Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  Suddenly, she looked again at the pages Ankenazy had handed her. “Wait a minute,” she said, slowly, “this isn’t Thompson’s diary. It’s a copy. Where did you get it?” Before he could answer, she went on, “You got it from the cops who were here, didn’t you?”

  Ankenazy nodded, afraid to speak.

  “And they’re not the only ones!” The entire picture was flooding in on her. “Joe Cox has a copy, too, doesn’t he? DOESN’T HE!” She was nearly shrieking.

  “That’s why he’s been ahead of you on this story, isn’t it? It’s true, isn’t it?”

  Again, Ankenazy nodded.

  “Damn! Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN! Joe! Why wouldn’t he tell me? Half the city’s been reading the filthy things that dirty old man wrote about me, and Joe didn’t even tell me.”

  Ankenazy felt no inclination to come to Joe Cox’s defense.

  “I’ve been left naked for the whole city to leer at. And the guy who’s supposed to love me just left me there! He didn’t even tell me! He didn’t even tell me! Just who the hell does he think he is? How much does he think he can get away with?”

  Ankenazy considered these to be rhetorical questions.

  By now she was throwing things. At first, nothing significant. Papers, pencils, ballpoint pens. Then in her rage, she escalated to notepads, paperweights, and books. Ankenazy did not step in until she was about to pitch her CRT unit to the floor. At that point, he took her firmly by the shoulders, then held her tightly.

  For a while she continued screeching imprecations and threats. Finally, fury spent, she slumped in Ankenazy’s arms, shoulders shaking under the force of silent sobs. He assisted her back into her chair.

  “Oh, Bob,” she said, haltingly, “it’s so terrible. It’s like going to communion and finding garbage. I wanted that marriage case to go through so badly. And he toyed with me. Oh, Bob… ” She dissolved once more in silent sobs.

  Ankenazy waited with her until she gradually regained her composure. Several reporters walked by her chair to do no more than put a solicitous hand on her shoulder.

  She was still a professional. She realized Ankenazy had a job to do. She gave him his interview. After which, he sent her home. Then he wrote his story, the culmination of the series and, he thought, the most effective of the lot. At one point, he almost described her as the “social companion” of a Free Press reporter. But he eschewed that. He didn’t give a damn about Cox, but he respected Lennon too much to give anyone a means of identifying her.

  After what she had gone through that afternoon, it was not unexpected that she didn’t have much left to give Joe Cox.

  Besides, it took Cox the better part of an hour to try to explain why he had not told her about Thompson’s diary. And, in the face of her verbal and literal missiles, his effort never quite reached a level that could be described as successful.

  It was not her fault. It was not his fault. But tomorrow morning there would be Nelson Kane to face.

  Now here’s a break in routine for you, Koesler thought.

  Ordinarily, he spent the better part of Sunday mornings in church. But, here he was at police headquarters with a man he’d come to know pretty well over the past few years and three others he’d come to know pretty well over the past few days. Sergeants Lynch and Patrick were summing up for Koznicki and Harris what had been gleaned from yesterday’s interrogations.

  “On the whole,” said Patrick, “I’d say we have two more people to add to the four we’ve already questioned, who had very good reasons to be very angry with Monsignor Thompson.”

  “Did both Kirwan and Lennon open up?” Harris asked.

  “Pretty much,” said Lynch. “Kirwan seemed to have nothing to hide. The Polish angle was kind of funny. I didn’t know that anyone thought the Polish were more Catholic than, say, the Italians or the Irish.”

  “Oh, but they are,” said Koznicki, smiling. “It comes from the national experience, I believe. There is no doubt the Irish have been persecuted for their Catholic faith for some 800 years. But even that does not compare with the brutalization of the Poles over the centuries. Even today the Church in Poland is under Communist siege. In the face of such opposition, you either become a virtually unshakable Catholic, or you simply abandon that for which you are being persecuted. And the Poles in this country tend to identify and empathize with their compatriots in Poland. So, perhaps, requiring added proof that a Polish person has not had a marriage blessed is not entirely out of the question.

  “What would you say, Father?”

  Koesler was jolted out of a semi-distracted state. He hadn’t expected to be questioned. “I’d say it’s a bit of a belt-and-suspenders approach. All that you say is true, Inspector, but the proof of a defect of form presented by the Kirwan couple was sufficient. At least it was sufficient to fulfill all the demands of canon law. The additional required proof represented Monsignor Thompson’s demand alone. I had never even heard of that requirement until I came across the reference in the diary, and even then, I didn’t know what it was until I read about it in Bob Ankenazy’s story in yesterday’s News. It must be a very recent addition Monsignor Thompson has made in the annulment regulations.”

  “I stand canonically corrected,” said Koznicki.

  Koesler felt slightly more relevant.

  “What about Lennon?” Harris asked.

  “A very testy lady,” said Patrick. “Of course, I don’t much blame her after what Thompson wrote about her and the way he treated her. I think we were lucky that we were not the first ones to confront her with the diary. She was still hot about it when we questioned her at her apartment. Evidently, Ankenazy showed her the diary right after we let him copy it. And, evidently she got so furious about it, he sent her home early.”

  “What were these two suspects doing the night of the eleventh?” Harris asked.

  “Kirwan says he was home with his wife all evening and all night. She corroborates,” said Lynch with a grin. “It figures; they were married only two days before.”

  “But,” said Harris, “that’s it: there is no witness other than his wife?”

  “That’s it,” said Lynch.

  “How about Lennon?” Harris asked.

  “She’s in trouble for an alibi,” Lynch answered. “She was scheduled to go to Port Huron on the second of a two-part feature she was working on. But she claims she got a call about 9:30 or 10:00. An anonymous tip regarding a local dope ring story she’s also been working on. She figured the resorts could wait. She says she was told to drive to Memorial Park, leave her car, and walk down the block to the Detroit River where she would be met by someone who would give her names, dates, and places of the ring’s dealings. She claims she waited almost three hours, pacing, and no one showed up. She says all she got out of it was a bad cold that she’s still recovering from.”

  “Can she substantiate any of that?” asked Harris.

  “Just the cold,” said Lynch. “Her roommate, Joe Cox, was at work at the Free Press most of the night. Apparently, no one remembers seeing her leave or return to her apartment building. And, of course, there’s no traffic in the park down by the river at that time of night.”

  “Gutsy gal,” commented Harris. “O.K., Patrick, Lynch: see if you can tie this in with the other investigations.”

  “Other investigations?” Koesler reacted almost involuntarily. He had no idea to what Harris was referring.

  Koznicki smiled. “I’m afraid, Father, you have thought that you and Sergeants Patrick and Lynch have been the exclusive investigators in the Thompson case. In reality, you have been part of the principal investigation. But while your investigation has been going on, other officers, some from the Fifteenth, some from Homicide, have been following up, checking alibis, looking into the activities of these suspects during the week leading up to the disappearance— things like that.”

  The things I don’t know about police work, thought Koesler, could fill volumes.

  “Tie up all the loose ends thi
s afternoon, if you can,” Harris continued, “I’d like to wind this up tomorrow. Tuesday, at the latest.”

  Patrick and Lynch began putting their papers together preparatory to leaving. Koesler simply sat. Again he felt like excess baggage.

  Harris noticed his inactivity and smiled. “Father, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? They’re just going to be doing routine work.”

  “Want to come home with me, Father?” Koznicki suggested. “Wanda and the children would be delighted to see you.”

  “No, thank you, Inspector.” Koesler took a deep breath. “It’s such a nice day, I Think I’ll just go out to the lake.”

  They parted, some to work, others to play.

  If anyone felt like a puppy that had misbehaved, was repentant, and contrite, yet feared punishment at the hand of its master, it was Joe Cox.

  Before even looking at Bob Ankenazy’s story Cox had strongly suspected it would be better than his. Reading the account in Sunday’s News confirmed his fears.

  Then the call had come from Nelson Kane summoning Cox to the Free Press, even though it was Sunday and his day off. As he left the elevator and entered the city room, Cox felt as if he had a tail and that it was between his legs.

  In the large, rectangular, nearly deserted city room, Kane sat at his desk, his teeth working an unlit cigar. Cox slunk into the chair adjacent to Kane’s desk.

  “You’ve read the News?” Kane did not look at Cox.

  Cox nodded. Then, realizing Kane was not looking at him, he articulated his response. “Yes.” He almost added, Sir.

  “You realize Ankenazy interviewed the woman you live with?” Kane’s voice was remarkably restrained.

  “Yes.”

  “You realize his interview was better than yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lots better?”

  “Yes.”

  “In future, when I tell you you’re getting too goddamn cocky and to get off your ass and dig up some leads, will you listen to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you do what I tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K. Now get off your ass and dig up some leads. I want to give this series a decent burial. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  In the elevator, Cox wished Kane had yelled at him as was the usual treatment dished out when he’d been less than perfect. He felt worse now than he had before.

  In the city room, after the elevator door had closed behind Cox, Nelson Kane picked up a huge ancient dictionary. He held it above his head with both hands and brought it crashing down against his desk. The impact sounded like an explosion. The heads of the few copy editors and reporters present popped up. It would be a few minutes before their hearts would resume a normal beat.

  Kane had broken the binding of the dictionary.

  But he felt better.

  The Casey children had gone downtown to take in the Greek Ethnic Festival at Hart Plaza. Thus, given the usual chaotic commotion in the Casey yard, things now seemed sepulchral. Joe and Irene and Father Koesler, each with a Stroh’s in hand, sat at the picnic table near the shore of Green Lake. The rowboat bobbed in the gentle current. Sailboats tacked in wide arcs searching for a breeze.

  Each had a beer, God was in His heaven, all was right with the world.

  “How’s everything at the paper?” Koesler asked. He did not want to mention or discuss his quasi-police work of late, so he tried to steer the conversation down other paths.

  “Oh, pretty much the same,” said Irene. “Jim Pool is working on getting out a back-to-school supplement for the end of this month.”

  Koesler shook his head and chuckled. “Jim and his supplements. One of these days, he’ll probably suggest an atheists’ supplement.”

  “We shouldn’t make light of Jim’s supplements,” said Joe. “They bring in much-needed revenue from the advertisers they attract.”

  “That reminds me,” said Irene, enthusiastically, “we’ve got a new advertiser.”

  “For the supplement?” asked Joe.

  “Nope, for the paper. Just signed a six-month contract. This one looks like he might become a permanent advertiser. The man even took me out to lunch.” Irene made the announcement triumphantly.

  “Who is this knight in shining money?” asked Joe. In an oversight rare for her, Irene had neglected to mention the new advertiser to her husband.

  “Leo Cicero. He owns Cicero Construction.”

  “Leo Cicero?” asked Koesler. “You wouldn’t happen to know if he belongs to Divine Child parish?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do know. And he does. It’s amazing what you learn over a luncheon.”

  Koesler was surprised at the apparent coincidence. “You wouldn’t also happen to know if his wife’s name—”

  “—is Angela,” Irene supplied. “Is that the right name?”

  Koesler nodded.

  “They must be an extremely close couple. He mentioned her frequently.”

  It was an amazing coincidence, Koesler thought. Strange how often the cliché, it’s a small world, proved true.

  “You know what I found really surprising?” Irene enthused. “Here this nice Mr. Cicero owns a construction company. And yet he does most of the work around the house himself. Things like wiring, plumbing, gardening.”

  “Most of those guys do,” observed Joe. “If they came up the hard way, they like—”

  “—to keep their hand in,” Irene concluded.

  “You know, Leo—he told me to call him by his first name—” she blushed, “Leo said that just last week he and his wife finished some work in their basement. Seems one corner had been bricked off during the original construction. To hide some pipes, I guess. Well, the Ciceros bricked off the other side just to make it symmetrical. Isn’t that great of them? To build their own brick wall in their basement? And him with his own construction company!”

  “Well, that’s the way it is with those guys,” Joe drained his can of beer. Fortunately, there were many more where that came from. “If they came up the hard way, they like—”

  “—to keep their hand in,” Irene again assisted.

  Koesler could not recover from his surprise at this coincidence. Imagine, he thought, here I am, a member of an investigative team that interrogates Angela Cicero as a possible murder suspect, while, in the very same week, her husband has lunch with Irene and signs an ad contract with the Detroit Catholic. It is, he thought, a small world indeed.

  It came to him while he was showering early Monday morning.

  That frequently was the case with Father Koesler. Showering involved such a series of repetitive, automatic actions that, aided by the soothing flow of hot water, his mind tended to wander freely. Often, some of his best ideas came during his morning shower.

  Memories of chance remarks tiptoed tantalizingly through his consciousness. What was it Sergeant Patrick had remarked about Angela Cicero?—“Maybe she’s building a Panama Canal in her basement like that crazy nephew in ‘Arsenic and Old Lace.’”

  Then that earlier conversation when Lieutenant Harris said something about the investigation running into a brick wall. To which Patrick had commented regarding Angela, “The one big thing she’s got going for her is that we haven’t got a body.”

  All these thoughts had been exhumed by the memory of what Irene Casey had said just yesterday. “The Ciceros bricked off the other side just to make it symmetrical. Isn’t that great of them? To build their own brick wall in their basement?”

  Brick wall. Body. Panama Canal in the basement. Brick wall in the basement. It all fit together like yin and yang. There was only one missing piece to this puzzle—the item he had been promising himself he would check but had been constantly postponing.

  He would postpone it no longer. Half-showered, he stepped out of the stall, wrapped a towel around his middle, and scurried down the hallway to the living room bookshelf.

  A startled Deacon Schroeder watched openmouthed as the dishabilléd
Koesler peered myopically among the shelves. Finally, he found the volume he was seeking and returned with it to his bedroom.

  As Koesler left the living room, Schroeder commented, “That must be some book!”

  Koesler sat on the edge of his bed, balanced the huge Poe anthology on his towel-clad lap, and slowly opened it to the middle. To the point where he remembered Angela’s bookmark appearing in her own volume.

  He knew it! There it was. “The Cask of Amontillado,” Poe’s tale of vengeance wherein the victim is sealed behind a wine cellar wall.

  Koesler was agog. He was also undecided as to whether to complete his shower before phoning Inspector Koznicki. He decided he could shower anytime. It wasn’t every day a simple parish priest could solve a murder.

  He dialed Koznicki’s home. The Inspector had not yet left for work. The priest carefully explained all the clues that had led to his conclusion. He could feel the Inspector catch the enthusiasm of putting the puzzle together.

  “All right, Father, it seems to make great good sense,” said Koznicki. “If you are correct, then Monsignor Thompson has been behind that wall more than a week now. Haste is no longer necessary.”

  For the first time, Koesler wavered. He had drawn all but the final conclusion—that if his theory were correct, his classmate had been long dead. His mind rattled: if Thompson’s body were behind the Ciceros’ wall, wouldn’t there be—an odor? But, maybe… maybe it was zipped into one of those heavy plastic bags that—He was brought back from his macabre musings by Koznicki’s voice. “Which means,” the Inspector concluded, “that we proceed by the book. I will pick up the court order for search, and we will pick you up on our way over. You do want to be in on the end of this, don’t you?”

  Koesler pulled himself together.

  “Oh, yes. But I think it might be better if I drive myself. That way I’ll feel more free to stay around in case there is any counseling needed.”