Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  “Monsignor Thompson.” His tone betrayed a mixture of pleasure, probably from the fun of the party, and annoyance, undoubtedly from being called away to the phone.

  “Monsignor, this is Angela Cicero.” Of greatest importance now was to afford Monsignor Thompson no opportunity to speak until her entire invitation was offered. So, Angela took a deep breath and began to talk nonstop.

  “You may remember me from last week. My daughter was married after we received a privilege of the faith from Rome through your good offices. Now I know we didn’t seem to hit it off. But I want you to know that as far as I was concerned, that was just on the surface. Actually, I admire a man like you who has the courage of his convictions. All the time we seemed to be at each other’s throat, I was secretly admiring you. A guy like you, if you don’t mind my saying so, really turns me on. Now, the reason I’m calling is that my husband is gone and won’t be back until tomorrow. I’d like you to come over now and just let’s see if something—you know— develops.”

  “Uh…” He almost said something.

  “If you’re worried about dinner,” she cut in, “I have plenty here if, after all, you prefer dining to me. This is our one chance to find out if the chemistry I detected between us is really there. I can promise you this, Tom,” she dropped her voice seductively, “you won’t be disappointed.”

  “You don’t mean it!” he said enthusiastically. Several nearby waiters glanced at him.

  “But I do mean it, Tom. Come on. No strings attached. Let’s just see what happens.”

  “Where?”

  She gave him her Robindale address, and added, “If I were you, Tom, I wouldn’t park out front. Neighbors, you know. Somewhere along the way, get a cab.”

  “I’ll be right there!”

  Two waiters looked at each other and shrugged as Monsignor Thompson hurried from the hall after murmuring an excuse to the bride and groom.

  Outside Roma Hall, the parking valet took Thompson’s stub and dashed off to retrieve his car. The young man knew exactly where it was. He had been somewhat startled when a clergyman exited an Eldorado with, the valet noticed while parking, everything in it but a CB radio.

  He located the car at the rear of the lot, just where he’d parked it. He got behind the wheel and began searching on the floor for the ignition key. Instead, he felt something cylindrical. He raised it to the light and saw that it was an empty cartridge, the sharp edge of which had cut his finger rather badly.

  Muttering empty curses, he tossed the cartridge on the passenger seat, pulled several tissues from the handy dispenser, and tried to stanch the flow of blood. Finally, finding the key, he started the car, then drove it to a rocking stop just short of Monsignor Thompson, stuffing the bloodstained tissues in the car’s disposal box as he braked.

  Thompson gave the valet a quarter and drove off too quickly to hear the young man’s lush imprecations, all of which were variations on a theme describing someone who was parsimonious and illegitimate.

  As he drove down Gratiot toward the Ford Freeway, Thompson remembered there were always cabs at Detroit City Airport, which was practically on his way. He would leave his Eldorado at De La Salle. There it would be safe and inconspicuous.

  Before leaving his car, Thompson noticed some stains on the steering wheel. Slightly sticky, they appeared to be blood. Probably that damned valet. If there were bloodstains on the wheel, there must be… yes… on the gearshift and rear-view mirror too. Thompson took an immaculate handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them clean.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 10:42 P.M.

  When she saw the cab stop in front of her house, Angela Cicero went to the front door and waited for the sound of footsteps on the porch. She heard nothing till the doorbell rang. He must have tiptoed, she thought. She opened the door.

  Neither the porch nor hall lights were on. By the light coming from behind her in the living room, Thompson could see Angela silhouetted through a diaphanous gown. Evidently, she could deliver on the full-figured voluptuousness she had promised when fully clothed. He began to perspire profusely. He was grateful he had splashed on the Brut liberally.

  Silently, she took his suit jacket and hung it in the hall closet. Quickly, he removed his clerical collar and vest and tossed them on the closet shelf.

  She led the way into the living room. He followed very closely. They sat on the couch. She looked at him. It was clear he was unsure of the next move.

  “I’ll just get us some wine,” she said, and patted him lightly on the knee.

  He watched her leave the room. Her filmy gown caught against her body as she moved sinuously. He took out a fresh handkerchief and mopped his brow and the back of his neck. He noticed that all the shades had been lowered. He felt more at ease.

  She returned with two glasses of wine. As she bent to place them on the table in front of the couch, she revealed more than a hint of two large, rounded, firm breasts.

  As she sat next to him on the couch, he lunged at her. She was able to get both arms up and between them. She managed to hold him off, although only inches separated them. God, he’s clumsy, she thought.

  “Just a minute, lover,” she said, “don’t you want some wine?”

  He just sat there, clutching her, his mouth ajar.

  “You’re ready, aren’t you?” she said. An obvious evaluation of the situation.

  He nodded.

  “All right,” she said, “but not here. Everything is prepared downstairs.”

  She led him to the basement door and opened it.

  There were only four steps to the first landing, where the staircase took a sharp, right-angle turn descending to the basement floor.

  Thompson put his hands against either wall to steady himself. As he took the first step he thought this might be the first time he had ever gone down to paradise.

  Angela picked up the short, heavy two-by-four she had earlier placed near the door. She tried to recall all the times in the movies or on TV she had seen someone fictitiously slugged. The operation, as far as she could remember, called for hitting the victim at the point where neck meets shoulder.

  With a silent prayer for beginner’s luck, she swung from the heels.

  She hit him exactly where she intended.

  He crumpled and fell in a heap on the landing.

  She was elated. Everything was working just as planned. She retrieved his jacket and clerical collar from the closet, then tugged his heavy body down the remaining steps.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 12, 12:15 A.M.

  I have a serious pain in the neck, was Thompson’s first thought. Next, he became conscious of a cramped feeling throughout his body. Several layers of tape covered his mouth. His hands were tied and fastened tightly to the straight-backed chair on which he sat, as were his feet.

  He tried to look about as panic welled within him. It was dark. He seemed to be in an extremely small space. He looked up to a small opening through which shone a narrow shaft of light. He stared at the opening as he tried to clear his mind and figure out what had happened.

  Suddenly, a pair of eyes appeared in the opening. They looked vaguely familiar. They belonged to Angela Cicero.

  One of the eyes winked, there was a grating sound as a brick slid into place, and all was blackness.

  Angela cleaned her hands, then returned to the living room. She stretched out on the couch. She felt tired but fulfilled. The way, she thought, an avenging angel might feel.

  She decided to read herself to sleep or till Leo’s return, whichever came first. She picked up her Poe anthology, which fell open to “The Cask of Amontillado.”

  Father Koesler sat in the dining room of St. Anselm’s rectory, sipping his morning coffee. He was the only one he knew who ruined instant coffee. He could bracket this nonskill with the general run of mechanical skills, none of which, for him, was a strength. At least the brew was hot.

  He was reading the morning Free Press. He had just finished Joe Cox’s story on the missing Monsignor Thomps
on. It recalled the excitement of yesterday’s police investigation, as well as last night’s depressing reading of Thompson’s diary.

  The memory of those events so distracted him that he found himself turning page after page without paying attention to what he was reading.

  At this point, the pajama-and-bathrobe-clad Lester Schroeder passed through the dining room en route to the kitchen.

  “ ’Morning, Les.”

  “Mmmff.” Schroeder opened the refrigerator.

  “Want me to make you some coffee?”

  “No! No, that’s O.K.!” Schroeder responded as one suddenly roused from a sleepwalker’s trance.

  Koesler smiled. He had prepared instant coffee for Schroeder in the past. Once.

  Schroeder sleepily made his way back to the dining room and sank heavily into a chair opposite Koesler. He clutched a glass of orange juice as if it were a life preserver.

  Koesler chuckled as he read the sports section. “It says here,” he read, “that if the University of Michigan punter had a drug habit and tried to kick it, he would miss.”

  “Mrrfsk.” Schroeder rubbed his hand across his mouth, muffling whatever brief comment he had made.

  Koesler looked up momentarily to contemplate the sight of a tousled Schroeder rubbing his eyes with the heels of both hands. The priest read on.

  “Says here,” Koesler continued, chuckling, “that if Billy Ford took over the Ford Motor Company there’d be a lot of holding on the assembly line.”

  Silence.

  Koesler raised his gaze again, only to see Schroeder staring vacantly back. “Either what I’m reading to you is funny, or,” Koesler pointed to his cup, “somebody put something in my coffee.”

  Again the vacant stare.

  “Don’t you get it?” Koesler asked. “Billy Ford is the owner of the Detroit Lions football team, which is frequently penalized for holding. So that if—”

  “Oh, I get it all right, Bob,” Schroeder interrupted. “It’s just that I’m kind of tired.”

  Koesler checked his watch. Nine o’clock. He had been up since seven and had already said Mass for the nine or ten faithful daily communicants. But, he had to concede, nine in the morning represented the shank of the night to Schroeder.

  “What are you doing up so early, Les?”

  “Oh, I wanted to talk to you before you went out today.”

  “About what?” Being wide awake, Koesler knew he had Schroeder at a distinct disadvantage.

  “Well, I was thinking about what the faith community needs to broaden their world vision.”

  “And what might that be, Les?” Koesler reflected that if jargon were amputated from Schroeder’s vocabulary, the Deacon would be struck mute,

  “Flags! Flags of all the United Nations!” Schroeder was warming to the exposition of his plan. “Each flag on its own pole and the poles placed around the large square between the church and Outer Drive!”

  “Flags,” Koesler repeated flatly.

  “And a pagoda—a Chinese pagoda with a bell in it!”

  “A pagoda.”

  “Yes. In order to internationalize and Orientalize our faith community and impress them with the truly catholic dimensions of the world family.”

  Koesler looked long at his deacon. The priest tried very hard to keep from laughing.

  “I think we can give this the amount of study it deserves,” said Koesler, “under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you agree at the outset that you will arise each and every morning at six, go to the pagoda bell, and ring the Angelus.”

  The import of this prescript began working its way slowly into Schroeder’s matutinal consciousness.

  The phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Koesler said unnecessarily.

  Schroeder was trying to comprehend why an alarm clock would ring in that fashion.

  It was Inspector Koznicki.

  “I was wondering, Father, if you have had time to read the diary?”

  “Last night. But I only had time to read the marked sections. I plan to read the entire diary—or at least as much as we have of it—sometime today.”

  “There’s no hurry. But when you do get around to reading the rest, I think you will agree that Mr. Cox selected those passages judiciously. You have read the essence of it, Father. What do you think?”

  “I am embarrassed and shamed for him.”

  “I can understand that, Father. But I would prefer it if you would see the diary as we do. As another, perhaps very valuable, piece of evidence. As a result of having this diary, we have the names of five people who had every reason to be very angry with the Monsignor. Perhaps angry enough to have acted out his or her frustration.”

  Koesler hesitated. “Wait a minute, Inspector. Why do you want me to view the diary the way you do?”

  “Frankly, Father, I think you could be of significant help to us in this case. Now, wait; hear me out before you speak.” Koznicki correctly anticipated objections from the priest. “We feel that Church law as well as clerical procedures and protocol will figure heavily in this case. It seems clear that it was in his interpretation and administration of canon law that Monsignor Thompson appeared to provoke these people. Also, there is a good deal of priestly interplay going on. We feel we may be limping badly in the investigation of this case due to the significance of these matters and our lack of familiarity with them.

  “Frankly, Father,” sensing he had addressed most of Koesler’s more serious objections, Koznicki breathed more easily, “I have every confidence that you understand these circumstances at least as well as anyone else and that your coolly logical approach to matters that can become ambiguous will be an asset in this case.”

  Koesler had to admit that his friend had marshaled more than adequate arguments to enlist his aid. As a Christian, let alone an ordained minister, Koesler felt an obligation to do what he could to help the police and, perhaps, his classmate.

  “One thing more—” It was Koesler’s final objection. “How much of my time is going to be required? I am a full-time pastor, you know.”

  “In an investigation like this, Father,” said Koznicki, “we tend to think in terms of days. With the substantial leads we have, we should pretty well know what happened within a week. If we do not wrap this up in approximately a week, we’ll ship you back to your parish.”

  “I don’t know…” Koesler was weakening.

  “Father, you told me yourself that you hadn’t planned on using your full three weeks vacation this year. You can use a week of vacation to join our homicide investigation and accomplish what you claim is your favorite avocation—learning more about humanity.”

  “You never forget, do you?” Koesler was smiling.

  “The Polish mind never rests. Besides,” Koznicki added, “you may learn enough to write a book.”

  “Don’t be funny; who would want to read a book by a priest about a missing monsignor?”

  “May we see you soon?”

  “I’ll be downtown directly.”

  Koesler now faced an agonizing decision. Could he possibly leave Lester Schroeder in charge of this parish? There seemed no alternative. It would be an obvious insult not to appoint Schroeder caretaker. And, in truth, the ranks were thin. There was no one else available whom Koesler could think of. He had no choice but to bequeath St. Anselm’s parish to Deacon Schroeder for at least the next few days.

  “Les,” Koesler approached Schroeder, who was still pondering the insanity of rising at six to ring an Angelus, “do you know what the briefest canon in the code of canon law is?”

  Schroeder looked up inquiringly. He had no idea which was the briefest canon, the longest, or anything in between.

  “Sede vacante, nihil innovetur,” Koesler intoned.

  Schroeder smiled and retained his quizzical visage. He vaguely resembled Mad magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman.

  “It means,” Koesler explained, “when a See is unoccupied, let nothing new
be introduced.”

  “But that refers to a diocese!” Tuesday was beginning to happen to Schroeder.

  “In this case, it is a parish. This parish. I’ve got to be away from the parish more often than not for the next few days. I’ll try to get a Jesuit from the University of Detroit to cover morning Mass. And I’ll be here, of course, for the weekend liturgies. But in between, Les, just be around to pick up the pieces of little problems that may come up. Mostly, don’t get in Mary O’Connor’s way. Left to her own devices, she can run this parish as well as anyone.”

  “Gotcha!” Schroeder was brightening as the morning progressed. “You want me on deck in case there’s a kerygmatic crisis.”

  “Les, just babysit the parish for a few days.”

  “Babysit?”

  “Make sure the parish does not become a mother.”

  It was with considerable trepidation that Koesler departed for police duty.

  “I can’t take it. And I can’t tell you why.”

  Pat Lennon was close to tears, and that, for her, was completely out of character.

  Bob Ankenazy, a young news editor at the Detroit News, felt a familiar frustration. Married and the father of two girls, he was among the first to confess that though he was virtually surrounded by women, he did not understand them.

  Pat Lennon, in the two years she had been at the News, had become recognized as one of the very best and most reliable reporters in the newsroom. In story conferences, editors regularly vied to have Lennon assigned to their stories.

  And when Lennon was given an assignment, it was a thing of journalistic beauty to watch her develop it. Over the years with first the Free Press, then the News, she had gathered an impressive group of reliable contacts. Depending on their fields of expertise, they were useful in developing leads. She faithfully touched all bases, was fair and aboveboard with her sources, was capable of getting the story’s essence in the opening paragraph, and seldom required more than incidental copy editing. She brought her stories in on time, and they were invariably at the very least satisfactory.

  She was, in a word, that person with whom it is most desirable to work, a professional.