Shanley leaned back and closed his eyes. As he sat very still, he could envision the coming week. Maybe it wouldn’t be impossible.
MONDAY, AUGUST 6, 10 A.M.
Shanley decided to begin at the finale of his plot and work backwards. As chaplain at several small hospitals, he had become an integral part of many of the hospitals’ successes as well as their failures. At times, he was able to rejoice with the families of the rejuvenated patients. At others, he grieved with the bereaved. Bereavement, in most cases, led to a cemetery.
Shanley, as was his habit, had become friendly with the employees of these cemeteries. So his call earlier this morning to Rick Fox, in charge of the crematorium at Woodward Cemetery, had been enthusiastically received.
Damn few priests or ministers even acknowledged Fox’s existence, let alone showed any interest in him. Shanley had been the exception. As often as they met at the cemetery, the priest would greet Fox, inquire as to his family’s health and, most of all, ask after family members who from time to time might be ailing.
Fox happily anticipated Shanley’s visit, and assured him that 10 A.M. would be a good time. It would be between funerals.
Located near the West Seven-Mile Road fence a far distance from the Woodward Avenue front gates, the crematorium building resembled a chalet. It comprised an impressive vaulted A-frame interdenominational chapel, mausoleums and, of course, the retorts —two of them.
Shanley arrived for his visit promptly at ten. He exchanged greetings with Fox, and learned that, for once, all members of Fox’s family enjoyed reasonable health.
“But you didn’t come all the way out here just to find out how we was,” Fox said, smiling.
“No, you’re right, Rick. There is something more. I’ve got a problem. Or, rather, I’m going to have a problem.”
Fox’s smile quickly segued into a concerned frown. “Oh? Anything I can help with?”
“Yes, I think so, Rick. But something I don’t want you to get involved in.”
“How we going to do that, Father?”
“What would you say, Rick, if I asked to borrow your keys to this place for just this Saturday night?”
Fox paused and considered. “Geez, I don’t know, Father. I shouldn’t ever leave these keys out of my possession.”
“Well, this way you don’t know what I’m going to do here. I suppose you read about me in the paper?”
“Saw it on TV.” Fox seemed embarrassed that he knew of Shanley’s disgrace.
“Then you know I can’t priest in a church for a month.”
Fox nodded.
“Maybe I’m going to conduct a service in the chapel here.”
“Is that what you’re going to do, Father?”
“I said maybe that’s what I’m going to do. The whole thing is, you trust me enough to lend me your keys for Saturday night. And you help me out a whole lot. If anyone sees me here, I’ll take full responsibility.”
Fox paused and pondered again. “Geez, I don’t know, Father. I’ll have to think this over awhile, O.K.?”
“I guess I can’t ask for any more than that. Sure, Rick, I’ll get back to you later in the week.” Shanley looked around the room. “That casket over there,” he indicated a wooden coffin resting on a four-wheel cart, “are you going to cremate that now?
Fox nodded.
“Mind if I watch?”
“Oh, no, Father. No problem.” Fox was pleased to have the company.
Shanley studied Fox’s every move, asking questions at nearly every step. Along the way, Shanley learned that: metal caskets must have their lids removed; the cremation process requires anywhere from one to three hours, depending on the container type; the temperature in the retort reaches approximately 1700 degrees Fahrenheit; the body simply dissolves; the process can be viewed through any of three openings in the rear of the retort; viewing is not physically uncomfortable since a downward draft pulls the heat out the bottom of the retort; only the white dust—calcium—is retained; the rest is brushed aside. And that when frozen bodies come from the morgue, they must be defrosted prior to incineration.
Apparently, even crematoria are not exempt from gallows humor.
Shanley thanked Fox for the crash course in cremation. Fox thanked Shanley for his interest in an unpopular subject. Shanley promised Fox a call later in the week. Fox promised Shanley serious consideration of his request for keys.
MONDAY, AUGUST 6, 1 P.M.
On his way back to the apartment, Shanley made a slight detour. He stopped at a U-Haul outlet on Gratiot, where he purchased a garment box, 24 by 21 by 48, for $6.79. He had no difficulty bringing it up to the apartment on the service elevator. People were forever moving things in and out at 1300 Lafayette East.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 2 P.M.
It was as easy as he had been told. Anybody could get cyanide.
A pharmacist friend told Shanley that if he needed cyanide to kill some of the more stubborn weeds in his mother’s garden, all he had to do was find a garden supply store, preferably one of the old-time ones.
Shanley had selected Kowalski Lawn Supplies on Joseph Campau in Hamtramck. He was waited on by none other than Mr. Kowalski himself, who warned Shanley to dilute the cyanide or he would have trouble. Shanley assured the proprietor the cyanide would be put into liquid form.
Shanley was required to sign for the cyanide, but he was not required to produce identification. He signed the first name that occurred to him: Mark Boyle.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 4 P.M.
On his return to the apartment from Kowalski’s, Shanley phoned Rick Fox.
Against his better judgment, but because he could not conceive of a priest’s doing anything seriously wrong, and because Shanley had always been so friendly and solicitous, Fox had decided to let him borrow the keys that would admit him into the cemetery and the chalet. But only for Saturday evening. Shanley thanked Fox profusely and assured him he would pick up the keys Saturday afternoon and return them no later than Sunday afternoon.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 10 P.M.
From his own experience, Shanley knew this was the time to call. The wedding dinner would have just begun.
“Monsignor Thompson.” The voice and tone were unmistakable.
“Monsignor, this is Father Norm Shanley.”
That was odd, Thompson thought; he sounded friendly.
“The more I think about what happened—and I’ve had a lot of time to think lately—the more I’m convinced I was wrong, and you were doing no more than your duty in upholding the law.”
“Uh…" Thompson was about to strongly suggest that if Shanley wanted to apologize, he might better do so during business hours. However, the next name Shanley spoke caught Thompson’s ear and interest.
“Lee Brand is really the cause of my being in this predicament. Brand and my own poor judgment. I don’t suppose you know this, Monsignor, but Brand has me staying in his downtown penthouse, probably to salve his own conscience. Well, I’ve decided that Brand owes both of us something. Me, for getting me in all this trouble with his damned publicity. And you, for flaunting his flouting of your authority. So I’ve decided to throw a party here in his apartment tonight that will go a long way toward breaking his lease—if you know what I mean!”
“You don’t mean it!” Thompson definitely knew what Shanley meant and was getting enthusiastic about the possibilities. Several waiters glanced at him.
“We ought to enjoy ourselves at Brand’s expense, Monsignor. We’ve got just time to get you here and settled in before the party begins. But, I was thinking, there’s no place to park here and it wouldn’t be smart to leave your Eldorado on the street in this neighborhood. And it might look funny to the priests at St. David’s to have your car parked there and your not being in the rectory. So I thought I’d meet you and drive you here.”
“Where?”
“How about the parking lot at De La Salle, say in about half an hour.”
“I’ll be right there.”
They used the service elevator to reach the penthouse. As Shanley had figured, at that hour and in the service elevator, they met no one.
“Not a bad place,” said Thompson, inspecting the rooms after taking in the view, “Undoubtedly the scene of many a Brand nookie party.” Thompson was particularly stimulated at the thought of making it where Brand had—sort of a violation of Brand himself.
“When does the party start?” Thompson called out.
“In a very little while,” said Shanley, returning to the living room. “We’ll make sure we get you out before the police are called… but have a slug of this while you’re waiting, Monsignor.” Shanley offered him a glass containing a dark golden liquid. “It’s Frangelico, a really pleasant liqueur.”
Thompson took the glass and passed it beneath his nose. “Smells nutty,” he commented.
“Yes.”
Shanley left the room as Thompson tossed down the drink in a single gulp.
From the kitchen, Shanley could hear the gasps, the staggering, the crash of a lamp and then, silence. He returned to the living room. Monsignor Thompson was on the floor. He was blue. The reason Shanley had decided on poison to do it was to avoid the necessity for being present when death occurred. He had succeeded.
Shanley was able—with some difficulty—to get Thompson’s body in the garment box. The trip in the service elevator and in Shanley’s station wagon was without incident. Nor had he any problem entering Woodward Cemetery and Crematorium. But since the retort portal was sized for coffins, Shanley had to—with much tugging— drag the body out of the garment box before he was able—with much shoving—to get it in the retort. After which he dismantled the box and pushed the sections in after the body for good measure.
Remembering all he had seen Fox do, Shanley closed the heavy door, turned on the oil pump, flipped the switch and set the timer for an hour and a half. Instantly, three jets of flame shot out of the retort’s inner walls.
Shanley sat down to wait.
Lee Brand might wonder about that white ash that covered the earth in his flower pots. Shanley would tell him it was fertilizer.
Getting married sensitizes one to the institution. That was the only reason Harry Kirwan could think of to explain his reading wedding announcements in the Detroit News on this sleepy first Sunday of August.
He and Mary Ann would be wed this coming Thursday evening at a candlelight ceremony in St. Stevens Episcopal Church in Farmington Hills. It would not be an unmixed blessing. From all indications, very few of her relations would attend. Her parents were attending, but under protest, and only because they had found a priest who was lenient enough to give them a permission—which was not, in fact, his prerogative to give. But then, some priests were forever giving, or withholding, permissions, in matters that should be settled by the individual’s conscience.
These thoughts were passing through Kirwan’s stream of consciousness when his eye caught Monsignor Thompson’s name.
So, according to the August 5 issue of the Detroit News, Monsignor Thomas Thompson would be at a wedding reception at Roma Hall in East Detroit on the evening of August 11. It was unlikely that any of his cronies would be with him. He would be unguarded, unprotected, among strangers, virtually alone, vulnerable.
Later this Sunday afternoon, Kirwan would take his fiancée for a drive to his parents’ home on the shores of Union Lake. He and Mary Ann would be happy to be together but, as happened often lately, there would be an emotional cloud of unhappiness shadowing their good times. And that cloud was due to none other than Monsignor Thompson. He and his silly Polish rule had changed their lives, probably for all time to come.
If no one but Kirwan himself were affected, he might have been able to forgive and forget. But the life most directly affected was Mary Ann’s. This injury he could neither forgive nor forget.
He briefly pictured a confrontation with Thompson. But what good would a sound thrashing do? It might just possibly improve Kirwan’s disposition. It certainly would do nothing to save future victims of Thompson’s capriciousness.
Was he, Harry Kirwan, Public Relations Manager of Michigan Bell Telephone Company, then called to the beau geste? He pondered that one a while. Ubiquitous arguments against the ultimate involvement poked their heads up. Only one consideration surfaced on the opposite side of the question. If he did not do something drastic, no one would. In the end, the latter argument prevailed.
He gathered and stacked the Sunday papers and checked his watch. He still had a couple of hours before he was to pick up Mary Ann. Perhaps time enough to plan the extraordinary events of the coming week. As he sat very still, in his mind’s eye he could envision these events unfolding. He was amazed at how simple it all seemed.
MONDAY, AUGUST 6, THROUGH THE DAY
It was as Kirwan had suspected. He and Thompson had several mutual acquaintances. Among them were quite a few local politicians and businesspeople.
It did not take long to learn many things about Monsignor Thompson. And this time, Harry didn’t even have to call in any markers. His sources spoke freely and easily about Thompson. He was fairly well liked by some fairly prominent people. Where there was antipathy, it ran deep. He enjoyed lavish vacations and tagged along on such junkets with wealthy friends quite regularly.
It would be an understatement to say he liked to gamble. He was, indeed, just this side of being a wagerholic. He particularly favored card games, especially poker. He played with priest buddies but preferred the company of VIPs with whom there seldom was a ceiling on stakes.
Kirwan was confident he had more than enough information to act.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 10, 1:30 P.M.
Kirwan was visiting the site of a planned Bell office building in Dearborn within sight of Ford World Headquarters, more familiarly known as the Glass House. Ranged about the landscape were very large trucks, a variety of mammoth construction vehicles, and building materials. The formation of the new building had scarcely begun. Kirwan approached the foreman, Bill Dowd, a Bell employee Kirwan had known for years.
“Hi, Harry,” Dowd greeted him, “when’s the cornerstone laying?”
“August 24,” Kirwan consulted a pocket calendar. “Just two weeks from today.”
Dowd surveyed the chaotic scene. “Well, we’ll be ready for them. Should have most of the foundation done by then.”
Dowd, accompanied by Kirwan, began walking toward the actual site of the building.
“Who’s going to be here for it?” Dowd asked.
“Oh, the Mayor of Dearborn, a few other local politicos, the guys from the appropriate Congressional districts, a clergyman or two.”
“Not the Mayor of Detroit?” Dowd asked, chuckling.
Kirwan smiled ruefully. “Not likely. He raised enough hell when the company decided to build in Dearborn instead of Detroit. But we’ll probably get a gang of protesters complete with picket signs.”
“Oughta get jobs!”
“What?”
“If they had jobs,” Dowd expatiated, “they wouldn’t have time to waste our time. See ’em every night on TV. I think that’s why they’re there, mostly: to show up on TV. Sick of ’em.”
Dowd came to a halt. They were at the actual site where the building would be erected. He looked into the excavation fondly. He loved to see new buildings rise. It was his raison d’être.
“Pouring the foundation?” Kirwan asked needlessly. It was obvious.
“Yeah. We got about half the concrete in. Should finish it Monday.”
“Who’s standing guard nights and weekends?”
“McNamara. You know Mac.”
Kirwan nodded.
“Figure we can get by with just one ’cause we’ve got the area fenced.” Dowd’s sweeping g
esture took in the encircling metal fencing topped by several strands of barbed wire.
“Looks pretty secure,” Kirwan observed.
“Yeah. We’ll get ’er up and to hell with the goddamn protesters. And that goes for their goddamn signs too.”
SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 9:45 P.M.
It was fortunate the newly wedded Mr. and Mrs. Harry Kirwan had delayed their official honeymoon. It allowed time for what had to be done tonight.
Two evenings ago, when Harry and Mary Ann had been wed, Harry had taken careful note that one and one-half hours elapsed from the beginning of the ceremony until they and their guests began the dinner. Casually, through that evening’s celebration, Kirwan had asked the caterer, cook, photographer, and anyone else who regularly serviced weddings about the average time these events took. There was general agreement that the times varied. But in a Catholic wedding where there was a Mass—unlike the Kirwans’ case—the average time was about two hours. So Kirwan waited until exactly ten to place his call.
There was a slight delay while Thompson was summoned to the phone.
“Monsignor Thompson.”
Kirwan had never before heard the voice. It was easy to dislike the tone of put-upon, overbearing annoyance.
“Monsignor, we haven’t met. My name is Harry Kirwan.”
“Uh…” Thompson disliked being called away from a party. He disliked being called by people he didn’t know. He disliked this phone call and thought to terminate it as quickly as possible.
“Several of your friends,” here Kirwan dropped names of VIPs he’d learned were card-playing chums of Thompson’s, “are getting together tonight for a major poker game to be followed by some entertainment they know you will appreciate. Al Braemar and Tony Vermiglio were particularly eager that I get in touch with you. They wanted me to assure you this would be an evening you would not soon forget.”
“You don’t mean it!” Thompson spoke with such enthusiasm that several waiters glanced at him.
“None of them will be driving there, and they thought it unseemly that your car be parked in the area. They suggested I meet you and bring you to the game. Would it be satisfactory for us to meet?”
Mind Over Murder Page 29