The guard lowered the beam. “Anything I can help you with, Father?”
“I guess not. I was trying to get my bearings. I’m new to this building—to this city.”
“Kind of late,” the guard observed.
“I know. I just got in a little while ago.” This Midwestern manner of speech was his primary concern. But his accent must be okay as the guard made no comment except to reiterate, “Anything I can help you with?”
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t come across the snack bar.”
The guard chuckled. “Hungry?”
“All I’ve had today is what they served on the plane.”
“We gotta get you some kind of antidote for that. You’re lucky you ran into me. I got the keys to the big box.”
He accompanied the guard, not certain which way they were headed. He tested his grasp of the configuration of the building by checking the landmarks he had already become familiar with.
They were headed toward … yes … the main dining room and, thanks to the guard’s keys, the kitchen with its walk-in fridge.
He took the chair indicated by his guide. In short order, the guard placed glasses, plates, bread, cold cuts, condiments, and milk on the table. Then his host sat down across from him and gestured toward the food. “Dig in,” he said, and proceeded to do so himself.
“I’m sorry to put you to all this trouble. I could have survived with the snack food.”
A low rumble of laughter came from the other side of the table. “Tell you the truth, Father, this just about perfect for me. This about the time I come down here every night to get me through till morning.”
He caught the implication: This late-night spread was definitely not in the line of duty. Why was the guard confessing this to a total stranger? A stranger who could very well report this breach to the supervisor?
Then it came to him: He thinks I’m a priest. He’s banking on a priest’s discretion if not kindness not to tell anyone. He has no doubt he can trust me.
The guard hadn’t thought twice about including the priest in this petty infraction. There were, of course, priests who approached law with a literal observance. But the guard fancied himself a good and intuitive judge of character. This priest could be trusted. And this judgment was made after the exchange of just a few words. Remarkable.
He bit into a chicken sandwich. “This is a big building. I can hardly believe you guard it alone.”
“You walked the whole building?”
“Yes.”
“All the floors?”
“Far as I know.”
“And you didn’t see any other guard?”
He shook his head.
Then the guard shook his head. “Do tell. Well, you shoulda seen two or three others on duty. I don’t know … God knows where they’re off to.” He seemed genuinely distressed by his colleagues’ shirking of duty. Apparently he was not at all concerned that, at this moment, he too should have been patrolling the halls.
“Well, that makes sense,” the man said. “Seems to me a place this big should have at least four or more guards. Come to think of it, with the po—His Holiness coming in just a couple of days, I would have thought there would be lots of guards patrolling these halls.”
The guard laughed aloud. “I sure hate to be the one breaks this to you, Father, but they ain’t gonna beef the security till The Man gets here. I mean”—he chuckled—”I don’t want you to think that you—me—the people here are just small potatoes. The folks runnin’ this show jus’ figure, I guess, that ordinary security is good enough until the real big shots show up.”
His listener wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and finished his milk. One sandwich was sufficient. “Ordinary security,” he repeated. “Does ‘ordinary security’ include the guards I didn’t find?”
The guard swallowed a bite that should have been chewed. Had he made a mistake? Would this priest report the missing guards—plus the one who had just admitted a nightly breach of duty? “Now, now,” the guard managed, “just ’cause you didn’t find them don’t mean they weren’t on duty. This could be just a coincidence. And we’ve been here eatin’ in the kitchen for jus’”—he checked his watch—“fifteen minutes or so. Not enough time for anything to happen … don’t you know.”
“Just the same …” The man’s tone was righteous. “… I’d feel a lot better if I had some idea of how we’re being protected.” He waited.
The guard hesitated. He wasn’t supposed to discuss specifics about his tour of duty. Too many people know your routine and pretty soon that element of surprise that’s part of the routine vanishes.
But … this priest could cause trouble. Better to humor him. “Look, Father, you got no cause to worry. It’s years since anybody broke in here. Practically every inch of the outside of this building is lit by floods. The whole building! The property is all fenced in. The whole property! Believe me, Father, nothin’ and nobody can get in here. Nobody’s even gonna try. The automatic security’s been set up by experts. You got nuthin’ to bother yourself about.”
Whether or not the man was worried, it was clear that the guard was disturbed.
“Well,” the man said, “that’s all very nice, but can you absolutely guarantee that nobody who wants to get in here can’t get in here?”
Somehow, the guard saw some kind of lawsuit in the offing. What if he were to stick to his boast that the building was impregnable? He knew better; nothing is foolproof. So, what if someone does get through?
He had painted himself into a corner and saw the need to get out. “Be reasonable,” the guard pleaded, “it’s like the security they give the president—or the pope!—if somebody wants to get in someplace or wants to get somebody, they probably can find a way no matter how much protection they is. But I can tell you this without doubt: You’re pretty damn safe in here … pardon the language.”
“Well … all right,” the man reluctantly allowed. “But I am not impressed with the internal security. I know it’s unlikely, but what if? What if some criminal does manage to break in? Then what?”
“Look Father, I’m not s’posed to give this information out, but … look: We got to check in all the time when we’re on duty. All the guards here got the same routine. Maybe you didn’t see ’em when you was walkin’ around, but they here. Ever’ fifteen minutes they got to check in from a different station. Ever’ hour they patrol their whole section. I prob’ly—um, whatchamacallit—overreacted when you said you didn’t see nobody till we come across each other. They’re around; you count on it. It been workin’ fine for long time now.”
“Okay,” the man said. “Now, if I understand you, you make your complete rounds every hour. And you check in at fifteen-minute intervals … is that it?”
“That’s it okay. You got nothin’ to be concerned ’bout. We’ll take care of you and the other Fathers jus’ fine … you see?”
“Okay.” He leaned forward to focus on the guard’s name badge.
The message—that his identity had been noted just in case there was a foul-up—was not lost on the guard. “Can I get you back to your room, Father?”
“No, thank you. I can make it very well myself.”
They parted company.
That’s the last time I go out on a limb for a priest, thought the guard, as he continued on his tour. Ordinarily, he had this snack time carefully timed so he would check in promptly. He would be a bit tardy now, due entirely to having to spend time reassuring this nitpicking priest that he was adequately protected. But he would not use this as an excuse. If his supervisor were to confirm this excuse with the priest, it would only open a can of worms. Better to get a demerit point on his record and get docked a little pay than have to go through all this again with the priest.
He used to think, If you can’t trust a priest, then who? From now on, he thought he might just not trust anybody.
The man found his way back to his room without difficulty. Now that he’d followed the building�
��s diagram by actually making his way through it, he felt much more sure of himself.
Running into this guard tonight was a distinct bit of luck. Now he knew the building’s security setup. And he knew that should he pinpoint a guard’s presence at a specific check-in area, the guard would not return to that point for another hour.
Invaluable information.
13
Zoo Tully lay very still.
He found it impossible to sleep. He couldn’t forget the conversation earlier this evening. The conversation at Wanda’s party as well as the ensuing one with Anne Marie.
If he were alone he would have risen from bed and done something—anything: read, watch TV, work a puzzle—anything. He knew from the testimony of others as well as from his own experience that it is counterproductive to remain in bed when sleep is elusive.
But he also knew from experience of his wife’s sensitivity. The few times he had gotten out of bed for any length of time, Anne Marie invariably would sense his absence, come looking for him, and insist on keeping him company until he could sleep.
So he just lay there, not daring either to get out of bed or even to toss and turn.
But slowly Anne Marie became aware that her husband lay awake. It was his breathing: It wasn’t the deep, rhythmic breathing of a deep sleep. There was no doubt: He was awake. “What is it, hon? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
“Something. You’re wide awake.”
“I’ve just been thinking … you know: can’t turn the brain off.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Silence. Then: “I was just thinking … do you know how many people want to kill the pope?”
“What?!”
“You know how many people want to kill the pope?”
“I give up: How many?”
“Just about everybody.”
She shook her head. There were times when she thought homicide was a disease he had caught. “That’s silly. You just had a nightmare. Go to sleep.” She turned on her side again, but snuggled close.
I wish, he thought, it was just a nightmare.
14
Not surprisingly, Zoo Tully would have overslept had not Anne Marie awakened on time.
It had been well after midnight when Tully finally drifted off into sleep. It was Anne Marie’s “silly” that had reached him. At length he’d had to agree: That everyone wanted to kill the pope was ridiculous, an irrational concept that sometimes comes unbidden in those ghostly hours of the black night.
Most metro Detroiters were delighted by this return visit. At worst, they wished he had decided to come at some other time—any other time. Everyone was preparing to celebrate either the holy day, the holidays, or both.
The pope was an extra added attraction that might better have been postponed.
Once reality had lit Tully’s somnolent consciousness, he was able to slip into untroubled sleep. His metabolism tried to even things by borrowing time this morning. Thanks to Anne Marie’s more faithful inner clock, they would both get to work on time, but with little to spare.
Tully arrived at his squad room having neither read the morning Free Press nor caught a complete radio newscast. On arrival, he immediately began to review cases, some he had been investigating and others that had come in after he had gone off duty.
While he reviewed these investigations, two of his detectives arrived. Phil Mangiapane and Angie Moore, both sergeants in Tully’s homicide squad, exchanged cursory greetings.
Their room, like the other six squad rooms, was strictly utilitarian, without a frill in sight. Old wooden desks and chairs occupied the otherwise uncluttered work space. The bile-colored walls added a depressing note. The sole exception to the drabness, decals of Santa, his sleigh, and reindeers, had been plastered on the dingy windows by Angie Moore.
“You catch the murder-rape in Bloomfield last night?” Mangiapane asked of no one in particular.
“No. Was it in the paper?” Moore asked. “If it was, I missed it.”
“Nah; too late for the paper,” Mangiapane said. “I caught in on the radio.”
Tully had also heard the sketchy radio report, but had not given it his undivided attention. If it happened in the ’burbs, it was out of his jurisdiction. He had plenty to keep him busy here at home.
Mangiapane, having aroused Moore’s interest, said no more.
“So,” Moore said finally, “what was it? What happened?”
“A woman in her forties. Wife of a doctor. I didn’t catch the name. Found in her car in a parking lot behind a strip of shops on Telegraph. Looks like rape, maybe by more than one guy. Then a shot to the head. The news broadcast didn’t have all that. But that’s what I got out of it.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not yet. It’ll probably get played up big by the afternoon News.” Mangiapane shrugged. “Funny, it’s not all that rare in the city. But this was Bloomfield. A white woman, a doctor’s wife. It’s gonna get plenty of ink.”
Moore halted in her desk work. She was overcome with a rush of sympathy for the dead woman. Angie could not blot out the atrocity that ran like a movie through her mind.
It happened too late for the morning paper. She was found in her car. Someone got in that car. Maybe the killer was waiting inside her car and she was unaware until she got in. Maybe it was one of those bump and jump attacks when she stopped her car after the killer rear-ended her.
Moore shuddered; she could feel the woman’s terror. What was it Mangiapane said: Maybe more than one guy? The added agony of being overwhelmed by a bunch of goons. A gang rape. The humiliation. The only hope, that she could somehow get out of it alive. The ultimate horror when she saw death in the form of a gun.
It took Moore several moments to pull back from the impotent rage she felt. It wasn’t an appropriate thought for a law-enforcement officer, but she gladly and willingly would’ve thrown the switch electrocuting those animals.
Zoo Tully also was distracted by Mangiapane’s news.
Without moving his bowed head, Tully shut his eyes as he recalled the first time he’d met Anne Marie.
It was late last spring.
He’d been headed for his bank to withdraw some cash from the ATM. As he pulled into the parking lot he saw her: an African American woman, stylishly dressed—class, elegance. Watching her leave the bank and walk toward her car he almost forgot what he’d come for.
Ordinarily, he would have noticed immediately the young white male headed toward her. But he was so taken with her that his normal observant police faculty was clouded.
Tully spotted the guy only seconds before he reached the woman. He had been walking briskly at an angle that would intersect with her path to her car. Abruptly, he broke into a dead run.
Tully hit the accelerator and his car leaped forward. No way could he reach her before the assailant.
Only a few yards from the two, Tully jammed on his brakes, threw the gear into park and jumped out of the car. All he could think was: Let go the purse, lady; let go the purse!
But she wouldn’t. Her assailant had grabbed it and as the strap slid down from her shoulder, she caught the strap before he could get away. He was a tall, powerful kid and, as he tried to flee, he pulled her off her feet and began to drag the now-shrieking woman across the asphalt paving. Her body spun from side to side as he fled. Then he saw Tully coming full tilt.
The thief had a choice. He could release the purse and try to get away. Or he could flatten this black guy and maybe get away with the purse as well.
It was an easy choice; Tully was not an imposing physical specimen. He dropped the purse and the clinging woman and turned to face Tully. He swung a roundhouse right. Tully ducked, then drove his fist deep into the young man’s midriff.
A whoosh came from the man’s gaping mouth. He doubled over, gasping for breath. Tully chopped with his rigid right hand at the meeting point of neck and shoulder. The young man dropped as if gravity had doubled its p
ull.
Tully turned toward the woman, who was pulling herself away from him. For all she knew, he was going to pick up where her erstwhile assailant had left off.
He realized what she was thinking. Quickly he showed her his badge. Next he held the badge out for the benefit of the gathering crowd.
Seldom had he seen a woman so disheveled. Both shoes were lying at the spot where she had been attacked. Her stockings were torn, as was her dress. Her hair was a mess. She had picked up a coating of dirt. She was shaking from the shock of the attack.
Tully knelt by her side. The neck of her dress was ripped, exposing lace at the top of her slip. In other circumstances he would have found this sexy. She was fighting back tears. Somehow withal she retained class.
She looked into Tully’s eyes with gratitude. He looked into her eyes protectively. It was what the French, those masters of the language of amour, call coup de foudre —the thunderbolt that is the basic beginning of love at first sight. For both of them.
After a minute, she tried to stand, mostly to be sure nothing was broken. He assisted her to her feet. Everything seemed in working order. He told her to stay right there till he had taken care of the stunned would-be thief.
Within minutes after his call, two uniformed officers arrived. They got the necessary preliminary information and took statements from eyewitness bystanders.
Once the excitement was over and the groggy attacker packed off, the crowd quickly dispersed. Finally just the two of them were left. Could he take her home? There was a good chance that shock could set in once the adrenaline slowed.
She was sure she could make it home okay. However, she was a teacher and she would appreciate it if he would tell her principal what had happened so that a substitute could be called in.
Could he call on her later—say, this evening? Just to make sure all was well.
That would be fine.
So from that action-filled meeting, an occasional dinner would be shared. Then dates. Then romance. Then a love affair. He made no secret of the fact that he had gone through a wife, then a significant other. He also made no secret of the reason that neither had found it possible to maintain a conjugal relationship with him.
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