Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  “Manj …” Tully spoke without taking his eyes from the corpse. “Hop over to headquarters and get the Hanson evidence bag.”

  “Right!”

  Moellmann returned to the autopsy.

  “Angie,” Tully said to Sergeant Moore, “stay with this in case something else comes up.”

  Tully and Koznicki started up the stairs. “I must return to my assignment, Alonzo,” Koznicki said. “Keep me apprised of your progress. And let me know should you need help.”

  Actually, Koznicki could have continued with this investigation. But he was confident of Tully’s ability and the inspector wanted to demonstrate that confidence.

  Waiting in the lobby were Fathers Koesler and Smith. Pat Lennon also was there. There was no law that said she couldn’t be. Tully’s option, should he want to get away from a media representative, was to consult with the priests behind closed doors, probably at headquarters. But an instinct told him Pat might prove useful. And he knew that should anything need to be kept secret, he could depend on her—as long as the need was authentic.

  With nothing to distract them, not even an autopsied body, the three waiting people felt near frozen. Koznicki continued out the door, leaving Tully to continue the investigation.

  “The subject is rings,” Tully said. “Do priests or bishops wear rings on their fingers?”

  Koesler and Smith looked at each other, wondering which would address the question.

  “There is an old Latin aphorism,” Smith said. “I won’t go into the Latin, but what it means is, ‘He who wears a ring is either a bishop or a fool.’”

  “I take it then,” Tully said, “that priests normally don’t wear rings.”

  “First,” Koesler spoke, “I’m sure the aphorism Father Smith quoted is not directed at married people wearing engagement and wedding rings. It does apply to priests. For a bishop, his ring is part of what he wears—like his clerical suit, a pectoral cross, or, during a liturgy, his vestments. And it’s worn on the right hand. It used to be a Catholic custom when greeting a bishop to genuflect and instead of shaking hands, kiss the bishop’s ring.”

  “‘Used to’?” Tully said.

  “Not many bishops expect or want that sort of homage. Certainly Cardinal Boyle did away with that practice as far as he was concerned a long time ago. And that goes for the Detroit auxiliary bishops as well.”

  “It gets to be confusing when greeting a bishop for the first time,” Smith added. “You never know whether he wants that sort of fealty.”

  “But,” Tully said, “bottom line: Bishops wear rings … right?”

  The two priests nodded.

  “And priests?” Tully asked.

  Neither Koesler nor Smith jumped on that question.

  “I guess,” Koesler said finally, “the answer is yes and no.”

  “I think,” said Smith, “that the 1917 Code of Canon Law— that’s Church law published in 1917—permits the wearing of a ring by a priest to commemorate the earning of a doctoral degree. I assume the latest version of church law—1983—gives the same permission.”

  “But generally,” Koesler said, “priests don’t wear rings.”

  “According to Doc Moellmann,” Tully said, “Father Hanson wore a ring. And”—he turned his head to look at a somewhat out-of-breath Mangiapane—“here it comes now.”

  Mangiapane handed Tully a small package. Tully opened it, pulled out a ring, and showed it to the priests. Lennon studied it also.

  “During the autopsy,” Tully said, “the M.E. removed this from Hanson’s finger.”

  “Oh, yes,” Koesler said. “There’s an inscription on the inside. ‘To Father Dan—a Doctor at last. Mom.’ It would have been a commemorative gift from his mother on the occasion of his getting a doctorate. And on either side of the stone: ‘C.U. Theo.’ From Catholic University, in Washington, D.C. Probably a doctorate in theology.”

  “Pretty stone,” Lennon said. “Looks expensive.”

  “I think so,” Tully said. “We’ll have it appraised. Now, the late Cardinal Schinder wore a ring?”

  “He was a bishop,” Koesler said. “I think certainly he wore a ring—”

  “Any idea what Schinder’s ring looked like?” Tully cut in.

  “Yes,” Smith said. “I remember because it was different. Well, let me put it this way: Lots of bishops own a ring like Schinder’s, but few wear it. It was a ring given to each of the bishops of the world who attended the Second Vatican Council. It was a plain gold band—no stone. The front, or top, of the ring was shaped sort of like a miter. And on the front was a kind of imagery—the Apostles and a dove, the Holy Spirit.

  “There was an inscription too … something like Concillio Vaticano Secundo. It was a little thicker than a wedding ring.

  “As I say, all the bishops in the world who attended Vatican II were given these commemorative rings. Most everybody keeps them in a safe place, I suppose. Very few ever actually wear them. Cardinal Schinder was one who did. At that dinner last night, I noticed it.”

  “But,” Koesler observed, “you asked whether the Cardinal had a ring and wore it. Does that mean it’s gone? Somebody took it?”

  “Exactly.” Tully decided not to go into the manner in which it was removed. “It’s one of the circumstances that makes us think Hanson and Schinder were not killed by the same person. We had to know what Schinder’s ring looked like. I think if we find the ring we’ll find the perp.

  “Manj …” Tully turned to Mangiapane, who, despite the cold building, was perspiring freely from his speedy round-trip to headquarters, “get Angie from downstairs, then meet me at headquarters. We gotta get everybody we can looking for that ring.”

  30

  Pat Lennon was obsessed with Joe Cox. She did not know what to make of the direction this story was taking.

  At the outset he had made it clear that if this papal visit could not qualify as page-one news of itself, he might steer it there.

  She understood that Cox, in returning from his discredited position in Chicago, faced an enormous challenge to regain his premier position on the Detroit news scene. Based on her rather intimate knowledge of him before Chicago, she had once considered him above manufacturing news. Now …

  Incontestable was his provoking an actual fight during rehearsal of the symposium. And he owned that story.

  In their latest conversation, Cox had bragged about how he’d been able to get an interview—one on one—with Cardinal Schinder. He had allowed as how, if something happened to Schinder, the importance of that interview could be inflated.

  And now, Cardinal Schinder was dead—murdered.

  She did not want to even consider the possibility that a man she once loved could become a cold-blooded killer. But she could not turn away from that possibility Not now. When someone found that missing ring, if it was found in the possession of Joe Cox … well, so be it.

  She had to force herself away from this preoccupation with Cox. Thinking about him was not going to get her job done. And as far as she could see, her job now was to try to come up with the Cardinal’s ring. It had been good of Tully to let her in on the briefing on the ring. If she were to be the one to find it, she would cut him in. In their present relationship that was a given.

  Tully had part of a major police force to search for the missing ring. She, for her part, could count on a few of the reporters she worked with. But she decided first to try to go it alone. And she was not without resources.

  Seated at her desk in the city room of the News, she flipped her Rolodex, dialed, and spoke urgently and rapidly to a series of possible sources, with no luck. The only bright spot in this endeavor was the rare quality of the missing ring. It wasn’t as if she had to go into long and vague descriptions. This ring, while by no means unique, was unusual enough to need only a few words for identification. As far as she knew there were only a few rings matching it in this whole area. And those were the commemorative rings sometimes worn by the Detroit bishops who had att
ended the Council.

  That much made her quest easy. The rest was difficult.

  She assumed—correctly, as it turned out—that the police were centering their efforts on pawnshops and jewelers in and closely around Detroit proper. It made no sense to duplicate what was already being done. So she concentrated on the far suburbs. Although if she had a last dollar, she would have bet it on the cops.

  Her initial efforts were directed at people she knew personally and professionally. Now she had just about exhausted those contacts. This was like searching for the needle in the haystack with the added discouraging possibility that there was no needle. After all, whoever had taken the ring may simply have wanted the ring, and had no intention of pawning or selling it.

  It was with tired finger and voice that she tried still another number. This was an elegant woman who did business from her home in Clawson, a northern suburb near the opulent Birmingham-Bloomfield area. “Nancy, Pat Lennon here. I’m looking for a ring.”

  “I’ve got it, sweetie. About time you tied the knot.”

  Lennon smiled despite her frustration. “It’s not for me. And I’m not getting married.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve still got the ring.”

  “God, I hope so. This one’s a man’s gold band. The front flares out into a shape like a bishop’s miter. It’s engraved with a picture—some men and a dove …”

  “… and some Latin words.”

  Lennon was instantly energized. “My God, I think you’ve got it! Have you? Have you got it?”

  “No.”

  “What? But you just came up with a perfect description!”

  “I don’t have it. But I was offered it. An hour or so ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “Kid came in with it. Never saw one like that before. The two didn’t go together … you know: the kid and that ring. Anyway, I didn’t want any part of it. It looked like trouble, and believe me, I’ve seen trouble.”

  Lennon felt a wave of relief. A kid! That very definitely did not come close to describing Joe. So, for the moment at least, she didn’t have to be concerned about him. “What happened?”

  “Well, as I said, there was this kid and a ring that went together like the Rolling Stones and Mozart. No way was I going to do business with him. But I didn’t want any trouble. He looked real nervous. I could see him pulling a gun or something. So I told him it was a real nice piece but that I didn’t have the kind of clientele that would be interested in it. At best, all I could give him was what the gold was worth—maybe thirty, thirty-five, forty dollars tops. I told him the ring was worth lots more than that. And I gave him the name and address of Mannie’s, down Livernois in Ferndale. Fortunately, I had made him an offer he could easily refuse. And he left. But I don’t think he was going to try any further.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He left without bothering to take Mannie’s address.”

  “Oh, great! So he just disappears.”

  “No, I got his license. He was driving an old rattletrap, but it moved pretty good.”

  “You got his license? Great!”

  “It was one of those personalized plates. I’ll spell it out: H-A-R-P-O.”

  “Harpo like in the Marx Brothers?”

  “You got it.”

  “Nancy, if I ever do get married, you’ll get all the business for all the rings.”

  “Thanks, honey.” As good as she looks, thought Nancy as she hung up, I’m not going to plan my retirement party to immediately follow her wedding.

  For Alonzo Tully, Christmas had come just a bit early. But he was more than satisfied with the gift.

  The Golds had been presented gift-wrapped by Pat Lennon. All that was needed was some by-the-book police work. Tully had felt remiss that he could give her nothing but a scoop. But that scoop had been his premature present to her.

  The Freep was now ahead by only one. Two for Cox, one for Lennon.

  It seemed silly, almost juvenile, but that was how the investigative-reporter game was played. More importantly, in that context, this story of violence surrounding the pope’s visit had belonged to the Free Press with Cox’s story of the explosive outburst at the symposium rehearsal. No matter that the story had been virtually created by Cox.

  The Freep had gained a further grip on the story with Cox’s scoop on what had turned out to be the murder of Father Hanson. Two for the Freep,

  Enter Lennon. Her story would be in the early morning edition of the News and she would continue to develop it as the day—and editions—progressed. One for the News.

  Meanwhile, Tully was allowing himself and his squad to savor the satisfaction of a good tight arrest. This was particularly gratifying to Tully. Because Anne Marie had been victim of a similar assault, Tully had desperately wanted this one. And he got it on a silver platter.

  Now, Tully, Mangiapane, and Moore were standing around a coffee machine in Homicide, on the fifth floor of headquarters.

  “That kid Harpo comes by his nickname honestly,” Moore said. “For a while there I thought he was a mute.”

  “Andrew Watson”—Mangiapane used Harpo’s real name—”just needed a little of the right stimulus. Like his parents and the promise of life without parole.”

  “Just the same …” Moore dropped the Styrofoam cup in the waste-basket. “… I don’t think he’d have opened up without the deal.”

  “For him it was a bargain that was just too good to pass up,” Mangiapane said. “He gives us the gang, ’specially that sleazebag Vanderwehl, and he skates.”

  “We had Harpo for conspiracy. And we could’ve made it stick without much trouble. But he didn’t actually pull the trigger,” Tully said. “He didn’t even rape the woman. He just held her down. Which was bad enough,” he added grimly.

  Angie again felt nausea at the thought of what the gang had done to that poor woman.

  “Harpo sang good,” Mangiapane said, “but then so did Bonnie. Although they both held out longer than I thought they would.”

  “It was that goddam loyalty they thought they owed Rick Vanderwehl,” Tully said. “He was the linchpin of the gang. One of those rare birds completely without redeeming value.”

  “I gotta admit, Zoo,” Mangiapane said, “it does my heart good to see the ‘tough guys’ when the veneer shatters. I’m glad the other kids saw him crying and sniveling.”

  “So much for ‘the leader,’” said Moore. “God knows how long it would have taken us to crack this if it hadn’t been that Harpo was the misfit of the gang. He came from the other side of the tracks … the middle-class kid in with the rich kids.”

  “Yeah,” Mangiapane said. “Harpo happened to be a first-class mechanic and none of the rest of them could—or would—turn a screwdriver. Add to that, he’s a curiosity who says a word every century or so whether he needs to or not.”

  “The boys, when they dumped the body,” Moore added, “didn’t know that Harpo had stayed behind to get the ring. And when it wouldn’t come off, the Cardinal’s finger did. Getting to know these kids more than I ever wanted to, I’m really quite sure none of them would have objected to taking the ring—even to the point of hacking off the finger. But, of course, none of the others would have tried to sell it. Harpo was the only one who didn’t get enough pocket money to keep up with them.”

  “It’s odd,” Tully said, “what a strange way the media played into these kids. They were after the pope, but they wanted us to widen the loop of security so they’d have a better shot at him. And that’s why they took out the Cardinal: to force us into that broader defense. But we were already committed to that move after the murder of Father Hanson. Only the kids didn’t know that because this time there was no leak.

  “The leak the Freep got told the public the method of execution was a broken neck. That’s why Schinder ended up with a busted neck: The kids were trying for a copycat killing.”

  “But he’d have gotten murdered in any case, don’t you think?” Moore asked.
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  “I’m sure of it,” Tully said. ‘Although I’ve got to wonder why he thought he could handle whoever was on the phone all by himself.” Tully shook his head. “Probably says something about the guy’s arrogance …” Tully wondered if maybe something like that came built in with the position. But on further thought, he’d never heard anything like that about Cardinal Boyle. Boyle had the reputation of being a gentleman. Reserved, but never, to Tully’s knowledge, arrogant.

  “All the same,” Tully said, “if Schinder had told us about the call, it would’ve at least given us a chance to send a tail along, or some backup … and he’d probably still be alive today”

  It was quiet as the three officers again thought back over these events. “Just strange the way the media got tangled in this case,” Tully reiterated. “Not to mention how lucky Pat Lennon got in finding that jeweler. At the very least that saved us a ton of time.”

  “But,” Moore said, “there’s still a killer loose out there.”

  They knew it.

  There had been a cap on this celebration from the start. Certainly everyone was both happy and relieved to close a really messy, multiple case of three counts of assault as well as three counts of murder in the first degree. One very bad actor was certain to be off the streets for the rest of his life. And a bunch of easily led kids would be doing a variety of time behind bars. One would walk away in exchange for cooperation. But Andrew Watson, alias Harpo, was deeply impressed and thoroughly shaken.

  In addition, a possible “series killer” was proven a sham—thanks to an extraordinary medical examiner, good, solid police work, and a resourceful and obliging reporter.

  Which, when all was sorted out and filed, put the police back at square one: Who killed Father Hanson and why?

  Lieutenant Tully led his two sergeants into their squad room where most of the squad had already gathered. Shortly the rest of the team came in; the full complement was now on hand.

  Tully smiled at them. “Well, we’ve done what we think the killer wants us to do: We’ve expanded the circle of security. Short of the feds, who won’t get involved until the pope arrives tonight, there’s a full house—practically the entire Detroit force and a beefed-up segment of county and state law enforcement.