Neiss pulled into the parking lot of the Club Libra. An attendant took his car almost before he could exit it.
Neiss entered the Club. He was in mufti. At first, he could see nothing. The lights were so dim it appeared there were none. So far so good.
Gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see more clearly. He spotted a couple of empty stools at the bar and headed for one.
But most especially, he could see the stage. There, under lights that, due to the dimness that marked the rest of the Club’s interior, seemed brighter than they actually were, was Peggy O’Brien. She was wearing a G-string. That’s all. Well, there were the strapped shoes with four-inch heels. But one tended to overlook them.
It was true what they said of the Irish and their fair skin. Obviously, all of their skin was fair.
Peggy undulated to the rock and roll rhythm blaring from a nearby jukebox. Her dancing, if anyone cared to critique it, was good.
Neiss surveyed the room. Even now that his eyes had grown completely accustomed to the subdued lighting, he still could see next to nothing. Good, he thought.
Other than the waitresses and dancer, there were no women in the room. Some of the patrons studied Peggy as if she were one of the wonders of the world. Others conducted business conversations as if there were not a ravishingly beautiful nearly nude woman dancing only a few feet from them.
At one point near the end of the final number of her set, Peggy noticed and recognized Neiss. Her eyes widened, and she missed a beat. But then she concluded her dance without further incident.
She stepped from the stage to scattered applause from the studious men. The businessmen continued their conversations. She put on a robe and motioned Neiss to join her in a booth near the kitchen. As Neiss moved boothward, he noticed her successor mounting the stage. She wore a G-string and a halter top. Evidently, at one point in her performance, Peggy must have been similarly modestly attired.
“Well, I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Father.”
“Oh, I always said I’d catch you at work one day.”
Neiss didn’t add he had been surprised to see so much of her today.
“How did you like it?”
“Uh… interesting. Very interesting. And very good. Reminded me of when we did “Guys and Dolls” and you played Adelaide.”
“Only it was warmer.”
“Warmer?”
“With clothes on.”
“Oh.”
“But what brings you here, Father? You didn’t come all the way over here just to catch my act. Not in the middle of a hot afternoon.”
“Well, I do have an ulterior motive. But I don’t know exactly how to bring it up.”
“Best to come right out with it, Father. We’re friends. And besides, I’ve certainly told you any number of things that weren’t easy to confide.”
Neiss ran his finger around the rim of his glass. The beer was his ostensible reason for being in the Club.
“I was wondering if you would have any serious objection to having your picture taken with someone in a…uh… compromising position?”
“Father!”
A few patrons glanced briefly in their direction.
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Perhaps you’d better explain.”
“Yes. You’re entirely right. That was too abrupt.
“Well, there’s this monsignor, head of the marriage court. He’s made life miserable needlessly for a lot of people, and—”
“Thompson.”
“You know him?”
“I’ve heard of him from some of my friends. He’s all you say he is and more.”
“I’m glad you know about him. I don’t want to hurt him, just bring him down to earth so he can know, first-hand, what it’s like to be taken advantage of.”
“So what do you have in mind?” She was not just interested; she was now involved.
“Well, I thought I could get him in the Club next Saturday night—maybe about 10:30, 11 P.M. I could get him to drink too much, maybe even slip him a Mickey. Then we could get some photos of him, here in a booth, with you or one of the other girls. I think in those circumstances, he might think better of taking advantage of others in the future.”
She tapped a finger on the table meditatively. “It won’t be easy. That hour the place is jammed.” She smiled. “But I’ll have a booth waiting for you. And I’ll be the one in the photos with him. I know how I can carry this off without being recognized myself. And, as you’ve said, Father, it is for a very good cause.”
Neiss raised his glass of beer in salute. They smiled conspiratorially.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, 5 P.M.
So far, it had been a satisfying day off for Father Neiss. He had played tennis—not well—and gone swimming. About a half-hour previous to this moment, he had arrived at his parental home in Royal Oak. In another half-hour, dinner would be served, and he would join his father and mother at the kitchen table.
Now, he was rummaging through a medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom.
Finally, he found what he was looking for. The label on the bottle read, Somnos. It was a sleep-inducer. The bottle had been pushed to the rear of the medicine cabinet. A good sign.
Neiss carefully studied the instruction label. He saw what he was searching for. Chloral hydrate. The common ingredient in knockout drops and Mickey Finns. He had looked it up.
He could barely read the faded typed prescription. At last he deciphered the dosage: “Two capsules every three hours as needed.”
Neiss tried to estimate how many capsules it would take to render Monsignor Thompson ripe for picture taking. He had to include in his reckoning the fact that Thompson probably would be drinking. But if an older man such as Neiss’s father could safely consume two capsules every three hours, the chloral hydrate content could not be very concentrated. Neiss decided on six capsules.
He took a small white envelope from his trousers pocket, opened six Somnos capsules, and, one after another, poured their contents into the envelope.
Later, during dinner, the conversation turned to the type of health insurance Neiss’s father had been able to carry with him into retirement.
Spinning off that topic, Neiss was able to segue to, “Say, Dad, do you still take those sleeping pills?”
“Nope,” said Mr. Neiss, as he forked loose a tender piece of pot roast, “don’t need ’em any more. Sleep like a baby ever since I had that prostate operation.”
Father David Neiss knew someone who could use them. He felt a secret thrill that he, a humble parish priest, was actually going to slip someone a Mickey, just like in those detective stories. His one regret was that he could not tell his parents. He could think of no way to help them understand he was doing this for a good cause.
His father neglected to tell him—it just didn’t seem material— that the Somnos bottle in the medicine cabinet no longer contained the original prescription. The doctor had increased the dosage. Mr. Neiss had put the new capsules in the old bottle, because he didn’t like to fool with those newfangled childproof caps.
The capsules that Father Neiss had emptied into his envelope did not contain 250 milligrams. Each contained one gram, 1,000 milligrams. And the prescription on the discarded bottle had ordered only one capsule before retiring.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 10 P.M.
Even in the relatively short time he had been a priest, Father Neiss was familiar with the wedding routine from rehearsal to reception. He knew that, in all probability, by this hour there was nothing ahead in the evening for Monsignor Thompson but rubbery chicken, reconstituted potatoes, canned gravy, thawed vegetables, and cake baked for quantity not quality.
He dialed and asked for Thompson.
“Monsignor Thompson.”
“Monsignor,” Neiss, with his newfound self-confidence, had not even bothered to write out the invitation he was about to extend, “this is Dave Neiss—Father Neiss. You might not remember me. I’m the young pries
t you advised a couple of weeks ago. It involved a Polish first consort in a defectus formae case. I was a little reluctant to get that testimony until you made me see the light.”
“Uh,” Thompson grunted. For the life of him, he couldn’t think why Neiss should be calling at all, let alone having him called to the phone during a wedding reception.
“I wanted you to know that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the advice you gave me then. About not getting involved emotionally with clients. I think if I can just put that advice into practice it could turn my whole priesthood around. You may have more influence on me than all the spiritual directors I had in the seminary.”
That made sense to Thompson. It had been good advice, damn good!
“So, I’ve been thinking that if we could get together every once in a while, more of your philosophy could rub off on me. I know I could learn a lot from you. And when I heard you were going to be at this wedding reception, I remembered all the receptions I’ve had to attend—and you’ve had so many more—and I thought I could start out by returning a favor, and get you out of the reception and into something more, uh, relaxing for a Saturday night.
“Monsignor, I’d like to take you out to a real neat place I know. It’s pretty close to St. David’s where you live. The name of the place is the Club Libra. They’ve got great entertainment; it’s dark enough in there so no one will recognize us; I know one of the entertainers who’s promised us a good booth, and the drinks are on me.”
“You don’t mean it!” He spoke loudly enough so that several waiters glanced at him. Neiss had correctly surmised that Thompson was bored with this wedding, which was a carbon of the hundreds of previous weddings he’d been forced to witness, participate in, or suffer through. This sounded like a dandy out. In addition, this young lad could learn a lot from him. Neiss needed him.
“Oh, yes, I certainly do mean it.” This was working better than Neiss could have hoped. For once, he was going to carry off without a blemish a goddamn tour de force. “In fact, I have an extra sport shirt you can wear. I can lend it to you when we meet.”
“Where?”
“Well, we do want this to be between just the two of us. How about we meet in De La Salle’s parking lot?”
“I’ll be right there!”
Thompson made hurried excuses, mounted his Eldorado, and hurried down Gratiot. Neiss was waiting at the school’s parking lot. Thompson noticed the congealed blood. Muttering a soft curse, he wiped the wheel, rear-view mirror, and gearshift before joining Neiss and donning the proffered shirt, leaving his clerical collar and shirt in Neiss’s car.
Even though it was dark outside, the darkness of the Club Libra, complicated by clouds of tobacco smoke, was such that, on entering, neither Thompson nor Neiss could see. But they were seen. Peggy O’Brien, performing on stage, winked at the hostess, and the two priests were literally led to a ringside table. Still the two drinking companions could scarcely see each other. To everyone’s way of thinking, it was perfect.
“May I take your orders, gentlemen?” asked a waitress dressed in very little black silk.
“A light beer,” said Neiss.
“Jack Daniel’s neat with water on the side,” commanded Thompson.
By this time, they had no trouble seeing the performer who was gyrating only a few feet from them.
“Would you believe it, Monsignor? That girl used to perform in our parish plays.”
“Don’t call me Monsignor, dummy! Not in here.”
Neiss was aggrieved. The music’s volume was such to preclude anyone—even at the nearest table—from overhearing them.
Thompson drained the Jack Daniel’s in a single gulp and sipped the water. This disappointed Neiss, whose little white envelope was at the ready. He hoped Thompson would order another drink. As it turned out, that was like hoping rabbits would have babies.
The second and third Jack Daniel’s went about as unceremoniously as the first. Thompson dawdled over his fourth drink. Peggy O’Brien had captured his interest entirely. She was down to her G-string, and God! like the Grand Canyon—mutatis mutandis—she was a wonder. Thompson’s dallying gave Neiss the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Into Thompson’s drink went 6,000 milligrams of chloral hydrate.
“Say she used to dance at your parish?” Thompson’s speech was becoming slurred.
“Yes, Tom.” Neiss still nursed his first beer.
“Like that?”
“No. In full costume.”
“Pity. You wouldn’t have needed Bingo.”
The waitress kept coming to their table like the sorcerer’s apprentice.
After Thompson’s seventh slug of whiskey, his face seemed to flush abruptly and he appeared to sink into a deep sleep. This seemed to Neiss to be about what the doctor ordered. Serendipitously, Peggy finished her set, grabbed a robe, and headed for their table.
Just to assure himself all was well, Neiss found Thompson’s wrist, and felt for his pulse. Either he was doing a poor job of locating the pulse, or it was very, very weak. Then—could it be?— the pulse stopped altogether. He felt for an artery in the neck. Nothing. He held a water glass against Thompson’s lips. No vapor. Thompson was not breathing.
My God! thought Neiss; he’s dead. I’ve killed him!
Just then, Peggy slipped into the booth very, very close to Thompson. One look at Neiss’s face was enough to wipe the smile off hers. She conducted her own study of Thompson’s absent vital signs.
“My God!” she said, a bit too loudly, “you’ve killed him!”
“Shhh!” Neiss admonished. “I’m not sure what to do next, but letting everybody know he’s dead is not it.”
“Now what?” Peggy waved away the cameraman with whom she had arranged for the compromising photos.
“What do we do next?” Neiss echoed.
“We mustn’t panic,” Peggy directed. “But we’ve got to get rid of the body.”
“How do you do that?”
“How do I do that? It’s your body!”
Neiss considered that only fair. “O.K., how do I do that?”
“Let me think.” And she did.
“Wait a minute,” she said at length, “did you read in the paper the other day how that Cass Avenue drunk fell into a dumpster and was loaded into a garbage truck and came to screaming just before he was dumped out?”
“Ye… es,” Neiss slowly recollected.
“Well, if he hadn’t wakened, the guy would now be part of a landfill.”
“No kidding! Do you think it would work?”
“Can you think of anything else?”
Neiss shook his head. He was infinitely grateful for even one idea.
“O.K.,” said Peggy. “Leave enough for the bar bill and tip. We’ll drag him out between us. It won’t be the first time a drunk has been carried out unconscious.”
Awkwardly, they worked Thompson’s body out of the booth. Stumbling frequently, they managed to get him out of the Club with no one the wiser as to his true condition.
“O.K.,” Peggy panted, “there’s a dumpster out back. With any luck, nobody’ll be around it now.”
“With any luck, we’d be taking pictures now. And Monsignor Thompson would be dead drunk instead of just dead.”
Lurching and stage-whispering encouragements and reproaches at each other, they dragged Thompson’s dead weight to the rear of the Club. There was, indeed, a huge dumpster. And, as luck would have it, no one was around.
“I’ll climb up and pull,” Peggy directed, “and you stay here and push.”
That seemed fair to Neiss. Peggy clambered up. Laboriously, Neiss positioned Thompson’s bulk and began to push as hard as he could. Suddenly, he felt soft, warm, rounded flesh. It was not Monsignor Thompson’s bottom Neiss was pushing. It was Peggy’s.
“Father! Please! This is not the time to get fresh!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Unintentional! Unintentional!”
At long last, Thompson’s body tumbled into the dumpster.
Neiss climbed up and with Peggy began burying Thompson’s body beneath the garbage and bottles. The body well buried, they descended from the dumpster to brush themselves off and catch their breath.
“Now what?” Neiss inquired.
“Tomorrow morning, a garbage hauler will stop here, dump these contents in the truck, compact them, take them out of town, and dump them in a landfill.
“Now you go home and say your prayers that all goes well and no one uncovers the body.”
“It was intended to be in a good cause,” said Neiss, lamely.
“Father, do me a big favor: next time you come up with a good cause, go check it out with the Salvation Army.”
The conspirators parted and went their separate ways.
Yesterday’s inclement weather had cleared out of Michigan, and a delightful high pressure system with cool breezes from Canada had replaced the rain. This was the kind of day when it was a crime to be forced to stay inside.
Joe Cox was at his desk wearing a smug smile. On his desk was a copy of today’s FreePress as well as an early morning copy of today’s News. Each was opened to the latest installment of the Missing Monsignor story as by-lined by Joe Cox and Bob Ankenazy for the Free Press and News, respectively.
Today’s installment, in each paper, involved an unnamed Detroit banker who had ample reason to be the cause of whatever might possibly have happened to Monsignor Thompson.
To anyone reading both papers, it was clear that the Free Press coverage of this mystery was by far the more complete and colorful. Only the accounts written by Cox included, in graphic detail, the mean and nasty things Thompson had done to a suburban housewife and a Detroit banker. The series promised more scandal to come.
Readers of both papers were implicitly invited to join in the guessing game. Who had done what to Monsignor Thompson, whose reputation was slowly deteriorating. So far, readers of the Free Press had the better run at the solution.
“Cox! “ Nelson Kane called across the several desks that separated them.
Instinctively, Cox rose from behind his desk. He finished reading Ankenazy’s last paragraph before attending Kane. Poor slob, Cox thought of Ankenazy, he’s crippled without the diary, and the poor son-of-a-bitch probably doesn’t even know it.
Mind Over Murder Page 27