Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  “He was afraid if he went to the police or to the rector, Lennie would get into trouble. And one more speck of trouble for Lennie and it could easily have been the end of his seminary career, a fate that Zimmer felt Lennie didn’t deserve.

  “And if this was more than Zimmer could handle, it goes without saying that Marks was at a complete loss in trying to cope. His only recourse was to confide in his friend, confident not only that Zimmer would take the burden from his own shoulders, but that Zimmer would know what to do.

  “By the time everyone gets done reading them the riot act, I’m sure they both will have grown up considerably.”

  Koesler noticed that Koznicki was paying scant attention to him. “Uh, Inspector, is there something—”

  “Well, I could use a little more bread.”

  Koesler waved a napkin until he caught the waiter’s eye. “We could use just a bit more bread, if you don’t mind.”

  Obviously, providing bread was a menial function one step removed from the lofty level of the waiter. He snapped his fingers at a busboy who was changing the cloth on a nearby table.

  The busboy, easily a decade or so older than the waiter, at length looked up from his work.

  “Eh! Pane!” the waiter commanded, pointing at their table.

  The busboy unhurriedly continued to dress his table. The waiter stood, leaning heavily on one foot, hand on hip as he watched the busboy carefully positioning the salt and pepper.

  At long last, the busboy, his table setting completed, picked up a full breadbasket from a serving table and placed it before Koznicki.

  At which point, the waiter derisively applauded, and critiqued sarcastically, “Bravo! Bravo!”

  One didn’t merely eat at Mario’s; one participated in a slice of history.

  9

  Michigan summers could be oppressive. Michigan winters sometimes brought on cabin fever. But Michigan springs and autumns were worth the price of admission. People of the southern states could have their perpetual warmth; northerners prized their change of seasons.

  The only word for this spring day in early June was glorious. The temperature was in the mid-70s under a cloudless sky.

  Insects were buzzing, automobiles were humming, and a power mower was making paths in the spacious lawn in front of Sacred Heart Seminary. Inside the faculty lounge on the seminary’s second floor, the final faculty meeting of this scholastic year was taking place.

  Much had happened in the two months since a series of arrests had marked the end of the assaults on seminary professors. Roman Kirkus had been found guilty of murder but mentally ill. He had been turned over to the Department of Corrections and incarcerated in the world’s largest walled prison, the state penitentiary outside of Jackson, where psychiatric therapy was being provided him.

  All four members of the Instrument of Justice Society had been convicted on charges of conspiring to commit murder in the first degree and assault with intent to commit murder. They also were incarcerated at Jackson.

  In the vaults of a major TV network rested the film of a made-f or-TV movie entitled, “Assault with Intent.” The film company’s contract and optional extension with the Archdiocese of Detroit had run out and had not been renewed. The company had been forced to vacate; filming had been completed on a sound stage in Los Angeles. A gaggle of network vice presidents had termed the finished product unacceptable. That is what they termed it when they were being polite. Undoubtedly, it would never be exhibited for anyone else.

  Dr. Fritz Heinsohn was keeping, for him, an extremely low profile. But everyone knew that, like MacArthur, he would return.

  William Zimmer and Leonard Marks had suffered a verbal barrage from almost every quarter, or so it seemed to them. Zimmer’s prior flawless record saw him through the bombardment with comparatively little trauma. Marks, on the other hand, was all but devastated. He had been on the ropes even before the emotional pummeling began. He managed to hang in at the seminary by the skin of his teeth, and by leaning for succor on Zimmer. His tenuous position was, at this very moment being judged. The question before the faculty was whether to pass Marks on to St. Joseph’s Seminary for theological training, or whether to terminate his ecclesiastical career here and now.

  The unique scholastic year had given seminary faculties throughout the civilized world much food for thought. The story of the assault against six faculty members by a bizarre group of maladjusted former seminarians had been disseminated by international news services. But Detroit was where it had happened. Such events would have to have made a profound impression on the faculties of Detroit’s two Catholic seminaries.

  The assembled faculty was almost finished ruling on this year’s crop. The argument had been long, hot, and heavy with regard to William Zimmer. But when all was said and done, the bottom line was that although he had been guilty of egregious misjudgment, he was not culpable. His flawless, indeed outstanding, record testified to his general excellence. With some misgivings—a few expressed; others unspoken—Zimmer was promoted.

  Then came the final case: Leonard Marks. All present recognized that the Marks case was pivotal. Much more than the normal amount of time and discussion had been given to the pros and cons of the matter.

  Father Phil Merrit had spoken emphatically on the necessity to preserve the highest possible standards for candidates for the priesthood. He acknowledged the problem the shortage of vocations was causing. But he insisted it was a dilemma that could and should be laid at the very feet of God.

  He quoted Jesus’ address to His Apostles: “You have not chosen me; I have chosen you.” These same words applied today, Father Merrit maintained. Jesus still chose His priests. Young men did not unilaterally choose the vocation.

  It was the responsibility of the present faculty, Merrit argued, to weed out those who did not qualify for the priesthood and who could not fulfill its obligations and duties. He further argued that it would be craven of the faculty to be swayed, indeed cowed, by the show of violence that had been directed against certain faculty members during this scholastic year. As a faculty member who had actually been attacked, he made his point rather forcefully. Merrit concluded by asserting that Leonard Marks clearly was unfit for the priesthood and, in all mercy and justice, should be terminated now.

  Both Fathers Burk and Grandville spoke movingly about the multiplicity of roles in the priesthood. They contended that it was impossible to set a uniform standard of excellence for candidates to the priesthood. They cited the words of St. Paul when he wrote of how different are our various body parts but how all of them contribute essentially to the bodily integrity. So, too, there are so many ministries possible to a priest, that faculty members might well think twice lest they unjustly impede a young man who sincerely desired the priesthood and whose main shortcoming was that he was unlike others, was awkward, or was not brilliant.

  They cited the Apostles as being as unlikely a group of candidates for the priesthood as any seminary faculty could possibly consider. Undoubtedly, not a man among that original priesthood would have survived the scrutiny of a modern seminary faculty. Yet they had become the foundation of the Christian Church.

  Both Burk and Grandville posited, in conclusion, that it was not cowardly, but wise to learn some crucial lessons from the deplorable assault attempts of the past year.

  Not a few faculty members kept their own counsel, speaking neither for nor against; each merely tried to find his or her personal way through to a just decision.

  The debate concluded, voting had begun. Now, at this point, the votes for and against Leonard Marks were even. Only three votes remained uncast; it was up to Fathers Sklarski, Koesler, and Ward.

  There was no doubt in Sklarski’s mind: he would turn thumbs down on Marks, a rabble-rouser who would go no further. Koesler too had no doubts: Marks’ sincerity far outweighed his awkwardness.

  Father Ward, with whom this chain of events had started, had been silent throughout this final discussion. No one felt mo
re strongly than he that clerical standards should never be compromised, no matter the circumstances. Now, all too aware that he held in his hands the future of a young man to whom, in effect, he probably owed his life, and aware that he, like that young man, would have to live with this decision for untold time to come, Father Leo Ward bowed his head and fervently prayed for divine guidance.

  For three weeks now, he had been Father Raphael Doody. It had been the happiest three weeks of his life thus far. And he could think of nothing the future might hold that could make him any happier.

  He would never forget his ordination. He had wanted to bless everything and everybody. He had to be content with blessing only the things and people he had encountered that day. His last thoughts before retiring that night had been: Well, now that I really am a priest, what can I do for myself that I could not do before? Finally determining there was nothing special he could do for himself, he said his night prayers and fell asleep.

  He made a few mistakes during his first Mass. But that largely had been due to nervousness. He had done all right at daily Mass since then … pretty much … for him.

  Then he had been assigned as associate pastor of St. Ambrose parish. He had been thrilled to enter into parochial life. Of course, there had been a few small problems, but nothing of any consequence. Like the first new family he had registered in the parish. He had given them children’s collection envelopes instead of adult envelopes. But that was easily remedied. Besides, they hadn’t taught that in the seminary.

  Then there was the wedding. He had come to the altar completely vested but had forgotten the ritual book. He had sent a small altar boy back into the sacristy to fetch it.

  The bride and groom and their attendants had reached the altar and still no boy nor book. Red-faced, he had had to go into the sacristy to get it himself. Funny thing, from that day through this, he had not seen that altar boy again.

  Now he was headed to Verheyden Funeral Home to lead the Rosary for Mrs. Ventimiglia, an elderly parishioner who had died two days ago and would be buried tomorrow from St. Ambrose parish.

  He reached the corner of Outer Drive and Mack. There was Verheyden of Grosse Pointe Park. It seemed a suitable edifice for the President of the United States. But it merely contained lots of rooms for the dead.

  An earnest undertaker led him to the proper “slumber room,” a large parlor packed with mourners.

  Father Doody attempted to work his way toward the bier. He was almost felled several times by relatives, friends, and benefactors of the deceased, who, at sight of his roman collar, were trying to escape before they were trapped by the Rosary.

  He was stopped dead in his tracks by an ample woman who identified herself as Mrs. Ventimiglia’s daughter. She wished to go to confession. They found a small adjoining empty room. Father Doody sat in a straightback chair. The woman knelt on the floor beside him.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, let’s see, oh, a lot of years since my last confession.” She waited, flinching, for the diatribe that would be directed at her many years of lapsed Catholicism. When it didn’t come, she assumed the priest was holding it for delivery after her confession. “Well, I missed Mass lots of times. I yelled at the kids, oh, all the time, it seems. And my husband and I … we … uh … practice birth control!” Now? She tensed.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Father. You gonna bawl me out now?”

  “We’re just happy you’re home again. We’ll all pray for your good mother, who, I’m sure, is with the Lord. And for your penance, why don’t you offer the Rosary we are going to say for your mother? Now, make a good act of contrition.”

  When they finished, there was a tear of surprised gratitude on each of the woman’s cheeks.

  “One more favor, if you please, Father. When you say the Rosary for my mother, would you use the rosary my aunt, her sister, who was a nun, God rest her, gave my mother?”

  “Of course. Where is it?”

  “It’s on the coffin, Father.”

  He returned to the proper slumber room. This time, it was far easier to make his way to the bier. A goodly number of mourners had made good their escape.

  It was not difficult to find the late nun’s rosary. It was the kind sisters wore in the good old days. Fifteen decades of huge wooden beads. As he removed the rosary from the coffin, one end of it fell heavily to the floor, almost pulling him with it.

  Father Raphael Doody led the Rosary with most of it on the floor most of the time.

  “What’s that priest’s name?” Mrs. Ventimiglia’s daughter asked her neighbor.

  “Father Doody.”

  “He from St. Ambrose?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a good priest. I’m gonna start going to St. Ambrose from now on.”

  “This meeting of the Tridentine Society will come to order!” Conrad Nap banged his gavel on the lectern.

  “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen,” Nap intoned.

  Rosary beads rattled.

  “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth …” The trouble with Roman Kirkus was that he talked a good fight but never did anything worthwhile. Of course he did shoot that priest, but he was an old man doing nothing to anybody. And the court did say Kirkus was nutty.

  “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name …” Kirkus was not the leader the Tridentines needed. Just look how attendance had fallen off. Why, there can’t be more than fifteen people here tonight.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee …” I’ve got to find some way of getting those TV cameras back here. That’ll draw the crowds. Always does. Gotta get those crowds or the Mayor of Tumerango’ll never come back. And we won’t hear about the children and their visions. How to get those cameras back again?

  “Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost …” The Klan gets TV coverage. The Nazis get it; the abortionists and rioters always get the cameras. We’ve got to stage some rallies. But first, I’ve got to get these passive people to get up off their duffs and do something. And to do that you’ve got to get them to hate. That’s it: I’ll teach them to hate. Then we’ll get some action. Then the TV cameras will be back. And then the reporters will be asking Conrad Nap what he thinks about things.

  “Oh, Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, and lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are in most need of thy mercy …”

  Gratitude for technical advice to:

  Inspector Robert Hislop, Commanding Officer, Crimes Against Persons, Sergeant Roy Awe, Homicide, Sergeant Mary Marcantonio, Office of Executive Deputy Chief, Sergeant Daniel McCarty, Homicide, Detroit Police Department

  Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University

  Margaret Cronyn, Editor, The Michigan Catholic

  Lucille Duquette, Promotion Department, WXYZ-TV

  Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department

  Donald Grimes, Director of Pharmacy, Deaconess Hospital

  Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Pastoral Care Department, Samaritan Health Center

  Timothy Kenny, Principal Trial Attorney, Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office

  Del Lewis, Secretary, St. John’s Provincial Seminary

  Sister Marian Mertz, R.S.M., Director of Patient Representatives, Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital

  Evelyn Orbach and Nancy Kelley, Station 12 Film Preproduction Company

  Donald Olmsted, Ballistics Consultant

  Thomas Petinga, M.D., Director of Emergency, Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital

  Neal Shine, Managing Editor, Detroit Free Press

  Any technical error is the author’s

  For Fiona, in saeculorum saecula

  Assault with Intent copyright © 1982, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

  Andrews McMeel
Publishing, LLC

  an Andrews McMeel Universal company,

  1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

  This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4494-2361-2

  www.andrewsmcmeel.com

  William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.

  The Father Koesler Mysteries

  1. The Rosary Murders

  2. Death Wears a Red Hat

  3. Mind Over Murder

  4. Assault with Intent

  5. Shadow of Death

  6. Kill and Tell

  7. Sudden Death

  8. Deathbed

  9. Deadline for a Critic

  10. Marked for Murder

  11. Eminence

  12. Masquerade

  13. Chameleon

  14. Body Count

  15. Dead Wrong

  16. Bishop as Pawn

  17. Call No Man Father

  18. Requiem for Moses

  19. The Man Who Loved God

  20. The Greatest Evil

  21. No Greater Love

  22. Till Death

  23. The Sacrifice