She could go home now with only one problem: she had the beginnings of one hell-of-a cold.
“Fred, dear, here’s the name of that Monsignor Father Cavanaugh was talking about.”
Pauline Janson was reading the Newlyweds column in the August 5 issue of the Detroit News. “Monsignor Thompson, it says, is going to marry some couple at St. David’s and then attend the reception.” She looked over at her husband. “Isn’t that odd, Fred, to hear of a person for the first time and then right after that, to read his name in the paper?”
“Yes, dear,” Janson agreed inattentively as he read the financial page, “that is odd.”
Shortly thereafter, Pauline went off to the kitchen to prepare the standing rib roast that would be the piece de resistance of Sunday dinner.
Fred stopped reading the financial news to gaze at the society page his wife had laid near her chair. He never read any part of the social section of the paper. If Pauline had not read that notice to him, he never would have seen it. This, in itself, he thought portentous. Retrieving the social section, he returned to his chair to read the item for himself.
Monsignor Thompson would attend the 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.
Fred Janson recalled his reaction on learning of all the rules and regulations surrounding the granting of a Church annulment. As a lawyer, Janson was familiar with the exquisite details of law, but the ecclesiastical annulment regulations went well beyond anything he had encountered in civil law. The deck was stacked against the petitioner, unlike civil law. And, while some of the regulations represented universal Church law, others were the product of Monsignor Thompson’s repressively legalistic brain.
Janson recalled concluding that Thompson had virtually the power of life and death on the cases that came before him, and to Janson’s way of thinking, Thompson should not have all that power.
Janson recalled actually meeting the man. Was it in Lee Brand’s company at the DAC? Janson had taken an instant dislike to the Monsignor. Something Janson seldom did with people newly met.
Apparently, there was no movement afoot to do anything about this medieval situation. To the contrary, if one cared to believe Father Cavanaugh, Thompson’s administration was sliding toward a more liberal stance than some in the Church would prefer! If that were true—if Thompson were “liberal”—Janson wondered what horrors a conservative Tribunal would inflict on its petitioners.
What was needed, Janson reflected, was some stunning, perhaps violent action that would attract the attention of the hierarchy to the injustice both of Church law and of the system that implemented it. Something the Church simply could not overlook or sweep under the carpet. Something like… the murder of an officialis.
The thought, though it seemed a logical culmination to all else he had considered, startled Janson. He had never before considered murdering anyone. Yet, it did seem to be the only action that could bring the desired reaction.
Clearly, however, Janson could not conceive of himself in the role of a murderer. It was simply out of the question. Then, what of hiring someone to do the deed? There would be no more involvement than the payment of money. He thought he could be comfortable with that.
But how does one go about hiring a murderer? Where does one look? What does it cost? Where does one start?
As he relaxed in his favorite chair, comforted by the savory aroma of the rib roast, he thought he could see the beginning of an answer to all these questions. He envisioned what the coming week would bring.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 7, 7 P.M.
Victor D’Agostino and Fred Janson had been in law school together. They had passed the bar together. After that, their legal careers had split and gone in widely divergent directions. Janson had become a highly paid specialist in corporation law. His firm handled many of the big business accounts in the Detroit area. D’Agostino had specialized in criminal law. He had established every bit as solid a reputation in his field as Janson had in his. However, D’Agostino’s specialty brought him into the company of some of the most notorious criminals in the Detroit area. And that is specifically where the two men’s lives separated. Janson regularly could be found in the company of automotive and finance tycoons, while D’Agostino palled around with Detroit’s top hoods.
Thus, it was to D’Agostino that Janson turned in this his hour of criminal need.
The two had just finished a most satisfying dinner in Topinka’s on the Boulevard. They had met at Janson’s invitation so, D’Agostino understood, it would be Janson’s business that would be discussed. And, as was the usual understanding with get-togethers such as this, whatever the business was would be discussed after dinner over coffee.
Coffee had been served. Janson carefully packed his pipe, a prelude to lighting it. D’Agostino lit an exotic panatela.
“So, Fred, what is it I can do for you?” D’Agostino would have been taken aback if Janson had merely wanted advice in a corporate business matter.
“I’ll come directly to the point, Vic. Do you know anything about murder for hire?” Janson lit his pipe; his visage disappeared behind the smoke. He’d done this purposely. He did not want D’Agostino to see his countenance on broaching the question.
D’Agostino stirred cream into his coffee. Short of being asked for corporate legal advice, he would be next most completely surprised by Janson’s interest in murder for hire. “I’ve heard of it,” he answered at length.
“I’m interested but at sea. Where would one begin if one wanted to hire a killer?”
“One might begin at any of several places. The appropriate bartender, the appropriate cabbie…” D’Agostino was more than comfortable using impersonal designations. He preferred it. If he were forced to guess, he would have supposed the intended victim to be Janson’s wife. D’Agnostino knew nothing of Janson’s marriage. But, a man in his position… an elderly wife… a young secretary… a refusal to divorce… it was common enough.
“It is all, then, in knowing the appropriate person?” Janson sipped his coffee.
“That’s correct.”
“And would a person in your position know such a person?”
“He could.”
“This person, if contacted, could contact a professional killer?”
“He could.”
“And what would the professional charge?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“That’s all?”
“Five thousand dollars for each contracted victim.”
Suddenly, the fog cleared from Janson’s head. Until this moment, since last Sunday afternoon, he’d been living a dream, a quixotic dream. It didn’t matter how evil he perceived some person to be, there was no possible way he could kill or have anyone killed. It was preposterous.
It had taken this moment to awaken him to reality. The knowledge that he could, indeed, if he wished, arrange for someone’s murder. He could easily afford it. He was talking to a man who could set it up. He was one relatively minor financial transaction away from arranging a murder. It took this—the matter-of-fact reality of it—to open his eyes. There was no possible way he could continue on this path.
“Well, Vic, I just wanted to know. I’m surprised that such an arrangement is so inexpensive.”
D’Agostino sensed, from Janson’s expression and manner, the change of heart that had taken place. In truth, he was as relieved as Janson.
“Well,” said D’Agostino, “perhaps they make it up in volume.”
Men of the world, they both laughed, and concluded their dinner with B&B and reminiscences of law school days.
As they parted, Janson experienced an enormous sense of relief. He had almost done something for which he could never have forgiven himself.
Copies of the Detroit News arrived at police headquarters before the Free Press. Even though the News was basically
an afternoon publication and the Free Press a morning paper, the order of arrival today was not unusual. On Saturdays, the News published only one edition, and they got it out early.
Koznicki, Harris, Patrick, Lynch, and Koesler each picked up copies of the News and looked immediately for the latest Robert Ankenazy-by-lined episode in The Case of the Missing Monsignor. They found it at the bottom of page one. They expected to read the saga of a priest who has the full and ancient sanction of the Church lowered on him for his disobedience to canon law. Instead, they read an even more fascinating story involving someone in management at a Detroit utility whose life had been practically destroyed by the caprice of Monsignor Thompson.
“Management?” said a startled Patrick.
“A Detroit utility?” said Lynch.
“Where the hell did he get that?” asked Harris.
“It’s not in the diary, is it?” asked Koesler. He was never sure he read things as thoroughly as possible.
“No, but I’m damn well going to find out where he got it,” Patrick vowed.
“Before you do that,” said Koznicki, “what did you find out about Father Shanley?”
“Nothing terribly unusual,” said Lynch. “Thompson gave him ample reason to strike back, just as with the others. However, he has no alibi, although he comes close to having one.”
“How’s that?” asked Koznicki.
“Well, Shanley claims he spent all Saturday evening and night in the penthouse Brand put at his disposal,” said Lynch.
“But,” continued Patrick,” he claims he was supposed to have had a visitor that evening, a Father Robert Morell. Morell didn’t show. Morell says he got an unexpectedly long visit from a stranger in need and when he tried to call Shanley, Shanley’s phone was out of order.”
“So,” Lynch returned, “Shanley almost had an alibi, but he doesn’t. There isn’t anyone who can testify to his not having left the apartment all night.”
“Interesting,” said Harris, “so he remains a live one.”
“Yup,” said Lynch.
“And now,” said Patrick, “Bill and I… and Father,” he had almost forgotten Koesler, “will go over to the News and find out what we can about a put-upon utility exec.”
A manager in a Detroit utility!” Nelson Kane stabbed the words out. “Do you appreciate how superior this story is to yours?”
“Well, you know, Nellie,” Joe Cox shrugged, “de gustibus non est disputandum.”
“De gustibus, shit!” said Kane bitterly. “Look at these stories. You’ve got a priest who broke the law. OK., so Thompson dumped on him a little heavily. Thompson again proves himself a functional son-of-a-bitch. But the guy did break the law."
“Now look at Ankenazy’s story. Here’s a guy who abided by all the rules! Not even a Catholic, but he’s going to play by all the Church rules. Then Thompson throws a brand new one at him from out of left field. A Polish rule. A Polish rule! Do you realize how angry the Poles get when they’re singled out for this sort of prejudicial attention? This goddamn Polish rule is going to sell papers, Cox. I’d rather have a Polish rule than a goddamn weeping statue!”
“Nellie,” Cox protested, “I don’t know where the hell Ankenazy got this guy!”
“He got this guy, you turkey, by doing some leg work. He didn’t get handed a diary on a silver platter. He had to go out and develop his leads like a newspaper reporter is supposed to do! My advice to you, fella, is to get the hell out of here and come back with a goddamn winner. We wrap up this series tomorrow, and we’d goddamn better come out on top, or I’m going to have your ass! Is that clear?”
It was clear. Cox backed away from Kane nodding his appreciation of the situation. It would be a few minutes before the blood returned to his cheeks.
Damn him, thought Kane for the umpteenth time. I knew he was getting too goddamn cocky!
Patrick, Lynch, and Koesler met with Ankenazy and London in the News’s conference room.
“I want to lay it on the line, Ankenazy,” said Patrick in his best threatening demeanor, “I want your source on your story in today’s paper. And, if necessary, I’ll go to the Grand Jury to get it.”
“A bit of overkill, I think,” Ankenazy replied. “I can give you what you want if you give me what I want.”
“A quid pro quo,” Koesler Latinized. “That sounds fair.”
“Exactly,” said Ankenazy.
“Let me do the negotiating, O.K., Father?” admonished Patrick.
Koesler felt chastened.
“If you can give me your source’s identity,” Patrick addressed Ankenazy, “then I want it. No deals.”
“No deals,” Ankenazy responded, “no name. Go to the Grand Jury. It could take weeks, maybe months, to get what you can have right now. If we make a trade.”
“What do you want?” asked Patrick.
“The diary.”
All of them had known it all along. There was silence for a few moments.
“Cox has got it,” Lynch reminded.
“O.K.,” Patrick agreed and dug the diary out of his briefcase. “Give me the name, and you can make a copy of this.”
Ankenazy revealed Harry Kirwan’s identity and photostated the diary.
The police and Koesler left. Ankenazy smiled at London. “Just as you said: the source’s identity came in handy. I’m just grateful Kirwan agreed.”
“I had a hunch you’d be able to trade the name for the diary, either with the cops or with Cox. I’m only glad it was with the cops. What, by the way, happened with that second lead?”
“Fred Janson? Dead end. Compared with the others, he got benevolent treatment. He didn’t like the procedures, but then I guess nobody does. Janson just wouldn’t have fit in this series. He doesn’t qualify as an especial victim of Monsignor Thompson.”
All the while he was speaking, Ankenazy was paging through Thompson’s diary. He was grateful to whoever, undoubtedly Cox, had underlined the relevant passages.
“Aha!” Ankenazy read aloud. “The victims—or suspects—in Thompson’s chronologial order are: Angela Cicero, Lee Brand, David Neiss, Norman Shanley—the not-too-well-disguised suspect in today’s Free Press story—and—brace yourself—Pat Lennon.”
“Lennon! Why, she’s at work just outside this office. In editorial!”
“Correction,” said Ankenazy, “she was at work. She is about to be interviewed.”
Patrick and Lynch had decided the trio would interrogate Harry Kirwan before tackling Pat Lennon. Kirwan was new to them, and they hoped to strike while a subject was still willing to talk. Not only did they know exactly where Lennon would be, they had an appointment to talk with her later in the afternoon.
In the back seat of the police car, Koesler sat silently. Mentally, he was tracing his contribution—or more precisely, lack of it—to the resolution of this case. He had been with these detectives five days. He would be with them two, perhaps three, more. So far, he had given them his pastoral opinion a couple of times. That had been of little practical value. And now he had compromised Sergeant Patrick’s bargaining position with Bob Ankenazy simply by speaking out of turn.
It was an unaccustomed feeling. This was not his métier. He was utterly untrained in police procedure. Yet, in some way, he felt he was failing. But how can one fail at something one has no business trying?
He decided to stick it out for the full week he had promised his friend Koznicki. He had already made arrangements with the Jesuit who had been covering Masses for him. Koesler would take the afternoon and evening Masses today at St. Anselm’s. The Jesuit would take the three morning Masses tomorrow, Sunday.
The only silver lining he could find at this moment was that the routine business of St. Anselm’s was coming along fine. Regular calls to and from Mary O’Connor revealed that Deacon Schroeder had neither built his pagoda nor sold the rectory.
Now, if only Les would continue to stay out of Mary’s way and let her run things.
Ankenazy explained to Pat Lennon
what it was he was about to give her to read. Then he handed her a copy of that section of Thompson’s diary that dealt with her. After which Ankenazy stepped back a considerable distance. Fortunately, it was a Saturday afternoon, and only a skeleton editorial staff was in the newsroom.
As Lennon began to read, her eyes widened, and her facial muscles tightened.
“‘Sexy bitch,’” she quoted. “‘Sexy bitch’! Where does he get off calling me a bitch, that bastard!
“‘A light, clinging dress,’” she continued. “‘All the curves are there’! ‘Enough to exchange for a bishopric’! All this goddamn son-of-a-bitch needs is to become a bishop! He’s already got a goddamn swollen prick!
“I had ‘a workable case’! Can you believe this? I had a ‘a workable case’! The bastard admits it right here!” In her rage, tears began to flow freely down her cheeks.
The few reporters who were at their desks looked up, startled. They did not know what Lennon’s problem was. But whatever it was, obviously this was an explosion of emotion that none of her co-workers would have believed Lennon capable of.
She had always exuded an air of the self-possessed professional. Other women—occasionally even men—in the newsroom had, from time to time, brought their emotional problems to her.
Whatever it was she was reading had stripped from her every veneer of the image of the constantly unruffled, calm, cool woman of the world that Lennon had carefully created. Fellow employees who witnessed her current uninhibited, uncontrolled emotional explosion did not so much lose any of their respect for Lennon and her professionalism as they grew in wonderment at what the document she was reading could possibly contain.
“I wanted that case to go through so damn badly. And it could have! It didn’t have to depend on him; it was my right! And he withheld it from me!
“And look at this! Just as I suspected: the bastard just wanted to go to bed with me! He would have dispensed justice if only I had laid him! Oh, that son-of-a-bitch! ‘Tit for ass’ is it! Thinks he could turn my answer into ‘another kind of passion,’ does he! ‘Tit for ass’ is it! Let me get the bastard! I’ll kick him in the balls and cut off his goddamn prick! I’ll cut the fat off his ass and feed it to the pigs!”
Mind Over Murder Page 31