesler decided that if he was going to be some sort of technical adviser, he’d better get involved. He also decided he would try to make his involvement as pleasant as possible by talking with the attractive lady rather than the balding director.

  “Hello,” he opened inventively, “so this is how movies are made.”

  She appraised him for some seconds. Then she smiled, appearing to have selected that response from many under consideration.

  “This is the way a certain kind of movie is made, Father.”

  “Certain kind?”

  “You might call it ‘exploitation,’ if you wanted to be polite.”

  Koesler found the word troubling. He did not want to participate in something that could be described as exploiting a situation. He decided he would return later to that point to discover what she had in mind by using that word. “And what do you do, if I may ask?”

  “I’m production manager.”

  “Production manager?”

  “Well, for this project. I’m in charge of most of the details of this operation, and generally assist in getting the thing filmed.”

  “Are you in charge of casting?”

  “Not exactly. I hired someone to do that. Is there something special you wanted to know?”

  “Well, yes. Who’s playing Father Koesler?”

  She looked at him searchingly, then consulted some papers. “Chris Lorringer.”

  “Chris Lorringer.” He looked disappointed. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Oh, Chris is a capable actor …” She looked at him more intently, then broke into a grin. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re the real Father Koesler!”

  He nodded sheepishly.

  “Mary Murphy,” she identified herself, extending her hand. “So that’s it: you want to know who is going to play you. Whom would you have picked?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Robert Redford maybe.”

  She laughed. “Father, what we would have had to pay him would be nearly the total budget of this entire project.”

  He turned serious. “Back to the word you used before: ‘exploitation.’ Does what you’re telling me now have some bearing on your use of that word?”

  “In part, yes. Father, I know this is not confession, but I’d prefer this remain between the two of us.”

  Koesler nodded, though he would have preferred no strings. Treating this as at least a professional confidence would prevent him from acting on what he learned. For instance, he could not back out of his commitment to this project based on what Mary Murphy might tell him; otherwise he would be revealing indirectly that something she said had contributed to his decision. They had been seen conversing and that would establish her as one who
could have influenced him.

  “You can expect something like this to happen anytime something bizarre makes the national news scene. Could be the eruption of a volcano, fire in a skyscraper, child murder, or, in this case, an attempt on the lives of several priests. Once something like this hits the wire services or network news, you can be pretty sure someone will exploit the situation. For all we know, someone may be writing a quickie book about this right now. But what happened here is that Bruce Lauther heard of these assaults and sold the idea of making a docudrama …”

  She paused in the face of Koesler’s obvious unfamiliarity with the word.

  “… part documentary and part—a big part—dramatic fiction. He sold the idea to one of the major networks. With any luck, ‘Assault with Intent’ will be a two-hour made-for-TV movie. Without much luck, it will molder on some shelf at the network.

  “But you’ll find that the answer to any question about why we are doing something this way or that is that it will be the cheapest way of doing it.”

  “I see.”

  “You look troubled, Father.”

  “It’s just that in a weak moment I agreed to provide some technical advice for this film. I’m not exactly overjoyed to be associated with something schlocky.”

  “Oh, it won’t be that bad. Hang in there, Father. You may be able to keep them honest. And,” she smiled reassuringly, “of course, you can always demand that your name not be listed in the credits … but you’d better get that in writing.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Speaking of getting it in writing, you are one of the real people who’ll be portrayed. Has anyone asked you to sign a release?”

  “No.” It was news to him that any such document was required.

  “Damn!” She shook her head. “Pardon my French, Father. I’ve got a release form here someplace. Would you sign it, please. If you haven’t been approached, probably none of the other priests has either. I swear, I think I’ll need a vacuum cleaner to pick up all the loose ends on this production.”

  As Koesler signed the release, Mary commented, “Ordinarily, I could offer you some sort of honorarium for signing, but not on this project. I hope you understand, Father.”