He had heard about, even in a few instances seen people being killed. It wasn’t that he was particularly squeamish about murder per se. But it was one thing to kill expeditiously—a gun, a knife—and another to inflict a slow, painful death. Running someone down with a car was so deliberate, so premeditated. And odds were that the victim would not be dispatched quickly. More likely there would be much suffering before the victim’s lingering departure.
All this and more impelled Davis to immediately call 911. After which he pulled on an old raincoat and a rubber fireman-style rain hat and dashed down the boulevard toward the inert figure.
Before he reached the victim, a blue-and-white, siren wailing, sped past him and screeched to a halt alongside the inert form.
Just as farmers are so accustomed to barnyard noises that they are more or less deaf to the normal moos, quacks, oinks, and clucks, Detroiters are so accustomed to sirens that the sound rarely even registers on their consciousness. However, if the wail stops abruptly in the near vicinity, that is apt to grab one’s attention. And so it was now: Office workers lined windows, and those on the lower floors began spilling out onto the sidewalk.
One officer radioed for backup and an ambulance. He bent down to reassure the victim, then turned to help his partner with crowd control and restricting and preserving the crime scene.
Davis, on seeing the police arrive, had slowed his run. Now, approaching the supine man, he heard a muffled sound. Wheatley was saying something. But Davis could not make it out. He knelt and bent his ear to Wheatley’s lips.
“Who did this?” Yes, that’s what the priest was murmuring over and over. “Who did this?”
One of the officers turned and noticed Davis. “Hey, buddy, get away from there. Come on, now.…”
Davis got to his feet.
“Did you see this happen?” the officer asked. As usual, he expected no cooperation. So he was surprised when Davis replied, “I saw the whole thing.”
While this exchange was going on, the other officer was questioning members of the growing crowd. No one had been at a window when the impact occurred. A few said they’d seen the car as it turned the corner and sped away. But there was no consensus as to the make, model, or year—although all agreed that the vehicle was a dark color.
No matter: Davis’s interrogator had struck pay dirt.
Davis described Stan Rybicki’s lingering visit to Jim’s Place last Sunday. How Rybicki had intimated violence against Wheatley. Davis added that he had seen Rybicki—or at least he thought it was Rybicki—parked down the street yesterday as well as this morning. Davis had been at the front window when Rybicki’s car struck Wheatley.
“What was the make?” The officer was scarcely able to recover from such serendipitous cooperation.
Davis was able to identify the make, model, year, color, and even—amazingly—the license number. And, miracle of miracles, even the driver’s name had come back to him. The pub owner did everything but make a citizen’s arrest.
The officer, marveling, took it all down, along with Davis’s name and number.
By this time, the scene resembled a movie set. The initially small group of onlookers had grown to a sizable throng. An ambulance and several other blue-and-whites had arrived, all with flashers flashing and sirens ablare.
Davis’s questioner gave his information to Sergeant Mangiapane, the ranking officer on the scene. All of them were near ebullient over the unusually specific information dropped in their laps.
Wheatley, now unconscious, was loaded into the ambulance, which, siren and flashers again activated, headed for nearby Receiving Hospital.
Mangiapane was about to follow the ambulance. Before leaving, he asked the first officer on the scene, “What did the Davis guy say Wheatley was mumbling?”
“He said he kept asking, ‘Who did this?’ Over and over.”
“Kind of odd …”.Mangiapane scratched his head. “Usually, it’s ‘How bad am I hurt?’ Or ‘Am I gonna make it?’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone worry about IDing the perp.
“But I can tell you one thing,” he added, “Zoo Tully is gonna be one sore dude.”
“I’ll admit I was pretty damn sore when I heard about it,” Zoo Tully said.
Anne Marie was refilling the coffee cups. On hearing her husband describe his earlier condition as “sore,” she turned so the others could see her exaggerated if silent mouthing of the word “furious.”
Zoo caught the furtive aside. “Okay, okay,” he admitted. “Maybe furious. But I cooled down after a while.”
Anne Marie pointed at herself.
Zoo laughed. “All right: Annie talked some sense into me.”
By this time, everyone was chuckling.
It was about ten P.M. Tuesday. Seated around the Tully dining table were Walter Koznicki, Father Koesler, Father Tully, and his brother Zoo.
All had been occupied with the same matter—the attempted murder of Father George Wheatley and the speedy arrest of Stan Rybicki.
Inspector Koznicki had joined Zoo Tully at headquarters, looking on as the wheels of police procedure ground flawlessly. Neither of the two men could actively participate. Tully, on desk duty, was excluded from working the case until a verdict came down on his shooting of Leon Harkins. Koznicki, of course, was retired.
Father Koesler and Father Tully had spent most of the day at Receiving Hospital, trying to comfort Nan and the Wheatley family. The two priests were joined in this effort by several others, including an equal number of Episcopal and Roman priests.
Now, the day done, Zack, Koznicki, and Koesler were winding down at the Tullys’ condo at Zoo’s invitation.
“What is the latest on Father Wheatley’s condition?” Koznicki directed the question to both or either of the Fathers who’d been in attendance at the hospital from mid-morning on.
“It’s been changing slightly all day long,” Father Tully said. “A CAT scan didn’t show much. At least they couldn’t find any serious brain damage. He drifts in and out of consciousness. The doctors suspect a concussion. When he does come to he has lots of confusion. He seems dazed. He has trouble remembering his age and other incidentals. It’s hard for him to recall the accident.
“But you’ve got to remember,” Tully cautioned, “that I’m giving you a sort of summary of briefings from several doctors.” He turned to Koesler. “Did you get anything more, Bob?”
Koesler shook his head. “I think you covered it pretty well, Zack. In general, the thought seems to be that he was lucky—very lucky—to have survived the impact. As of right now, it seems to be a waiting game. I’ve heard doctors describe situations like this as waiting for nature to heal something. After that, it’s a case of following nature’s process and patching things up.” Koesler looked thoughtful. “The doctors did say that George seems withdrawn … indifferent; unusually quiet—and quite depressed. But”—he sighed—”that would be expected, I guess, from the injuries he’s sustained and all he’s gone through.”
“The department must be glad,” Anne Marie said, “that they don’t have to start from scratch in finding the guy responsible for all this.”
“Yes,” Koznicki confirmed. “Seldom does it go so easily.”
“It could’ve gone easier for my man,” Anne Marie said, glancing at her husband.
Koznicki seemed almost embarrassed. “I am sorry. I did not mean to imply that killing a man intent on killing you was easy. Only that in both affairs, the cases were closed so rapidly.”
“Oh, I know, Inspector. It’s just that I worry about Zoo so much.” Again she gazed at her husband with love and affection.
“Hey,” Zoo countered, “didn’t your friend, Shakespeare, say ‘All’s well that ends well’?”
“Okay, okay …” Anne Marie wished she hadn’t made the comment that had started this.
The others were now either smiling or chuckling outright.
“Besides,” Zoo added, “if Leon Harkins hadn’t cashed in at St. Joe’s,
he was still headed for some hard time.”
“Oh?” Zack looked puzzled.
“We had him on a twenty-year felony.”
“For what?”
“Extortion. For threatening to kill you if you didn’t do what he wanted. I’m pretty sure that any judge would have given him the full term.”
“And this Stanley Rybicki …” Anne Marie wanted to get off, and stay off, the matter of Harkins and Zoo’s role in that scene. “… he would have been hard to find?”
“All day long,” Zoo said, “we would have been gathering evidence—skid marks, paint samples—and somewhere—with luck—we might have latched on to a witness.”
“But,” Koznicki added, “Mr. Rybicki went from incredible luck to no luck at all.”
“The problem, of course, remains,” said Zoo. “We still don’t have the bomber, or—an even tougher nut to crack—the guy who made the phone call. We know it wasn’t Harkins. He was home all Sunday. His wife swears to that. And from everything the bartender reported, Rybicki was at the church—but he didn’t plant the bomb … or make the phone call.
“Rybicki isn’t fighting the hit-and-run charge. But he does deny any part in the bombing.”
“So,” Koznicki said, “the heart of this matter has yet to be solved: Who planted the bomb? And who made the call that changed the whole complexion of this crime?”
There was a long silence as each present consulted his or her own thoughts.
“This has been a difficult time,” Koznicki said finally. “Perhaps it would be good to call it a night.”
It seemed an idea whose time had come. The guests rose to begin preparations for departure.
“I guess,” Father Tully said, “I don’t have to ask for your prayers for Father Wheatley.”
All—except Zoo—mumured assent. Zoo had nothing against Wheatley. He just had no faith in prayer. If he had, he undoubtedly would have stormed heaven with prayers of gratitude for his escape from certain death the day before.
Just as the guests were about to leave, Zack came up with another question. “What was it Father Wheatley kept saying over and over before he was taken to the hospital?”
There was no immediate response.
“I believe,” Inspector Koznicki volunteered in the absence of any other reply, “it was something like, ‘Who did this?’”
“That’s strange, isn’t it?” Anne Marie said. “At that moment, if I had been the victim, I’d be a lot more concerned about my condition and staying alive than knowing who hit me. But, as the Fathers said, maybe he was just confused—and, of course, scared.”
Koznicki noted a change in Father Koesler’s expression. The priest’s eyes glazed and his mouth dropped open slightly. Koznicki had seen a similar expression on his clerical friend more than once. Koznicki had often thought that if Koesler were a comic strip character it was at such times that a lit lightbulb would appear over the priest’s head. For such an expression usually indicated that the priest had gotten a sudden idea. An idea that could lead to the solution of the crime at hand. Something that could answer a question, solve a problem, or clear up a mystery.
Good-byes were offered, and one by one the guests left.
Koznicki hoped Koesler’s singular expression might once again prove fruitful. From experience, he knew that the next several hours would be critical in the success or failure of Koesler’s inspiration. For Koznicki also knew that the lightbulb signified the first step toward the solution; that everything had to fall into place before his friend would, à la Sherlock Holmes, set the scene for the denouement.
Time would tell. But, short of a phone call from Koesler, Koznicki would be at the hospital to witness the next act in this ongoing tragedy.
TWENTY-THREE
“Who did this?”
Father Koesler pondered this question all during his drive home and still later while he brewed a large cup of tea. He had virtually ceased making coffee since no one except him seemed to find it potable. His tea was more readily accepted. Though he himself could not tell the difference as far as quality was concerned.
As for George Wheatley’s repeated question, Koesler could surmise only that Wheatley thought he should know his assailant.
Was that possible? It would be a major surprise if George had known Stan Rybicki, the actual driver of the attack vehicle. Of all the likely culprits in the church bombing, Rybicki’s name had never come up, not even as a remotely possible suspect.
Who did Wheatley think—who might he think—had been the driver? Obviously, George thought the driver and the bomber were one and the same. George was wrong, of course. But, if Koesler’s analysis and conclusions were correct, it now seemed that Wheatley may indeed have had his own suspicions. Suspicions that he had shared with no one—or at least no one in the Homicide Department or in the close clerical circle. And if Koesler was correct in his assessment that George Wheatley thought he might know who was responsible for all this, why wouldn’t he confide his suspicions to the proper parties?
Koesler pondered this at length, his mind twisting and turning—examining, then discarding hypothesis after hypothesis in turn.
Could it be—?
No; it was unthinkable!
And yet …
And yet. Sherlock Holmes’s oft-repeated dictum leaped to mind: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Could George Wheatley suspect someone in his own circle? Someone near to him? Someone very near …
Yes, that would have to be it: Otherwise why keep his suspicions—his gut feeling—to himself?
Koesler went back to square one: All those who were closest to George Wheatley—Nan, Ron, Alice, Richard, and Gwen—were conversant with the Bible. Was this leading to a biblical clue?
Koesler rose, took his Bible from the shelf, and returned to his chair. He didn’t open the book, but just sat, holding it in his hands, as if expecting an answer through some sort of literary osmosis.
He set his memory to scanning a stream of consciousness. What biblical incidents would come to mind relating to conflict between husband and wife? Between father and son? Father and daughter? Father-in-law and daughter-in-law?
The first thing that came to mind was Jesus’ story of the Prodigal Son. The young profligate who demanded, then squandered, his inheritance. Wiped out financially and emotionally, he returned, shamefaced and groveling, to his father. The father was overjoyed at his son’s return—so overjoyed that he ordered a feast in celebration.
Koesler could find no compelling connection between fact and fiction here. Not even in the hostile reaction of the faithful son, who resented the forgiveness and undeserved reward accorded his repentant brother.
Next, Koesler’s scanning mind stopped at another story told by Jesus, about two brothers, directed by their father to work in the family enterprise. One brother agreed readily, but, in the end, loafed all day long. The other brother at first refused to work, then had a change of heart and did as his father had bade him.
Again, this parable seemed irrelevant as far as whoever it was George Wheatley suspected. George did have two sons, but Koesler was not aware of any such similar or analagous reaction on the part of Ron or Richard to any of George’s commands.
Koesler’s memory slipped into the Old Testament.
David the King.
David surely had a most serious conflict with his son, Absalom. Both David and George Wheatley were noteworthy for a great ability to love. Both loved their sons dearly. Absalom tried to overthrow his father and usurp the kingship. So much and so deeply did David love his son that he lost all interest in what was happening to himself—and the kingdom. His sole concern was for Absalom.
But David came out of battle unscathed, whereas Absalom was killed. George Wheatley could, or should, have been killed in the explosion. But neither Ronald nor Richard had been physically harmed.
Nevertheless, Koesler felt he might be getting closer to th
e core connection.
The characters who next came to mind were Abraham and Isaac, the two participants in possibly one of the most moving stories in the entire Bible.
Isaac was the only child of Abraham and Sara. The child was born in Sara’s great old age and Abraham’s decline. All of Abraham’s hopes for the future were concentrated in Isaac.
But God demands that Abraham sacrifice his son as a burnt offering. God is testing Abraham’s faith. And Abraham almost superhumanly proves his faithfulness. The Bible tells how Abraham, Isaac, and some servants collect the ingredients for the ritual holocaust. But something is lacking—an animal to be the sacrificial offering. Isaac asks about that. Abraham assures his son that God will provide the sacrifice. When they reach the site, the wood and the altar are prepared and—undoubtedly to Isaac’s horror—the son is bound as the sacrificial animal. Abraham is about to kill his son when, at the last moment, an angel intervenes.
Koesler sat very still. He felt he was getting closer. Yet something—some things—were missing; for a perfect analogy it needed other elements.
He thought very deeply until another possibility came to mind. And, for the first time in Koesler’s ruminations, this example included a young woman.
The story was in the book of Judges. It involved the illegitimate son of Gilead, an Israeli chieftain. The son’s name was Jephthah. Gilead had other sons, all legitimate. These forced Jephthah into exile because he was the bastard of the litter.
Jephthah became a mercenary warrior who attracted some like-minded lowlifes. As a group, they were very successful, and profited from many raids.
Jephthah had pretty much forgotten his previous life. And then the tribe of Ammonites went to war against Israel. The leaders of Israel came begging to enlist the aid of the man they had expelled. Their mission was crucial.
At length, Jephthah agreed to lead them into battle, under the condition that should he win the war he would become undisputed leader of all Israel. His terms were accepted.
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