“Wait!” Koznicki held up his hand. “You’re overwhelming me!”
“I could go on—like the traditional penance after confession: five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys—but I won’t.”
Koesler caught the waiter’s eye and ordered Chianti to accompany the entree.
“Well, I do not know that anyone told you, Father, but we, too, wondered about your bottle of gin. If all attempts up till then had been made with guns, we would have wondered even more. But the first attack was made using a knife; the next two were guns. Once a modus operandi is changed, it no longer qualifies as an inflexible M.O. So, our culprit could logically have tried poison since he had already tried a knife and guns.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that. All I could see was that I didn’t fit in with what I felt was the assailant’s plan.”
“Ah, yes, the plan. I know the motive was revenge, only because Wiedeman confessed that. But—revenge for what?”
“The members of the Instrument of Justice Society were very bitter men, Inspector. They were all seminarians at one time, although not all in the same grade. In fact, they were just a few years behind me. I didn’t know them because, frankly, none of them was around long enough to make much of a mark. They were expelled, records indicate, because each was so inept. Sort of classic Catholic klutzes.
“I almost tumbled to them when Mr. Deutsch, the scriptwriter, kept altering the way in which the attacks were made in real life. He had Father Ward fight off his assailant, and Father Gennardo dodge the bullets. The filmmakers thought the TV audience would find it impossible to believe that a knife-wielding assailant couldn’t stab a helpless, defenseless old man. Or that an assailant could miss his target four times at close range.
“In reality, these were incredibly inept attacks by incredibly inept men on priests who had discharged these same men for being incredibly inept. And, as you can see by the way they hopelessly botched their assaults, time had done nothing to improve their luck … which makes one wonder whether the priests weren’t correct in their assessment and in expelling them.”
“But why such a terrible revenge? It would seem out of proportion,” said Koznicki.
“I agree. But it helps if one can understand their sense of loss when they were cut from the seminary. In all probability, each originally had a strong spiritual motive for wanting to become a priest. But they could not have been unaware of the special benefits that the priesthood would provide them.
“In a word, they would be secure. Now, Inspector, don’t for a moment think I am denigrating the priesthood. You know better; you know what I think of the priesthood and how I feel about it. It is one of the truly great vocations in the world. Many, many men have lived heroic, even saintly, lives as priests. As for me personally, I still feel exactly as I have all these years: the day I was ordained was the happiest day of my life.
“But, God knows, there is a security in the priesthood that is, perhaps, unmatched in this world. Granted, a priest may be transferred from parish to parish or even country to country. But no matter how badly he bungles things—within the limits of Church law, of course—he remains a priest, with all the perquisites inherent in that office.
“Just think of these men we are speaking of … imagine how men like these, particularly, would prize that sort of security. And all that eventual security went down the drain when they were thrown out of the seminary. They must have known all they had lost even then. And they must have been bitter even then.
“Then think how they feel now. Things are so much different than in their day. Today we need priests so desperately that even the Instruments of Justice might make it through to ordination. I recall a conversation I had with Father Ward. He was commenting on Leonard Marks—”
“Yes, I wanted to ask you about him,” Koznicki interrupted.
“I knew you would. He and Bill Zimmer are two of the most interesting aspects of this case.
“But to get back to Father Ward. He said of Marks: ‘He simply cannot do anything right. Years ago, he would not have lasted more than a semester or two.’ And that’s true.
“So, our klutzes were doubly bitter. Bitter that they had been cut from the seminary, denied their cherished vocation, and denied that storied security. And bitter that today, young men like themselves are given more leeway, more of a chance—the chance they were denied—and, as often as not, even ordained. So, they planned to strike out at the type of seminary professor, if not the actual specific priest, responsible for their expulsion.
“Their motive was revenge, and also they wanted to make a statement. That’s why they called themselves the Instrument of Justice Society.”
The spaghetti was served and the Chianti presented with just the hint of a flourish.
Koesler took fork and spoon and began winding spaghetti.
“Of course, I’ve never even met three of the four men. Have they, do you know, had a difficult time holding down jobs, finding some sort of security?”
“We have not had much time to check, but thus far it does seem so. That is, with the exception of Wiedeman—Brother Alphonsus. It seems he began a career with the post office and stayed with it, until now he is a suburban postmaster.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“But true. It was through the good offices and civic connections of Wiedeman that the four were hired by the film company. Kirkus, also.”
“Kirkus too?”
“Indeed. Even though Kirkus was not a member of their secret society, the four were all acquaintances of his. Originally, Kirkus had wanted to be on the scene of the moviemaking to keep an eye on the seminary for his own purposes as well as on behalf of the Tridentines. Obviously, his aims, although not initially formulated, were very similar to those of the Group of Four.
“You’ll recall that Kirkus was in the men’s room when the attempt was made on Father Budreau’s life, or, rather, when Father Budreau’s shot foiled the would-be attempt on his life. Whether or not he heard the shot, Kirkus must have known something was up when one of the Four dashed in, undoubtedly agitated and breathless and most likely favoring his numbed hand. And then when Sergeant Patrick questioned Kirkus and that same man stepped forward, seemingly to provide him an alibi, Kirkus must have realized that the man was in reality providing an alibi for himself. But, what with one thing and another, he felt it best to keep mum.
“The tragic thing about Kirkus is that if any of us had figured out that any assailant was a former seminarian, we could have solved the case in time to keep Kirkus from committing murder. I believe it was Patricia Lennon in the News who wrote of Kirkus that he had never attended even a parochial school, let alone a seminary.
“What about Kirkus, Inspector. Do you think he just got swept up in all this?”
“Oh, absolutely. He was a creation of the media. We saw him come to life when the cameras moved in at the Tridentine meetings. I think by the time he shot poor Father Dye, he actually believed he was the one who had attacked the other priests.”
Koesler, who had paused in his eating, seemed pensive.
“What is it, Father?”
“Oh, I was just thinking of poor Father Dye. So much has been happening so fast, I haven’t really had an opportunity to grieve for him.”
“That is understandable, Father.”
“I was also thinking about something Dr. Heinsohn said: People who commit crimes like these have an ability to rationalize their behavior so it appears to be warranted, reasonable, and justified. Imagine feeling justified in killing a sweet old man like Father Dye!”
They had finished dinner. Used utensils were removed and coffee served. The two friends were silent for several minutes. Koesler prayed for the happy repose of Father Dye’s soul, and thanked God that the old priest had been granted such a long and fulfilled life. He then shifted mental gears to ponder again the whys and wherefores of Kirkus’ actions. He found it cathartic in the psychoanalytic sense to verbalize his thoughts.
“I
suppose Kirkus’ statement was unlike that of the Four. He wanted to expose what he considered the sinfulness in today’s seminary. So he would kill a member of the faculty of that seminary, a pillar if you will, of that establishment, as a way of making his point. By that time, his judgment was so muddled that all he could see was the collar and the cassock—not the fact that he was destroying one of the old-time members of the clergy who could well have felt as he did: that the goings-on in the seminary were a sin—or at very least an error.”
Koznicki rarely smoked. Only an occasional cigar in celebration of some unusual event. Tonight, he lit up. In the absence of an after-dinner cigarette, ex-smoker Koesler had to find some occupation for his hands: he toyed with a spoon.
“Well, Father, there remains one question: the two seminarians. How did you discover their involvement?”
Koesler smiled. “Zimmer and Marks? From the bottle of gin. Once I removed myself from the category of intended victim, it seemed clear that whoever was trying to kill me was not the same person trying to kill the other priests. But, nonetheless, someone put a drug in a bottle of gin and intended it for me. Why?
“I couldn’t think of any motive. But giving me that doctored bottle had had an effect: I had gotten involved … immediately and very personally. Could that possibly have been the effect the perpetrator intended? Mind-boggling. But if—and this was almost building a house of cards—if it was the desired effect, then it followed that it was also the motive. But why would someone choose such a devious means of involving me? Why Antabuse?
“Well, the perpetrator was in a no-lose situation: if I had drunk it, it would have made me deathly sick, although, we’ve pretty well ascertained, not killed me. However, it certainly would’ve gotten me directly involved in the investigation. A pretty extreme method, I grant you. But, as it turned out, the perpetrator knew it wasn’t fatal.
“And what if I had noticed the tampered seal? Wouldn’t I have wondered about the contents of the bottle and had it analyzed? Which is exactly what did happen … and which immediately involved me in the investigation.
“You see, either way, the perpetrator would have his desired effect.
“But even so—even if this were the desired effect—who would possibly want me involved in the investigation?”
“Me,” said Koznicki, puffing out a cloud of uninhaled smoke.
“Yes, you.” Koesler chuckled. “But you would not stoop to such a prank. You would just bully me.
“No; eventually, I recalled a party we had at Sacred Heart, during which Bill Zimmer made it a point to ask me how the investigation was going. When I told him I was not involved in any investigation, he seemed inordinately disappointed. In retrospect, it seemed evident he wanted me to get involved in this investigation. But why? And if so, why wouldn’t he just come right out with the suggestion?
“Once I boarded that train of thought, a series of up-till-then unrelated incidents began to add up.
“At the scene of Father Ward’s assault, you yourself, Inspector, noted that the patch of floor where the attack had taken place had been scrubbed.
“What if someone had known when and where that assault was to be made and had tried to prevent it by, say, waxing that patch of floor, thus causing all that slipping and sliding, which, in effect, saved Father Ward’s life?
“You see, Zimmer was doing the best he could—or what he thought was the best he could—at the time. He even, I discovered, hid in a nearby closet with the door ajar, thinking to physically step in if it looked as if the murder attempt were going to be successful. But, you see, he had his reasons, misguided as they were, for not wanting to become identifiably involved.
“Anyway, afterward, he washed the wax from the floor, and you noticed that spot had been cleaned.
“When Father Merrit was attacked, he was headed for his car to drive to St. Gregory’s and say Mass. If he had actually reached his car, he would have found it was unstartable because the battery had been removed. In which event, he would have phoned the parish and told them he could not make it.
“Now, what if someone knew Father Merrit was to be assaulted that morning, but presumed the attack was to take place at the parish? In an effort to forestall such attack, he removes the battery from Father’s car so he cannot drive to his death. And to camouflage his action, he also removes the batteries from four of the six cars standing near Father Merrit’s car, thus making it appear to be ordinary looting.
“Of course, when the attempt was made on Father Merrit before he even reached his car, Zimmer should have realized what he was up against. But it did put him further on his guard; he was determined that nothing be left to chance in the future.
“When Father Sklarski was scheduled to be shot, ‘someone’ put the word out on the street that a white man, probably dressed in black, would be on a certain corner at a certain time carrying a gun that could easily be taken from him.
“What happens? The would-be attacker is mugged, and Father Sklarski escapes injury. But here again, Zimmer was taking no chances. He told me that he had stationed himself nearby and was ready, if events required, to step forward and physically prevent the assailant from firing at Sklarski. He would have made it seem as if he were a disinterested bystander who had just happened along at the time.
“So far, so good.
“But now, two things happen. The scene of the crime—or crimes—moves to St. Joseph’s—outside Zimmer’s realm, and even worse, Zimmer has received no input on who will be next, or when any future attacks will be made.
“Now, bear in mind, Inspector, some of what I am telling you is conjecture, some hypothesis, and some I have learned post factum.
“So, when the assailant moves the action to St. Joseph’s Seminary, no longer do any of these diversionary tactics occur. Now, failure is due to an astounding combination of ineptitude and execrable luck ... if this hypothetical, self-appointed protector I have theorized does exist, his influence does not extend beyond Sacred Heart.
“And whom do I know at Sacred Heart with the ingenuity and capability to accomplish all this? Bill Zimmer, of course. And from what source would Mr. Zimmer get information? Is he in on these attacks, or involved with whoever is carrying them out?
“Again I remembered threads of past conversation. During a luncheon at Sacred Heart, Father Ward remarked how all the students seemed to confide in Zimmer, and further, that Zimmer probably knew more about what went on there than the entire faculty put together.
“But what, or rather, who, was his specific source?
“Somehow, Zimmer and Leonard Marks had become close friends. Now, Leonard is a nice young man, but he is every bit the klutz that our assailant is. Had Marks been in the seminary in our day, as Father Ward correctly observed, he would not have lasted more than a semester or so.
“Is it beyond the realm of possibility, I asked myself, that birds of a feather might get together? Whoever was attempting these assaults was proving himself awkward enough to be a clone of poor Leonard. Could Leonard himself be the assailant? That could well explain Zimmer’s involvement.
“But no; if Leonard had even thought of attempting such a thing, Zimmer would have known and would have talked him out of it. No; it had to be someone else—someone enough like Leonard to feel rapport with him—rapport sufficient to confide in him to some extent. Or if not to confide, at least to verbalize threats, in his presence, against seminary professors who had tormented the assailant in the past—the same professors who were presently tormenting Leonard. Like the saying, nothing makes better friends than having the same enemies.
“As it turns out, the Instrument of Justice gang, assuming that because Leonard was a fellow klutz he would share their feelings, tried to recruit him and involve him in their plan as a surveillant. Of course it would never occur to a bitter, warped mind that Leonard, even though he was being picked on by his professors, might not feel the same ill will.
“Bewildered and upset, Marks confided in his bud
dy Zimmer, who promised he would try to ward off the attacks, or at least prevent them from succeeding. Which he did, as far as he could. But when the four moved their theater of operations to St. Joseph’s, Leonard Marks was no longer in the picture. All Zimmer could do, at that stage, was to pray—which he and Lennie both did—and to hope that Murphy’s Law, combined with the ineptness of the assailant, would continue to protect any prospective victims.
“As a matter of fact, once the operation moves to St. Joe’s, that whole element of advanced intervention is noticeably absent. It just disappears. I mean, you could suppose the Instruments of Justice might have tried to find a counterpart to Marks at St. Joe’s. Then again, since Marks proved no help to them, they may have discarded that part of the plan. I would venture to guess, Inspector, that when you are able to interrogate those four more thoroughly, you may find that after their experience at Sacred Heart, they imposed an embargo on any further discussion outside their group.
“Of course, as I say, I knew none of this for certain, but I think it made a fairly tenable hypothesis.”
“Amazing,” said Koznicki, who appeared to be searching for something. “A spectacular hypothesis, on your part, the beautiful part of which is it proved to be true.”
“It’s always nice when one’s hypothesis comes up true. But tell me, Inspector, will there be any charges against Zimmer or Marks?”
“The only possible charge would be against Zimmer for adding Antabuse to the bottle of gin he gave you.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to press charges against him for that. Talk to him about it, yes. But I was referring to possible charges for not informing the police before the fact.”
“No; oddly enough, that is not a crime. Just grievously poor judgment. I would predict that after Sergeant Patrick gives them a tongue-lashing, both the prosecutor and the precinct police will bawl the living hell out of both of them.”
“As well they should. I wouldn’t argue that. But I am glad there won’t be any charges filed. You see, Inspector, because he’s very competent and talented, there’s a tendency to expect more of Zimmer than is reasonable. He’s a very young man—just twenty-one. He’s got a lot of maturing to do. This whole thing nearly overwhelmed him. I know that now from talking to him. He didn’t know how to handle it. Granted, in his youthful pride, he used very poor judgment; but remember, he was also trying to work things out so no one would get hurt. Not the priests, not the unknown assailant, whom he pitied, and most of all not his friend Lennie.
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