“Father Dye!” Morris knew who would be there.
As they neared the bottom of the stairs, the sound of a shot reverberated through the vaulted rooms. They took the final steps three at a time.
“Drop it and freeze!” Morris hit the landing, revolver held with both hands at eye level.
“Drop it or you’re dead!” Patrick too, drew a bead.
He did not drop his gun immediately; it would be unmanly to obey the command of a woman. The only thing that saved him was that he did not move. A few seconds after Patrick’s command, he let the gun drop to the tile floor.
“So,” said Patrick, “Roman Kirkus after all.”
Morris knelt next to Father Dye. He had fallen from the kneeler. She turned him over. There was a bullethole in the rear of his bald head. She could find no exit hole. She checked for vital signs.
“He’s gone.”
Several officers had spread-eagled Kirkus against a wall and shaken him down for weapons. As they handcuffed him, Patrick read him his rights.
An officer called in to report the arrest. Inspector Koznicki, who was in a mobile unit in the vicinity, was immediately informed. He phoned Patrick and had Kirkus taken to an office in the seminary. Koznicki wished to question Kirkus before he was taken downtown and booked.
Koesler, along with everyone else in the chapel or its vicinity, wondered what had happened. Especially after hearing that shot. But the police were withholding all information until receiving clearance from the Inspector.
An hour later, few of the original bystanders had left the scene. Indeed, their number had been augmented by media people, particularly local TV crews.
There was much activity in and around the office now occupied by the police. From time to time, someone would enter or leave. But no one would say what was transpiring.
Finally, there was a significant flurry, as several large officers hustled someone out of the office, down the stairs, and out of the building. Even on tiptoes and craning, Koesler could not tell who it was.
A policeman came out of the office and repeated in a loud voice, “Is there a Father Koesler here? Is there a Father Koesler here?”
Koesler stepped forward, identified himself, and was ushered into the office. Koznicki, Patrick, Morris, and several uniformed officers were there, all looking quietly pleased.
“It’s over, Father,” said Koznicki.
“Over?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it? Who did it? Was it—?”
“Roman Kirkus.”
“Kirkus?”
Something was wrong. It didn’t fit.
Koesler had a feeling of extreme frustration. As if he were trying to pound a square peg into a round hole.
“Yes, it was Kirkus,” Patrick echoed. “He made a full statement of responsibility for all the attacks. We’ve got our man.”
“The bad news—and it is very bad,” said Morris, “is that he was successful with his final victim.”
“Successful?”
“He actually killed one of the priests. I’m sorry, Father.”
“Who?”
“Father Dye.”
“Old Father Dye?”
Now that made no sense at all. It was as if all the pegs were square and all the holes round.
Then, slowly, as in a sunrise, it began to become clear to Koesler. The final piece fell into place. All the rationalizing he’d gone through recently began to make sense. It was not that something was missing; there was too much in the equation.
But, if all this was wrong, what was right?
Rapidly, Koesler put the puzzle together again, using what he believed to be the correct pieces.
Koznicki grew concerned. He wondered what was wrong with his friend, who seemed dazed. It was shocking news, of course, but he thought it odd that the passing of Father Dye would affect Koesler so deeply as to strike him dumb. After all, Father Dye was almost ninety; it was not as if he had been taken out of due time.
Koesler checked his watch, then paused to let this latest information sink in.
“Oh, my God, no! Inspector, I could be wrong, but if I’m right, there’s not a moment to spare. Quick!”
Koesler ran out the door, followed closely by those in the office, then by those outside the office. No one had the vaguest idea where the priest was headed or why.
When they reached the chapel, Koesler ran to the left rear door instead of to the right, which would have led back to the crypt chapels.
He flung open the door and raced down the stairs.
“The exercise room!” Patrick yelled as realization hit.
“Father Feeny!” Morris, checking her watch even as she ran, knew only too well who would be there at this hour.
At the bottom of the staircase was another door. Koesler put his shoulder to the door and shoved, as he turned the knob.
It was unlocked. Koesler, almost catapulted through the doorway, collided with a man standing just the other side of the door. The two tumbled down the several steps that led to the balcony railing that demarcated a twenty-foot drop to the exercise room’s floor. Fortunately, the railing halted their headlong progress.
At Koesler’s impact, the man’s gun had been jarred from his hand and had fallen harmlessly to the balcony floor.
Morris retrieved the gun.
Koznicki untangled the two men.
Koesler began brushing off his black suit. It was an almost hopeless task. But his expression was the one he wore when one of his hypotheses was confirmed.
Koznicki turned the frustrated assailant around.
“Well,” he said, “if it isn’t Brother Alphonsus!”
“Who’s there? Who’s up there?” shouted Father Feeny. He felt naked without his field glasses.
The blue Plymouth left 1-75 where the freeway ends at Gratiot, and turned right. It was only a few blocks to police headquarters at 1300 Beaubien.
“One problem with the Miranda warning,” Patrick was saying, “is that some suspects take it seriously and, while they do not remain silent, they do refuse to answer any questions.”
Marge Morris smiled. “So it was with Al Wiedeman, a.k.a. Brother Alphonsus. And if it hadn’t been for Father Koesler, we still wouldn’t know about those other three. How do you suppose he found out that those two students knew about the others?”
Patrick chuckled. “I’ve heard some of his explanations before. They can get fairly convoluted, but they usually make sense eventually. He has a knack for glomming onto little things and tying them together.”
“Just what a good detective should be doing.”
“Hey, don’t get down on yourself or us or the department. Koesler would be the first to admit that in these ‘Catholic’ investigations we get involved in from time to time, he is privy to more information than we are. He’s just got more going for him. Though, to give him his due, he does well with what he picks up. It’s undoubtedly why Koznicki calls him in from time to time.”
“Well, thanks to him, we’re booking four instead of one.”
“Five,” Patrick corrected.
“That’s right! How could I forget Kirkus, the only one who actually killed somebody?”
“Easy. He doesn’t belong to the gang—what is it they call themselves?—the Instrument of Justice Society. Kirkus was booked earlier. Our Gang of Four probably just got finished being processed.”
Patrick drove into the huge police garage.
He and Marge could scarcely believe their eyes. There had been a collision, a significant collision, involving at least three police vehicles. Fluid was leaking from two.
“What happened, Barney?” Patrick asked the garage supervisor.
“Incredible,” was all Barney could say as he shook his head.
“What happened?” Morris repeated.
“I keep telling myself it was an accident, but I still don’t believe it. I was able to dispatch three marked cars to St. Joseph’s Seminary to pick up the four suspects—you know, on the ca
se you’re working on—to try to separate them so they couldn’t communicate with each other en route.
“Well, the three cars got here at about the same time. One went that way. Another went this way. And the third circled this car here and went down the middle. You can see where they met!” He shook his head again.
“Anybody hurt?” asked Patrick.
“Three drivers had badly wounded pride and when the brass hears about this they’re going to have their asses in slings.”
Patrick and Morris headed for the garage elevator.
“You’d better use the inside elevator,” Barney warned, “this one’s stuck.”
Enroute to the fifth floor, the two discussed the unusual three-way collision.
As they walked toward Homicide, they encountered Sergeant Cartney, who, many thought, resembled a young Sean Connery. This ordinarily smiling, buoyant detective appeared harassed.
“Those four you had brought in,” said Cartney, “what are you booking them for—black magic?”
“They give you a rough time?” asked Morris.
“Not them so much. But bad times seem attracted to them like rock fans to a Cobo Concert. I’ll give you a quick tour.”
Cartney exhibited a series of squadrooms that had been used to interrogate the four-member Instrument of Justice Society. Though the normal state of these rooms was anything but neat, neither Patrick nor Morris had ever seen them in such disarray. Here a typewriter had fallen to the floor, the roller snapped off. There several filing cabinets were overturned. Even the door to the microwave oven hung loose.
They were impressed.
“And that’s not all. Let’s go upstairs,” Cartney said. “No, not by the elevator. The stairs. The elevator is stuck, fittingly, on the ninth floor, along with your Instrument of Justice boys.”
As they trudged up the remaining four floors, Cartney remarked, “I don’t know how they did it. Hang around with those guys long enough and you’ll be walking into doors as often as through them.
“C’mere.” Cartney led the way to the property room. An obviously harried officer was mopping his brow, though the building certainly was not overly warm.
Patrick cautiously leaned over the Dutch door and gazed into the property room. The floor was nearly covered with piles of large manila envelopes, many of which had ripped open, spilling their contents. Each envelope normally contained—with the exception of small change and cigarettes—all the personal property brought into the building by prisoners now held in either a bullpen or a holding cell. It would be the responsibility of the officer in charge to return each liberated item to its proper envelope. The officer mopped his brow with good reason.
Next, Cartney led Patrick and Morris to the fingerprint units against the side wall. The two had anticipated this would be the next exhibit. They were quite sure they did not want to see it, but at this point they had no choice.
Black smudged fingerprints had blossomed in the most unlikely places. Up the walls, on the floor, on the underside of the shelf. The officer who had supervised the fingerprinting seemed stupefied. “Sometimes it would happen when things fell on the floor and they would reach down to pick them up,” he murmured. He appeared to be explaining the ubiquitous prints to no one but himself.
“Are those four plagues your collar?” the large black officer in charge of the ninth floor demanded.
Patrick grimaced. “I’m almost ashamed to admit it. But, yes. I’ll try to hurry along their arraignment and get them out of your hair. Where are they now?”
“Holding cells. We managed to get them spaced far enough apart so they can’t communicate with each other. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He hefted his bulk off his high stool and led them to the door leading to the holding cells.
“I’ve got one of them in the end cell and—”
At that moment, the trio entered the longer corridor and came in view of the end cell. A man stood behind the bars. His trousers were lowered to his knees. Water was gushing out of his cell and down the corridor toward the officers, filling the other cells like tidal channels along the way.
“I just sat on it … .” The prisoner was almost in tears.
“Oh, my God!” the officer exclaimed, “he musta tore the crapper right off the wall!” He could not appreciate why the others were convulsed in laughter. For them, it was merely the last straw. For him, it was a major catastrophe, the cleaning up of which was his responsibility.
It was serendipitous that both Father Koesler and Inspector Koznicki had worked up hearty appetites and that both fancied Italian cuisine this evening. This pair of coincidences led them to Mario’s, a quality Detroit restaurant unaccountably situated in a poverty-ridden high-crime neighborhood not far from downtown.
They arrived early enough to be seated at once without a reservation.
Ordinarily, a priest in clerical garb entering a restaurant draws some attention. Not this evening. Seated alone at a corner table was a small bald man in a toga. On his head was a laurel wreath. Koesler reasoned that Mario’s, engaging in some promotional advertising, had probably filmed a TV commercial. Either that or the neighborhood was going daffier than usual.
After studying the anachronistic Roman for several moments, Koesler turned to Koznicki. “Can’t you just picture that man in the toga saying to his waiter, ‘What do you mean, what kind of salad do I want!’”
They laughed, then glanced cursorily at the huge menu. Each knew what he would order—spaghetti. Koesler had, in the past, frequently ordered veal, an Italian specialty, until Koznicki had informed him, in stomach-turning detail, that veal was the result of maltreated calves. That had marked the end of veal in the priest’s diet.
They ordered drinks, after which the busboy brought bread and butter.
To the best of Koesler’s knowledge, all Mario’s waiters were male and Italian. They seemed singularly lacking in deference to him as a priest. He took that as merely another manifestation of a general Italian-male anti-clericalism. But whatever the reason, Koesler welcomed being treated as an ordinary person.
“Well, Father,” Koznicki broke off a piece of crusty bread and presented it to Koesler as if bestowing a trophy, “tell me how you did it. Once again, I am in admiration of your deductive powers.”
Koesler reddened. “There wasn’t anything special about it, Inspector. I simply knew a few things that your people had no way of knowing.”
“You’re too modest. How did you know that Kirkus was not really the one we were looking for? And how did you know that the final victim was supposed to be Father Feeny? Among many other questions I have … .”
“It’s a little difficult to explain. There were just too many pieces in the puzzle. The other night I was thinking about the whole thing during a parish council meeting … .”
Koznicki looked surprised.
“Well,” sheepishly, “a person has to think about something during parish council meetings. I was trying to find a common denominator in all these victims. Each time I looked for the common feature I was forced to exclude myself. I couldn’t fit myself in.
“But, if I excluded myself, there was more than one common denominator. All the others were considerably older than I am. They were all roughly the same age. All of them had taught in the seminary for many years. And all of them had a well-earned reputation for being strict, even harsh, with their students. It was common knowledge that many of the students who were cut from the seminary in the past owed their expulsion or termination to one or another of these particular priests.”
Drinks were served and meal orders taken.
“So,” Koesler continued, “for the sake of argument, I excluded myself. I had to suppose that someone other than the assailant had given me that doctored bottle of gin.
“Now, with me out of the picture, the picture was much clearer.
“Then, when Kirkus killed poor old Father Dye, that was the second, and telling error in the equation. The assailant was being very selec
tive about who he—or they, as it turned out—selected as victims. Why had Fathers Burk, Martin, Grandville, Smith, O’Dowd and the others not been singled out? Some of them, like Smith, did not fit the pattern because they were too young. Others, like Burk, Grandville, O’Dowd and yes, Dye, did not fit the pattern because they had the reputation of being almost infinitely patient with and tolerant of the students.
“So, when I learned that Father Dye had been attacked, I was sure it was the wrong man. If my reasoning was correct, it should not have been Father Dye, it should have been Father Feeny, who shared with the other victims that harsh, strict image. And if we had the wrong victim, we also had the wrong assailant.
“But it was the perfect time to attack. It was the final scheduled day of filming. After this, it would be easier to make the seminary more secure, and infinitely more difficult, if not impossible, for an outsider to operate unnoted. Now, with everyone thinking the case had been solved, and almost everyone gathered around the office where you were interrogating Kirkus, and this being the hour when Father Feeny habitually was alone in the exercise room—now was the best moment for the real assailant to act.”
“And so you led us to the exercise room.”
“And ended up colliding with Brother Alphonsus, or Al Wiedeman.”
Salad was served. Like the toga-clad gentleman in the corner, they had Caesar salad.
“Did you have some special reason for assuming that Father Feeny would be the final victim?” Koznicki broke off another piece of bread, this time for himself.
“Symmetry. Excluding me, there would have been three victims at each seminary. Ward, Merrit, and Sklarski at Sacred Heart, Gennardo, Budreau, and Feeny at St. Joe’s.
“You see, when we older Catholics become psychically disturbed, we frequently take on compulsive obsessive behavior. Even those of us who pass for normal frequently become obsessed with numbers; thus it’s easy to turn to them when we lapse into abnormality.”
“Numbers?”
“Yes. You remember: seven sacraments, Ten Commandments, nine first Fridays, five first Saturdays, fourteen Stations of the Cross, forty days of Lent, three persons in the Trinity, two natures of Christ, five processions of the Trinity, seven deadly sins—”
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