Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  He locked the car and hurried the short distance to City Airport and the waiting Learjet.

  Both he and Lee Brand would enjoy a contented sleep this night.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 12, 6 P.M. P.D.T.

  Lee Brand stood near the canopied gangplank of the Alaskan Queen. He had been waiting there since the ship had docked in San Francisco one half-hour earlier. His eyes were in constant motion. They sought the figure of Monsignor Thompson, while also staying alert for any passer-by who might know Thompson. This was one of the plot’s most delicate moments.

  Finally, there he was, Monsignor Thomas Thompson, unmistakable though disguised in mufti.

  Smiling, the two men shook hands.

  “I see you used the threads we got you in L.A.,” said Brand.

  “Yeah,” said Thompson, “your chauffeur said he’d have my clericals cleaned and put aboard.”

  “Not to worry. It will be done.

  “Well, Monsignor,” Brand continued, his expansive gesture indicating the bustling crowd of passengers and visitors scurrying about the Main Deck, “what do you think?”

  “Great, Lee. Really great. You know, I’ve never done anything like this—just checking out of the diocese without any preparation. It’s kind of fun. Like skipping school. Or,” Thompson elbowed Brand jokingly, “just saying to hell with the diocese!”

  “That’s right, Monsignor. Don’t worry; I took care of notifying everyone who needs notifying. But then, who deserves a break more than you?”

  “Nobody I can think of!” Thompson laughed a little too loudly.

  Good, thought Brand; he’s been drinking. All that first-class booze laid in at the hotel room had not gone to waste.

  “C’mon, Monsignor,” Brand took Thompson lightly by the arm and guided him toward the elevator, “let’s go up to your cabin.”

  “Let’s.”

  They were alone on the elevator. It stopped at Boat Deck. The first cabin immediately to the right of the elevators, 301, was Brand’s back-up. It was, indeed, a luxurious outside double.

  Brand found the key and let Thompson into the cabin. Thompson entered, studied the decor, and whistled. “Say, this really is First Class.”

  Since Brand’s phone call the night before, Thompson had been taking each step with a grain of salt. He was determined not to be blindsided by the wily Brand. Yet, so far, every Brand promise had been as good as his bond. The Learjet had been waiting. Thompson had been the sole passenger on what could only be described as a luxury flight to San Francisco, where he had been met by a liveried chauffeur. The suite at the St. Francis had been opulent, and there was no way he could have complained about the contents of the liquor cabinet.

  And, true to his word, Brand had arranged for his vacation from sacerdotal duties. Thompson had been saved the trouble of checking with the Chancery this morning; on waking, he’d been reassured by finding a telegram from Monsignor Iming under his door. It read: DIOCESE WILL TRY TO MUDDLE THROUGH WITHOUT YOU FOR TWO WEEKS. BON VOYAGE!

  And now, this, his cabin for the next two glorious weeks. From experience, Thompson knew this must be among the finest cabins on board.

  For the first time in this rather frantic nearly twenty-four hours, Thompson began to relax. And, as he did so, the liquor he had somewhat nervously consumed in his hotel suite began to catch up with him. He sat down heavily on the bed.

  “Well, Monsignor,” said Brand, “now you can relax.”

  The invitation was unnecessary. Thompson had already begun to relax.

  Brand wheeled out of the closet an elaborate liquor service.

  “We’ll be eating at the second sitting,” he said, “so I thought we could lounge over a drink or two.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’d better. I had a few, at the hotel, you know.”

  “That’s what this is for.” Brand pushed forward a generously loaded if small plate of cold cuts and cheese. “So the booze won’t hurt you.”

  “Ne potus noceat,” Thompson translated. “How nice!”

  Although feeling lightheaded, Thompson decided he could withstand a fresh onslaught of liquor. It would not be long till dinner. Food always took the edge off almost any level of intoxication, he had found. Besides, he knew the reputation cruise ships enjoyed for the quality and quantity of their food.

  Thompson made an instantaneous resolution. To hell with his diet; he was going to enjoy the food on this cruise. And to hell with his lightheadedness. Another drink or two would only enhance the taste of dinner. He formed an open-faced sandwich with a potpourri of ingredients. The first taste actually did make him feel a bit more steady.

  Brand sat on the other bed, opposite Thompson. On the serving cart between them, he placed two glasses filled with ice water. Not many things surprised Thompson any more, but that did.

  Brand noticed Thompson’s surprised look and smiled. Placing two more glasses on the cart, he poured a solid three fingers of Jack Daniel’s in each.

  “So the water doesn’t hurt the Jack Daniel’s,” he explained.

  Thompson smiled and sipped the whiskey happily.

  Three drinks later, Thompson felt little pain. Brand still nursed his original libation.

  Thompson chuckled. “I’ll never forget it.” His speech was noticeably slurred. “All the time you thought we were working on your daughter’s case, we were doing nothing about it. I used to think about you, going about your business, confident that we were solving your problems. And then, when you showed up at the Tribunal and you knew the game was over. God, Lee, but you’re a poor loser! Oh, you gave the impression you were in control. But I could tell you were just seething. Oh, yes, you are a very poor loser, indeed.

  “But, as you say, that’s all water under the dam. Or was it over the dam… the goddamned dam.” Thompson laughed more loudly than his joke deserved.

  The smile on Brand’s face was frozen. If it had not been for his befuddled state, Thompson would have noticed this. He also would have noticed that Brand’s knuckles had turned white around the glass he clutched. Thompson also might have noticed the ominous formation of those parallel vertical lines on Brand’s forehead. But Thompson was well past a state of sharp perception.

  Brand glanced at his watch. Never did he lose his plaster-of-paris smile. “Looks like it’s time for dinner, Monsignor.”

  “About time, too,” Thompson slurred.

  Actually, it was 8:30. The second sitting had begun fifteen minutes ago.

  Thompson rose unsteadily from the bed. Brand assisted him up and out of the cabin. Thompson protested his ability to take care of himself. But he did not protest too much.

  Brand led him onto the open promenade of Boat Deck. “Let’s get a little air before we head down for dinner,” he urged.

  The promenade was empty except for Brand and Thompson. Just as Brand had planned. The diners of the first sitting were watching the first presentation of either the evening movie or the stage show in the lounge. The diners of the second sitting were fifteen minutes into their meal. No one was around. No one but Brand and a handful of his faithful, well-paid employees even knew that Thompson was aboard the Alaskan Queen.

  “You missed the lifeboat drill, Monsignor,” Brand said as he steadied the unsteady priest.

  “The what?”

  “Boat drill. In case of emergency we get into the lifeboats.”

  “Lifeboats? Where?”

  “Just up there, Monsignor. They’re attached to the Navigation Deck just above us.”

  “Above us.” Thompson looked vaguely heavenward. “I don’t see any damn boats.”

  “Well, here, Monsignor,” Brand unlatched the railing gate and opened it, “just step through here and we can get a better look.”

  It was frightening. Nothing separated them from the now foreboding Pacific but a narrow ridge of planking. In spite of himself, Brand was filled with dread. Thompson, a shadow of his usually alert self, seemed oblivious.

  “Where? Where?” Thompson continued to scan the
skies for the elusive lifeboats.

  “Right up there, Monsignor. One deck above us.”

  Thompson leaned precariously over the edge. “Oh, yeah. I see ’em now.”

  Thompson was only one small nudge from joining the fish of the sea. Vengeance is mine, thought Brand.

  Five very large men dwarfed the room. Four wore guns but no jackets. The fifth was dressed in a black suit and wore a Roman collar.

  It was a very hot, muggy Wednesday, August 15. The forecast was for intermittent showers with a threat of thunderstorms. It was nearing 9 A.M. The working day, at least for four very vital members of the Homicide Division, was about to begin officially.

  “About the only thing we know for sure,” said Bill Lynch, “is that on Saturday evening, August 11, Leo Cicero went bowling.”

  Walter Koznicki and Ned Harris exchanged glances.

  “What does that have to do with the disappearance of Monsignor Thompson?” Harris asked.

  “Nothing really,” Lynch replied. “Except that’s the only solid information we have so far.”

  Sergeants Lynch and Patrick were giving a verbal report to their superior officers.

  Father Koesler once more felt like excess baggage. It was true that he had not planned on using this week for vacation, but he was sure there were better ways of using it than by being a superfluous adjunct to a couple of Homicide detectives.

  “Cicero left his house a little before nine,” Patrick continued. “Several neighbors heard the car leave the driveway, and his bowling partners corroborate that he arrived at or before nine. He didn’t return home until nearly two Sunday morning.”

  “How about Mrs. Cicero’s story that she was called to the scene of her daughter’s nonexistent accident?” asked Harris.

  “No way of verifying it,” said Lynch. “None of the neighbors noticed her going or returning. No one at or near the scene of the “accident” remembers her car. She could have gone there, but there’s no way she can prove it.

  “One of the neighbors thinks she saw a cab stop in front of the Cicero house sometime between 10:30 and 11, but she isn’t sure. We’ve checked all the major companies and there’s no record of a run to that address. If there was a cab, it had to be from a little fly-by-night outfit or a driver who doesn’t keep very good records.”

  “So it’s a brick wall so far, eh?” Harris concluded.

  “The one big thing she’s got going for her,” said Patrick, “is that we haven’t got a body.”

  Something at the back of Koesler’s consciousness knocked for attention. The priest could not bring it to the fore. He was unsuccessfully trying to recall Angela Cicero’s copy of the Poe anthology. He had planned to check his own copy to try to determine which story she had been reading. But he had forgotten about that, too.

  “Bill thinks the kid at the Roma parking lot is holding back,” said Patrick. “We intend to get back to him in a couple of days.”

  “Why the delay?” Harris asked.

  “He’s stewing right now,” said Lynch. “Just want to give him enough time to figure we’re done with him. Then we’ll bounce him hard.”

  “What is your assessment Of Angela Cicero, Father?” asked Inspector Koznicki.

  “Me?” Koesler was caught off guard at being suddenly included in the discussion. “I guess she’s a good woman. I really don’t know her very well.”

  Koznicki smiled. He knew that Koesler thought most people were basically good unless he was given more than adequate reason to believe the contrary.

  “ No, I meant temperament, Father. Would you say she was a shy, retiring type?”

  “Oh, no,” Koesler responded quickly, “quite the contrary. She is most self-assertive. One of the most self-motivated people I’ve ever known.”

  Patrick arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t get that impression.”

  Koesler reminded him of Angela’s Roman intervention on behalf of her daughter.

  Patrick inclined his head in an “I stand corrected” gesture. “Then she does have enough spunk to have actually carried this off.”

  “Oh, no,” Koesler protested, “Mrs. Cicero couldn’t murder anyone, especially a priest.” Even as he made the assertion, Koesler recalled Angela’s confession just before her daughter’s wedding and her hatred for Thompson.

  “Father,” Lynch drawled, “the first rule in a homicide investigation is to remember that anybody can kill anybody. All you’ve got to do is find the body and the motive. Not necessarily in that order.”

  “Who’s next?” Harris asked.

  “Lee Brand,” Patrick answered.

  “Brand and his wife are on a cruise,” said Lynch. His secretary gave us his itinerary.” Lynch consulted his notes. “The ship is going to be docked in Vancouver until 5 P.M. Pacific time today. Want us to go out there and question him?”

  In spite of themselves, smiles crossed the faces of Patrick and Lynch at the thought of escaping this oppressive Detroit heat.

  Harris looked questioningly at Koznicki.

  “Sorry,” said Koznicki, “not a chance. We’re on an austerity budget. Besides, that’s not only out of our jurisdiction, it’s Canada. Get the Vancouver police to look into it for us.

  “We’ll meet again tomorrow morning.”

  The meeting adjourned. Harris and Koznicki left the room.

  “This may be a silly question,” Koesler asked, after a brief silence, “and I hope I don’t offend you. I mean, one of the surest ways of upsetting a priest is when someone asks him what he does all day after he says Mass… but, if the Vancouver police are going to question Mr. Brand, what are you going to do today?”

  Lynch leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Patrick’s crow’s-feet crinkled in a smile.

  “We’re going to continue our investigation into a couple of other homicides,” said Patrick. “There are plenty to go around. We seldom, if ever, are working on just one case at a time.”

  “Oh,” said Koesler, “I see.”

  Lynch sat upright. “And what are you going to do all day, Father? After you’ve said Mass, that is?”

  Koesler laughed. “Actually, I haven’t said Mass yet. But I will. This is a holy day of obligation, the feast of the Assumption of Mary. I plan on taking the evening Mass.”

  Both Lynch and Patrick were Catholic. While each attended Mass quite regularly on Sundays, neither paid much attention to the Church’s six holy days of obligation. Now, confronted with the fact that they were obliged to attend Mass, yet having had no previous intention of attending, they felt slightly uncomfortable.

  “What time is that Mass of yours this evening, Father?” Patrick asked.

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “We may just see you later,” Patrick said.

  “Damn, Sam!” Lynch commented.

  “I can get up there and be back today!”

  “I know you can, but you’re not going to!”

  The argument was familiar. Only the details changed.

  “Come on, Nellie,” Joe Cox pleaded, “for the sake of journalistic integrity, let me go to Vancouver!”

  “Journalistic integrity! Journalistic integrity!” Kane bellowed, “journalistic integrity be damned! You just want a free vacation day!”

  They were now both shouting, and the few reporters who were not busy on assignments were plainly amused. Cox suddenly became aware of the city room’s attention. He lowered his voice and his manner. “Easy, now, Nellie,” he said, soothingly. “A round-trip to Vancouver is not going to put the Free Press into receivership.”

  “I know that and you know that,” Kane lowered his voice to match Cox’s, “and we both know that Lowell holds the travel vouchers. There’s no way you’re going to get on a plane without Lowell’s O.K.”

  “So?”

  “So you are currently near the top of his shit list.”

  Cox knew that. He also knew it was Nelson Kane himself who occupied the pinnacle of that list.

  “Listen,” Kane continued, “cal
l the Vancouver Guardian; Lowell doesn’t have to approve that. Get somebody to string for us. Give them the line of questioning you need, and ask them to hop aboard the Alaskan Queen and interview Brand.”

  Cox was not surprised. If he had written a scenario beforehand, this is precisely how it would have read. But it never hurt to try for a free trip.

  “Oh, and Cox…” Kane had resumed his chair and was unwrapping a very inexpensive cigar, which, fortunately, he would not light. “…get me a lead obit for the final.”

  “An obituary!" Cox seemed genuinely offended. “It’s come to this: I’m back writing obits!”

  “Get me a lead obit,” Kane repeated.

  “I think I’ve been violated!”

  “Get off my back, Cox; you’ve never been integral.”

  Bob Ankenazy waited in the General Assignments Unit office. His friend, Sergeant Terri Scanlon, was bird-dogging Homicide for him to see what Sergeants Lynch and Patrick were up to today.

  Ankenazy was feeling slightly smug. Joe Cox had some kind of edge over him, and the Homicide cops were being no help. But with all those slammed doors, Ankenazy had found an open window. Terri Scanlon, whom he had known for years, was willing to get him the necessary information. In return, all that was expected was that he babysit the phone and take messages.

  For every moment the phone did not ring, Ankenazy was grateful. A phone call at GAU could be anything from a mark’s complaint to a threatened bombing. The business of GAU was, as its name implied, very general. They investigated bombings, embezzlements, crimes by city employees other than police, and con games. They licensed junkyards and checked pawnshops and hotels for illegalities. And they provided security details for some downtown stores.

  Ankenazy was diverting himself by imagining the kinds of calls that could find their way to the GAU and raising the absurdity of the calls to the ninth power, when Scanlon came back.