Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  “Think nothing of it.” He grinned. “Come to think of it, I guess you are thinking nothing of it.”

  The man with the megaphone began shouting instructions again, and the crowd reassembled in the foyer.

  “Is that the director? I’d better go meet him.” Koesler took a step forward.

  “No, no, Father.” Mary touched his sleeve in a restraining gesture. “That’s not the director. That’s the first assistant director, Sol Gould. And I wouldn’t go meet him now if I were you. The director and the producer are at a script conference. I imagine you ought to be there too, if you’re going to be a consultant.”

  “They ought to make their invitations more clear. They could start by inviting me.”

  “More loose ends.” Mary shook her head.

  “Wait a minute: if there isn’t a script yet, why are they filming these scenes?”

  “They know they’re going to need crowd scenes. They’re filming now and they’ll splice them in later. We’re buying time. Remember, Father: always the cheapest way.”

  The assistant director was shouting at the extras. “No! No! Don’t just walk. Talk to each other. No! Don’t just move your lips. Talk! Talk! You do know how to talk, don’t you? Keep moving! Keep moving!”

  The extras, most of whom were not really seminarians, were walking back and forth passing each other in the inner courtyard, just off the foyer.

  Leonard Marks and Raphael Doody were walking toward each other. Each was looking at the camera, fascinated.

  “You two, out there in the middle! Don’t look at the camera! Just walk the way you normally would. Don’t look! I said, Don’t — watch out! You’re going to run into each other!”

  They collided and both tumbled into the fish pond.

  “Goddamnitalltohell!”

  “Watch the language, Sol,” his assistant murmured. “Those two really are seminarians.”

  Koesler shook his head. They might just have as tough a time making this movie as the police were having trying to solve the real crimes.

  Leon London stopped at Pete Sands’ desk. Sands had just hung up his phone. “Pete, I want you to work up a feature for the Friday entertainment section on that made-for-TV movie they’re working on at St. Joseph’s Seminary.”

  At mention of the seminary, Pat Lennon, who had been feeding a story into her CRT a couple of desks away, looked up.

  “The governor is forever running off to Los Angeles begging the folks in Tinseltown to make their movies in Michigan—anywhere in the state, even the Upper Peninsula. And here L.A. drops right into our lap within the confines of Detroit. Try that angle.”

  “Right.” Sands, one of whose specialties was covering the news angles of entertainment stories, had been thinking about this very event. “Plus there’s the angle of added income to the city. I mean, how much does a movie bring in? What can Detroit hope to net from this unexpected windfall?”

  “Good idea. The mayor likes to poor-mouth the citizens about how close to bankruptcy we are. Once you determine how much they expect the movie to bring in, you can explore what the city intends to do with it all.”

  “And there’s the obvious lift a city gets when a movie is made about it. It’s great when the film crowd moves in. And it’s great when you see the familiar scenes on network TV. All in all, it’s quite a kick.”

  “Yeah. And this is the kind of story that’s set off well with photos. People wonder what it’s like backstage, behind the cameras. Make sure we get shots from behind the cameras.”

  “Right, boss!” Sands picked up the phone to start making arrangements.

  As London started past Lennon’s desk, she stopped him. “Leon, I don’t want to appear covetous, but isn’t this seminary beat mine?”

  “Oh, absolutely, Pat. And if anything additional breaks, you’ve got it. But this is a different angle: Show Biz. That’s why I asked Sands to cover this aspect.”

  Lennon was confident that she was capable of developing an entertainment feature story as well as or better than Pete Sands. Although disappointed, she tried to conceal it.

  “Well, that’s your decision to make, Leon. But I have a definite feeling that all is not well with that film. I think it’s going to be more trouble than it’s worth. Maybe even cause some trouble.”

  At this point, were she talking to Bob Ankenazy, he would have paid attention. But Leon London tended to discount intuition. “Nonsense, Pat. Why would it cause trouble?”

  “Timing, for one thing. It’s too early to be making any sort of definitive commentary on these seminary attacks. I just feel in my bones that this business isn’t over yet. And if I’m right, then this film company might be contributing to the problem by causing all this hullabaloo and making security all but impossible.”

  For a moment, the shadow of a doubt crossed London’s mind. But he dismissed it.

  “No, I’m sure Sands’ story will be fine. It’s just an entertainment piece. Nothing to get perturbed about. It’ll be fine.”

  Maybe, Lennon thought, but I doubt it. I seriously doubt it.

  “I can smell it from here,” said Nelson Kane. “It stinks to high heaven!”

  “Absolutely,” Joe Cox agreed.

  “Those Hollywood guys are circling this story like a bunch of goddamn vultures. And the timing is all wrong. It’s like making a movie about Mount St. Helens while it’s still erupting. How can they start filming when even the cops don’t know who did it?”

  “That’s not all, Nellie,” Cox consulted his notes, “they haven’t even got a script.”

  “No script! What are they trying to do, produce a goddamn cinema verite?”

  “They’re relying on their local expert to lead them to the truth.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Fritz Heinsohn.”

  “No shit!” A smile began to play at the corners of Kane’s mouth. He was beginning to see the story as it would develop. And he was reveling in the anticipation.

  “Yes,” Cox affirmed, “the forensic psychiatrist who brought mental health to Detroit’s criminal element.”

  “What’s keeping him from issuing his usual statement? The one where he appeals to the criminal to come to him for help. And the doctor will see that the big, nasty policemen will not hurt the poor, troubled lad.”

  Cox snickered. “They must be keeping the doctor too busy trying to tell them what happened when nobody knows what happened, and what’s going to happen when nobody knows that either.”

  “Damn, Cox, I think we can burn those film guys on this one!”

  “If we do, we’ll endear ourselves to the cops.”

  “They’re getting in the cops’ way, aren’t they? Sure; this investigation was running up enough blind alleys as it was without having these out-of-town turkeys mucking up the scene of a crime with equipment, actors, technicians, and extras.”

  “I’ve got a friend in the entertainment section of the L. A. Times. Why don’t I call and see what I can dig up. As far as I know, all the principals on this project are from the West Coast.”

  “Yeah, Joe, why don’t you do just that … and let me know what you find out.”

  As Cox made his way to his desk and phone, Nelson Kane rolled an unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other without its ever being touched by human hand. Absently, he wondered how the News was treating this story.

  “He hasn’t got any convictions, Ned,” Sergeant Patrick said into the phone, “but he’s been brought up on morals charges half a dozen times.”

  “Morals, eh?” Lieutenant Harris responded. “Boys or girls?”

  “Boys.”

  “Hmmm, How did he beat the charges?”

  “Apparently, Bruce Lauther used to carry a lot more clout in Hollywood than he does now. He had just enough markers that he was able to call them in each time he was arrested. The word is, however, he can’t do it anymore. His star, apparently, has set in the West.”

  “Intriguing that he is interested in a story that’s set in
a seminary populated by young men.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Yeah, it is interesting.”

  “How about the others?”

  “At least as far as the L.A. group is concerned, nobody is unblemished.”

  “Oh?”

  “Herman Deutsch, the director and scriptwriter? Used to be one of Hollywood’s best. Has a string of hits and big moneymakers. Everything but an Oscar.”

  “What’s he doing on this two-bit gig?”

  “The bottle got him. Chronic alcoholic. He’s been admitted to almost every hospital in L.A. at one time or another. No criminal record. Works just often enough to keep up the supply of booze.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Sol Gould, the first assistant director? Spent time in San Quentin for forgery and passing bad checks.”

  “Quite a crew you’ve got there, Dean. The others have similar problems, I take it?”

  "All but the locals.”

  “Locals?”

  “Yeah. Mary Murphy, for instance. She’s a partner in a local production company. They undoubtedly signed her on because the film’s being shot in Detroit and they’re using a lot of local people. She’s the production manager.”

  “And she’s clean?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s a nice girl like that doing with the French Foreign Legion?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know.”

  “No sense in telling her now.”

  “Well, with this gang, at least we know what to look for.”

  “Yeah: trouble.”

  “So, did you get anything from your friend in L. A.?” Kane could tell from a glance at Cox’s face that the reporter had, indeed, got something.

  “Yeah. Quite a bit.”

  “This friend of yours, you said he’s on the entertainment desk at the Times?”

  “Yeah. Does reviews, interviews, that kind of stuff. Really in with the Show Biz crowd. In a perfect position to give us the dope we wanted.”

  “So, what’s with whatzisname, the producer?” Kane leaned forward expectantly, his clasped hands resting on the desk.

  “Lauther,” Cox supplied, “Bruce Lauther, executive producer. Until recently a TV network vice president. When he was fired, according to my buddy, he joined a large and notable club of canned TV execs. Evidently, when he got wind of our seminary goings-on, he got this idea to do a quickie made-for-TV movie.”

  “But why now? Isn’t it a bit early in the game for a film treatment? I mean, the cops don’t even have a handle on who did it yet.”

  “For the very good reason”—Cox made sharp, cutting gestures with his right hand— “that Lauther got word that another producer was thinking of filming this story. Except that the other guy was wasting his time, in Lauther’s view, by researching it.”

  “Aha! Get it first—who gives a damn whether it’s accurate!”

  “Exactly. So Lauther gets together a package and sells the idea to a rival network.”

  “He wouldn’t dare go back to his own network.”

  “Right. Incidentally, my buddy says that selling is what Lauther does best. If he were satisfied to be himself, he’d probably make good money selling anything from TV time to used cars.

  “So anyway, he sells the idea and the network puts up the money.”

  “How much?”

  “One point five mill.”

  “One and one-half million dollars! Is that significant?”

  “Not for a big screen movie. But for a made-for-TV movie, it’s standard. They get it in time-released increments of one-third each.

  “Next, Lauther gets together the secondor third-string Hollywood technicians.”

  “Second- or third-string?”

  “The scriptwriter-director? A lush. Nobody’s hired him to make coffee in years … check that.” Cox consulted his notes. “He’s been given an advance a couple of times, but he didn’t complete either project. He gets a little money and the next time anyone sees him he’s in a detox drying out.

  “Next”—Cox glanced at his notes—“the first assistant director? An ex-con; forgery. The second assistant director? One of the whiz kids to hit L.A. about ten years ago. Everybody predicted a brilliant future. Nothing. Zilch. No ambition. In his thirties and already burned out.

  “Want me to go on?”

  “Naw, that’s O.K.” Kane scratched his head. “What’s the kicker? It doesn’t make sense. A million and a half would appear to be enough to make this movie with a touch of class. Why the bums, has-beens, and never-will-have-beens?”

  “A good guess—and this can’t be more than a guess—is that if they come in under budget, the producer gets to pocket what’s left.”

  “Aha!”

  “Aha!”

  “Can you get substantiation for this stuff?”

  “Most of it. It’s like having the answers and trying to find someone to ask the questions of.”

  “O.K. Get on it. Get some quotes from Lauther and his crew. Find out how he got the use of St. Joe’s while a police investigation was being conducted there. Find out his shooting schedule. See if you can pin down as a fact that he intends to come in under budget. And by how much.”

  “O.K., O.K., O.K.!” Cox had been scribbling furiously. He began to back away from Kane’s desk. “I think I know how to do this.” He laughed.

  “O.K., but get on it. I want it for Friday—all editions.” Kane sat back, hands clasped behind his head. For the second time he wondered how the News was covering the story. Everyone would know soon enough.

  By a process of elimination, Father Koesler finally found the room in which the story conference was going on. He had reasoned it would be somewhere within the confines of St. Joseph’s Seminary. After searching two of the building’s four wings, he located the conference in a small, airy room off the library.

  Koesler was not at the moment tasting the milk of Christian kindness. If these guys wanted his help, he thought, the least they could have done was to let him know when and where their meetings were being held.

  He knocked on the door. It was opened by Bruce Lauther.

  “Am I supposed to be here?” Koesler’s voice held a discernible edge.

  “Of course you are, Father. My fault entirely for not letting you know about the meeting.” Lauther swung the door wide and with a sweeping gesture motioned the priest in.

  Koesler had met two of the men in the room; he recognized the third only from having seen him on TV and in newspapers. The two he had met were, of course, Lauther and Deutsch. The third was unmistakably Dr. Fritz Hein-sohn, the locally famous forensic psychiatrist.

  Heinsohn regularly surfaced in police investigations of particularly baffling cases. He would give a psychological profile of the unknown culprit which usually turned out to be inaccurate and totally off-base, and then make a personal plea for the culprit to give himself up into the good, professional hands of Heinsohn himself.

  Koesler could recall no instance of any criminal’s taking Heinsohn up on his invitation. Yet the psychiatrist remained a local vogue figure, appearing fairly frequently on J.P. McCarthy’s popular radio interview program, “Focus.”

  Lauther introduced the others to Koesler and the meeting resumed.

  Initially, Koesler could not take his eyes off Heinsohn. The priest had seen attire such as the doctor’s, but only in ads. A maroon velour pullover with turtleneck insert was topped by a dark green jacket that Koesler guessed was a designer make. He had no possible clue as to which designer. The trousers, in a light shade of brown, appeared to be Ultrasuede. At the base of this sartorial extravaganza were brown Western boots. At the crest was an ample supply of wavy brown, silver-flecked hair, which was definitely tonsorially tailored.

  “I don’t know whyinhell we have to have this meeting—excuse my French, Father,” Deutsch appended.

  Koesler guessed quite a bit of French would be spoken at these gatherings.

  “Because, Herm,” Lauther soothed, “we’re pretty much i
n the dark when it comes to who is responsible for these attacks and, more than that, why he’s doing it. That’s where the good doctor here comes in. Be patient.”

  “My God, man,” Deutsch protested, “read the accounts in the papers and magazines. You’ve got enough dope there to cast the part.”

  “Really, I—”

  “He’s in his forties, maybe late forties. He tends to go to baby fat. He’s got a high-pitched voice. He’s slightly taller than Truman Capote … my God, man, what more do you need?”

  “Motive, Herm. We need the man’s motive.”

  “Bruce, just pray we get this thing in the can and on the network before the cops solve it. That way the network will get in at least one of its two screenings. We don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of solving this thing before the cops.”

  “Be patient, Herm. Doctor?”

  Heinsohn slid his chair closer to the table. He ran his hand through his hair. It fell impeccably back into place.

  For the first time, Koesler noticed the oversized gold ring on the little finger of Heinsohn’s right hand. But now that Koesler became aware of it, he also became aware that the ring was just the start of something big. There were large gold and silver rings on his left hand, and a gold pendant suspended from a gold chain around the doctor’s neck. For some reason, Koesler was reminded of the golden calf of Exodus worshiped by the sinful Israelites.

  Heinsohn cleared his throat. “Father and gentlemen … ” Koesler thought he did not care to be identified as other than a gentleman. People were forever putting men of the cloth on generally undesired pedestals. “I’ve, of course, been giving this a lot of thought. I believe—am convinced—” Heinsohn corrected himself—“that we are dealing here with a sociopathic personality … ”

  “Sociopathic personality,” Lauther repeated. He liked it. It had a ring. It would definitely play on TV.

  “And all this time I thought a guy who assaults priests was as normal as blueberry pie,” Deutsch murmured.

  “As I was saying”—it was clear Heinsohn was determined to overlook whatever impediment Deutsch might drop in his path—“we are dealing with a sociopath. Consider, if you will, the definition given for such persons by the American Psychiatric Association: ‘Sociopaths,’” he quoted from memory, “‘are chronically antisocial individuals who are always in trouble, profiting neither from experience nor punishment, and maintaining no real loyalties to any person, group, or code. They are frequently callous and hedonistic, showing marked emotional immaturity, with a lack of sense of responsibility, lack of judgment, and an ability to rationalize their behavior so that it appears warranted, reasonable, and justified.’”