The abundant Christmas decorations seemed strangely inappropriate to the two women.
For just about everyone else in the metro area the beautifully unique feast of Christmas was about to begin again. That plus a most rare visit by the pope himself created a special feeling of importance. No other place on earth—with the exception of the Vatican to which the pope would return following this visit—would have the pope as guest.
But for Wanda and Anne Marie there was no room for a papal welcome mat. Their husbands were involved. Already their lives were complicated by a murder investigation—an investigation that was somehow related to the pope’s coming.
And they did not even know that now the various law enforcement officers were searching for a missing Cardinal.
They studied the menu briefly. Wanda wanted a salad. There were plenty. Anne Marie looked for a fish entrée. There were lots. When their waitress returned they ordered.
Wanda tore off a piece of her teacup bread for which Meriwether’s was famous. “It’s so unfair,” she said, “the way the news media treat a thing like this when it happens in Detroit. Murders happen in other cities. They happen in Detroit too. But when someone well known is killed in Detroit, it’s as if the city is to blame.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way.” Anne Marie was still a novice as Detroit policeman’s wife. But she was willing to learn. And there were few teachers more qualified than Wanda Koznicki.
“For quite a few years now,” Wanda said, “the city has taken this all too much to heart. We’ve become overly sensitive about our reputation, if you ask me.”
Following Wanda’s lead, Anne Marie started to tear off a piece of her bread, but found it too warm to handle just yet.
“Actually,” Wanda said, “we have one of the best police forces in the country. But”—she shook her head as if admonishing a child—“while the news media go to great pains to report the incidence of murder here, you very seldom find them telling their customers how many of these crimes we solve.”
“That’s true.” Anne Marie had only to reflect on her husband’s pride in his work
“And no one—no one —works harder to uphold this record than our husbands,” Wanda said almost defiantly. “And that is something we, particularly, have to take into account and make allowances for—their dedication, I mean.”
Anne Marie began to see where this near-monologue was going. She reached across the table to touch Wanda’s arm reassuringly. “I know what you mean, Wanda. Zoo and I talked about this even before I knew he didn’t mind being called ‘Zoo.’ I know he’s lost a wife and family, as well as a significant other. He doesn’t blame them for a moment. Those women may have gone into their relationship with him with their eyes wide open. But what they failed to grasp was Zoo’s complete dedication to his job—catching the bad guys, as he puts it.”
“That’s what I meant, dear,” Wanda said. “That’s exactly what I meant. I’ve known Zoo almost as long as Walt has. And that goes back about thirty years. So I knew his wife and his kids. And I knew Alice. They are both good women.
“I suppose I have a special understanding here because Walt is something like Zoo. But the emphasis is on ‘something.’ Our kids have turned out pretty well, all things considered. But one of those things was that their father missed a lot of their childhood. The usual things, like a crucial basketball game he couldn’t attend—not even after promising. Like that.
“We’ve been blessed, I believe, by having the children understand—more or less.
“The point is, dear, do not ever underestimate Zoo’s dedication to his work. Walt may have unexpectedly missed a crucial game or a recital, but whenever there was a genuine crisis, he was there.” Wanda’s pause was on the pregnant side.
“And Zoo?” Anne Marie asked tentatively.
“He missed the birth of one of his children.”
Anne Marie’s spoon halted en route to her mouth. “That I didn’t know.”
“That may have been his worst mistake … although there surely were extenuating circumstances. But I thought it was important for you to know.”
“You’re probably right.” Anne Marie seemed thoughtful as she finished her soup. “Look, Wanda, no one knows the future. I can’t possibly predict what Zoo and I will go through together. All I know—and I do know this—is that we love each other and we’re aware of the ground rules. I don’t know whether we’ll survive. All I know is we’re going to give this our best shot.”
They silently agreed that all that needed be said about Zoo’s commitment to work and home had been expressed. They turned their attention to lunch and the topic that seemed to occupy everyone’s conversation this day: the death, possibly by homicide, of Father Hanson.
“Speaking of our husbands’ careers …” Anne Marie savoringly sampled her entrée. “… I can’t make head or tail of what happened to Father Hanson.”
“Nor I. Nor anyone—yet. The first thing I thought of when I heard how the poor man died was that at least it was fast.” Wanda smiled almost apologetically. “I’m sorry; I guess it happens when you reach a certain age; you start thinking of your own mortality. And when you do …”
“… you don’t want to linger.”
Wanda chuckled self-consciously. “I’m afraid that’s right. I find myself reading the obits religiously. Of course, I’m not preoccupied with death—my death. But more and more, friends and acquaintances are dying. It does make you think. The thought that occurs to me occasionally is ‘how?’ A long bout with cancer? Alzheimer’s?”
“Or a broken neck. I see what you mean. I guess I don’t think that much about death. It’s going to happen, of course. I just don’t center on it much.”
Wanda shook her head. “I didn’t either when I was your age. But with the years, something happens.”
Anne Marie nodded. “I know you’re right. You put me in mind of a movie I saw last year. I think it was Grumpy Old Men.”
“I know the one—Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau … and Ann-Margret, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. There were these elderly men. One died of a heart attack—suddenly—just keeled over. And when the others discovered how quick the death was, they shook their heads and murmured, ‘Lucky guy.’”
“Uh-huh. That’s one feeling I have about Father Hanson: It was quick. I like to think he was dead even before he fell down all those stairs. So ….” Wanda sipped her coffee. “… everyone is wondering why he was killed. I think it’s clear as ice. Somebody wanted to prevent him from attacking that doctrine of infallibility. I can tell you that Walt was completely surprised to hear that called into question.”
Anne Marie laughed. “Even Zoo—even he —was surprised. I’m not positive he’d ever heard of the doctrine before your dinner Sunday evening. But, evidently, he was impressed.”
“I can understand that a successful demythologizing of that particular doctrine would upset a lot of applecarts. Even though it wasn’t used much—maybe only once—it was like a hydrogen bomb held in reserve. Like the final weapon or a final argument. Of course, all men think they’re infallible. At least some of the time.”
Anne Marie chuckled. “So you think that—who?—some dedicated conservative did it—killed the priest before he had his chance to destroy the concept of infallibility?”
“Seems likely to me. Of course, at this stage, the way Walt or Zoo would look at it, no possibility would be overlooked. It could be that Father Hanson had an enemy, an enemy nobody knows about.” She shook her head. “It could be anything.”
“Then there’s the problem of killing him in the seminary.”
“Oh, but the security was not all that tight there. There were lots of ways of sneaking in undetected. That won’t happen anymore. Now they’ve extended the first-rate security—the personnel and resources they were holding in reserve for the pope—to include virtually everyone taking part in this event. I think they called it ‘widening the circle of security.’”
�
��Oh, but that development hasn’t been made public yet, has it?”
“No,” Wanda assured. “That’s at least one area where the police have stayed one jump ahead of the news media.”
Anne Marie urged Wanda to order dessert. After all, she’d had only salad. It was not the most logical of suggestions. Wanda had been calorie conscious through lunch. Now she was teetering on a compromise she surely would regret.
While she consulted the dessert menu, the manager approached the table. He seemed slightly discomposed. “Did you know”—he addressed Wanda primarily—“that the visiting Cardinal—I think his name is Schinder—did you know he was missing?”
Wanda and Anne Marie looked at each other, unsure of the question’s portent.
“Yes,” Wanda replied. “His name is Schinder, and, no, we didn’t know that he was missing.”
“Apparently,” Mclntyre said, “it happened this morning, during a press conference at Cobo. He left midway through the conference.”
“And?”
“Well, it seems he’s been found dead. Your husband is making a statement and answering questions right now. The TV set is in the bar. I thought you might want to see it.”
Apparently there was nothing wrong with her husband. Yet Wanda felt a little weak in her knees. Mclntyre had tried to break the news as gently as possible, but the death of a Cardinal linked with her husband’s name filled Wanda with dread. But Walt was all right. He was just holding a news conference.
She struggled out of the booth.
Yes, she wanted to see Walt on TV. And no, she had lost all appetite for dessert.
29
There was almost no need for refrigeration in the Wayne County Morgue this day. The furnace wasn’t working. The chill was not only felt by Dr. Wilhelm Moellman; he also communicated frost.
As this emergency autopsy began, Moellmann was breathing hard, emphasizing the fact that everyone’s breath was visible.
Standing near the metal table were Koznicki and Tully. On the table was the unclothed body of Dietrich Schinder. Positioned near the door were Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore, ready to carry out any mission on which they might be sent.
Koznicki and Tully leaned in toward each other so they could communicate in whispers and not unduly disturb the already agitated medical examiner.
“Any break in that leak?” Koznicki asked.
“We’ve cleared all our people,” Tully said. “It just has to be one of the EMS guys.”
“What about the seminary?”
Tully wiggled his fingers to make sure they could still move. “Prints all over. It looks like the place hasn’t been dusted since it was built.”
“Witnesses?”
“No one. Not a thing. It’s hard to imagine that building was ever filled. But they tell me it was packed some thirty years ago. Now even when the students are there, it’s mostly empty. And it’s Christmas break The few who are there now are mostly the ones who’re going to take part in the pope’s visit.”
“None of them can be helpful?”
Tully shook his head. “They’ve been impressed with the kind of neighborhood they’re in. After supper, it’s mostly into their assigned rooms and lock up for the night. Some go for a snack before bed. But it’s pretty solitary.”
“So …” Koznicki blew into his cupped hands. “… we do not know what brought Father Hanson out of his room and to that stairway?”
“Not a clue. He could’ve been going for a snack. He could’ve been taking a constitutional. My guess is he was called out of his room by someone or something. I don’t see the guy who killed him just waiting patiently for him to come out of his room and conveniently go to the stairwell so he could be thrown down the stairs.’
“Or …” Tully looked thoughtful. “… maybe he just happened along and saw something somebody didn’t want him to see … and he was killed not because of who he was, but because of what he saw ….”
“There was a phone in his room?”
“Uh-huh. But no one who roomed in that vicinity can recall hearing a phone ring. Of course, no one was paying any attention. Still, it’s so quiet in those halls that a ringing phone might knock you out of your chair.”
“A knock on his door?”
“Possible … but why would he go with someone he didn’t know?”
“Why wouldn’t he? Why would it enter his head that anyone—especially anyone in the seminary—would want to kill him?” Koznicki tipped his head toward the body that was being autopsied. “The late Cardinal may have gone with someone he did not know ….”
“That was an odd thing he said on the phone: ‘This time, no murder.’”
“Yes. It is almost as if the Cardinal had something to do with what happened to Father Hanson … short of murder, that is.”
“Well, Koesler and Smith said as much.” Tully wiggled his toes; he felt as if they might break. “They tell me it would’ve been fine with Schinder if Hanson had turned out to be a no-show.”
“That does not mean he wanted Father murdered. Just that he preferred that Father not deliver his paper or take any part in the symposium.”
“Think that might be it, Walt? Maybe Schinder contracted with somebody. They didn’t necessarily need to know each other. Schinder wanted Hanson out of this conference. Somebody fouls up. Maybe they’re trying to kidnap Hanson from the seminary. He puts up more of a fight than they counted on. Somebody gets carried away and breaks the guy’s neck. Then they throw the body down the stairs to make it look like an accident.”
Koznicki nodded slowly. “In that case, perhaps they called the Cardinal this morning to arrange a meeting. The Cardinal, in this scenario, is eager to meet with them. There were those besides Father Hanson that the Cardinal would wish silenced, yes?”
“Yes. Just about every liberal speaker on every panel.”
“So,” Koznicki continued, “the Cardinal could think there was a breakdown in communication. And that is why he might say, ‘This time, no murder.’”
They stood in silence now, stamping their feet quietly.
“Sadly,” Koznicki said finally, “our scenario does not lead us to this.” Again he nodded at the corpse.
Tully nodded. “Why would they kill him?”
“Why would they break his neck?”
“A disagreement? He wouldn’t pay? He wanted to call the whole thing off?” Tully enumerated possibilities as they came to him.
“But why a broken neck? Not a popular method of murder by any means.”
Running low on theories, they stood again in silence.
Dr. Moellmann cleared his throat, his traditional signal that while the autopsy was not completed, there might be something the investigating officers should know.
Koznicki and Tully moved to the table. The late Cardinal looked the worse for wear.
“Just for a moment, and not for the record, I will deal in a comparison between the deaths of the priest early this morning and the Cardinal here.”
Exactly what Tully and Koznicki wanted to hear. Moellmann could with every justification have dealt with the two deaths as two separate entities. The police wanted—needed—the comparison.
“First of all,” the M.E. said, “cervical fracture was the cause of death in both cases.” He looked up and over his glasses at the two officers. “But, there is a slight initial difference. The priest’s neck was broken to the right as if the killer were right-handed. This neck was broken to the left … as if, in this case, the killer was left-handed. However, this does not mean all that much.”
Nothing much so far. The first question on the officers’ minds was whether this was a copycat murder or perpetrated by the same person who killed Hanson. And Dr. Moellmann knew that. He enjoyed toying with people—to a point.
“Look! See this … at the crown of the head. See this depressed fracture leaving a semicircular mark?”
The two officers were leaning over the body, carefully following the M.E.’s directions.
“Now
, see beneath this fracture, the bone fragments lie inward. I would say a blunt instrument, perhaps a small hammer.”
“That the cause of death?” Tully sounded disappointed.
“No. No, the fractured cervix is the cause of death. Just as with the previous victim … what was his name?”
“Hanson.”
“Yes, of course. Both died of a broken neck.”
“Unusual?”
“Unusual? Yes, I would say so. But with Schinder here, his assailant rendered him unconscious before breaking his neck. However, in striking the victim as he did, the perpetrator removes all doubt about the cause of death.
“Remember, Hanson had fallen, been pushed, thrown down the stairs. There was an effort to confuse the issue, to mislead us. Did the priest accidentally fall down the stairs and in the process break his neck? Or was his neck snapped and then, to try and fool us, was he hurled down the stairs?”
At this point, the doctor paused a moment so everyone could recall that, far from being misled, he had discovered the telltale marks of the killer.
“In this case”—the doctor indicated Schinder’s body—“there is no effort to disguise the cause of death.”
“Maybe,” Tully ventured, “Schinder started struggling—fought back And the perp clubbed him. Then he broke his neck.”
“Perhaps. That is for you to decide. But, one last thing that may interest you. See, the ring finger on the right hand is missing. As is … a ring.”
“Where do you see that, Doc?” Tully asked.
“The marks on the finger stump. There is the indentation made by a ring that fitted tightly. It looks as if someone tried to remove the ring and did not succeed. But he wanted the ring badly enough to amputate the finger to get it.”
“Maybe in a hurry.”
“Perhaps. But it is interesting, is it not, that the earlier victim, Hanson, was wearing a ring. I distinctly remember that. It struck me as odd that a priest would wear a ring. I didn’t think they did that. Now a bishop …”
Call No Man Father Page 23