Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  “Very well, Father. Figure on meeting us at the Cicero house in about an hour and a half.”

  That was more than enough time for Koesler to finish showering and shave. There was enough time left over to get through both the mail and the Free Press. Which he would have done if he hadn’t been so excited.

  Leo Cicero had been called home for the event. He stood in his basement, a bewildered man. Angela had passed bewilderment minutes before. She was in full fury.

  Koznicki, Harris, Patrick, Koesler, and the Ciceros stood by while Lynch let fly with a sledgehammer against the newly erected brick wall. With his long, deceptively slender but strong arms as a lever, it took Lynch only four blows before a sizable section of the upper wall crumbled.

  Lynch stood back. Koznicki stepped forward with a large flashlight. He waited a moment for the dust to settle, then he peered into the space behind the wall. He drew back with a noncommittal expression. He handed the flashlight to Harris. Harris peered behind the wall. He, too, stepped away from the wall with a noncommittal expression. The identical routine was followed by both Patrick and Lynch.

  Koesler’s by this time overwrought brain was no longer functioning reasonably. Visions swam before him of the rotting corpse in the exhumation scene of Dumas’s “Lady of the Camellias,” of the taxidermically preserved mother in “Psycho”—he could only imagine the similar horror that must rest behind that brick wall. Probably a skeleton strapped to a chair, the skull fallen back, sockets staring blindly into the torch’s bright beam.

  Lynch handed the flashlight to Koesler. With considerable trepidation—he did not have a strong stomach for this sort of thing—Koesler moved to the jagged hole and peered in.

  The tomb was empty. Thompson had not risen. He had never been there.

  Koesler was speechless. Which did not happen often.

  One by one, they filed by the stunned priest. Each patted him on the shoulder.

  “You can’t win ’em all,” said Lynch.

  “It did sort of make sense,” said Patrick.

  “Well, Father Clouseau, you’ve done it again,” said Harris.

  “We all make these little mistakes from time to time,” said Koznicki.

  The Inspector addressed the Ciceros. “Please accept our apologies. The city will pay for the damage, of course. You may send the bill to my office at headquarters.”

  “Who’s going to pay for the humiliation of it all is what I want to know!” spat out the furious Angela. “Who’s going to pay for my husband’s having to take time off from his work! Who?”

  “No payment can be made for any of that,” Koznicki explained. “But we will pay for the property damage. And, of course, again, we do offer our sincere, apologies.”

  The four policemen started up the stairs.

  “Why did they think somebody was in there?” asked the still bewildered Leo.

  “You think you can just come in and break up people’s homes and just walk out? Well, we’ll just see about that!” Angela hurled her words like harpoons at the four backs ascending the steps.

  Koesler now bemoaned the fact that he had driven over himself. Originally, he had intended to stay if counseling or support were required. If anyone now needed support it was Koesler, who, as the author of this fine mess, was now left to pay the price.

  He spent the next hour and better being gaped at by Leo Cicero, who never quite comprehended the event, and being bawled out by an unflaggingly enraged Angela Cicero.

  Unbloody but bowed, Koesler finally departed the Cicero residence with one predominant thought: Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

  It was Tuesday morning, August 21. Father Koesler considered his participation in the Thompson investigation finished. As of yesterday, he had given the full week asked of him by Inspector Koznicki. And especially after yesterday’s performance at the Ciceros’, he had decided to retire from police work defeated.

  In order to get back in the routine of parish life, Koesler was making some remote preparation for next Sunday’s sermon. The Gospel text included the passage wherein Jesus asks His followers, “Who do men say I am?”

  He was consulting H. L. Mencken’s A New Dictionary of Quotations on Historical Principles from Ancient and Modem Sources. Under the category of “Reputation,” he came across a Spanish proverb: He who has lost his reputation is a walking corpse.

  Koesler marveled at how aptly that seemed to describe Tommy Thompson now. Thanks to his absence, the discovery of his diary, and the ensuing publicity in both metropolitan daily papers, Thompson might just as well be a walking corpse, if not a corpse in actuality, for he surely had lost his reputation.

  At that point, the phone rang. Mary O’Connor informed him that the caller was Inspector Koznicki. Koesler could think of no reason the Inspector would be calling this morning. And then he wondered if the city had decided to stick him with the bill for the Ciceros’ basement wall. It was with some misgivings he picked up the phone.

  “Father, we’re going to tie things together this morning in the Thompson case. We should be able, after that, to determine whether to continue our investigation and, if the answer is affirmative, what kind of manpower we should afford it. Can you be with us?”

  “You mean after yesterday…” In the wake of the Cicero fiasco, the last thing Koesler expected was to be invited back into the fray.

  He could hear Koznicki chuckle.

  “When yesterday becomes sufficiently a thing of the past, you will find humor in it. Trust me.

  “In the meantime, you have been a part of this investigation. And I would appreciate any insights you might have.”

  Reluctantly, Koesler agreed to attend the meeting.

  Before leaving for downtown, he glanced again at Mencken’s reference book. He who has lost his reputation is a walking corpse. Poor Tommy.

  Koesler felt as if he were going to a wake.

  Father Koesler was surprised at the number of police in attendance. There had to be twenty-five or thirty.

  All who had been in any way involved in the Thompson investigation were present. Some were from the Fifteenth Precinct, some from Headquarters, and some from Homicide.

  A spokesperson for each team of officers reported on what they had discovered. After all the reports had been presented, Lieutenant Harris summed up.

  “The most significant new information comes from Lynch and Patrick. Yesterday, they returned to Roma Hall and questioned the parking attendant again. He now admits that he cut himself on the cartridge casing. He picked it up from the floor and left it on the car seat. Where it came from and why it was in the car we don’t know. We do know that at least some of the blood on the tissues is his. Whether any of the blood is Thompson’s is doubtful; unfortunately, both the attendant and Thompson have the same blood type. The Monsignor’s pistol is still missing, and we have no explanation for the lack of prints inside the car.

  “Mary Alberts, Thompson’s secretary, could think of only one out-of-the-ordinary incident in the time frame we’re dealing with. At one point, she found some of the Tribunal files out of order. She mentioned this to Thompson, who did not seem to consider it of any importance.

  “Now, let’s consider our suspects.

  “We know from Thompson’s diary and from their own statements that all had ample reason to seek revenge if they were so inclined. So, let’s take for granted there is sufficient motive in each case.

  “First, there is Angela Cicero. From our interrogation of both Mr. and Mrs. Cicero, we know she was responsible for her husband’s joining a bowling team. She alone arranged for him to be out of the house and thus for her to be alone during the crucial hours Saturday night, the eleventh of August. She has no alibi for that night. She claims she was called to the scene of an accident involving her daughter—an accident that turned out to be nonexistent. No one can substantiate this claim. However, we do know she did not bury Thompson behind the wall in her basement.”

  A hoot of laughter came from the as
semblage. Koesler blushed. This was his first intimation that he had become notorious throughout the department.

  “Next,” Harris continued from his notes, “we have Lee Brand. Obviously, Brand was aboard a ship and not in this area at the time of Thompson’s disappearance. So he begins with a pretty good alibi. Something out of the ordinary does seem to have occurred midway through the week before Brand sailed. According to his travel agent, he ordered another cabin in addition to the one he and his wife would occupy. Brand did not give the name of any individual who would be occupying this cabin, which is listed in his name. However, according to the agent, this sort of extravagance is not unusual for Brand, who frequently will provide for a possible business traveling companion. The provision does not always work out. In addition, we have the results of the investigation carried out at our request by the Vancouver police, which indicates there are no Detroit-area passengers other than the Brands; the passenger manifest substantiates that finding.

  “Next, we have David Neiss, a Catholic priest. The only unusual event we found regarding Neiss during the week of August 5— and this we have from his own voluntary admission during interrogation—was a visit to Club Libra, a topless bar.”

  There was an undercurrent of snickering.

  “Evidently, this was entirely out of character for Neiss. One of the dancers there is a former parishioner and was a member of a parish club Neiss moderated. She states that Neiss was not in the club the night of Saturday the eleventh. His alibi is tissue-thin, however. He claims he was summoned to a sick call, the address of which turned out to be nonexistent.

  “Next, we have Norman Shanley, another Catholic priest. He is in temporary residence in a penthouse leased by Brand at 1300 Lafayette East. During the week of August 5, he visited the crematorium of Woodward Cemetery. Our source is the manager of the cemetery, who happened to see him enter and leave the crematorium.” He looked up from his notes, grinning. “We had a bit of luck here; the manager happens to be a resident of 1300 Lafayette East. His apartment is on the floor directly beneath the penthouse. We got his testimony during a routine questioning of neighbors of the Brand apartment.

  “However, the maintenance operator of the crematorium states that Shanley did not return there again and undoubtedly was not there the night of the eleventh, since the cemetery was locked, and he would have needed keys. Shanley has no substantial alibi for the eleventh. He states he was in the penthouse alone, expecting a visit from another priest. The other priest states he received an unexpected visitor at his rectory, tried to call Shanley, but the phone was temporarily out of service.”

  Koesler was taking notes assiduously on a large legal pad he had brought with him. Occasionally, he made additional notations in the margins.

  “Next,” Harris intoned, “is Harry Kirwan. During the week of August 5, he made an unscheduled and unexpected visit to a Bell Telephone facility under construction in Dearborn. This we have from Kirwan himself in his accounting for his whereabouts during that week. However, the night watchman states Kirwan was not at the site on the night of the eleventh. Kirwan’s wife states they were together all that night. They were married just two days before.”

  More snickers.

  “Finally, we have Patricia Lennon. During the week of the fifth, she took a Detroit News auto on a story assignment to Port Huron. This is confirmed by the logs kept at the news desk. On the night of the eleventh, she again checked out a News vehicle. She claims she was called to a meeting with a news source who did not show up. The odometer figures in the log indicate that she did not drive far enough to leave the corporate limits of the city of Detroit.

  “There is one more consideration. From the testimony of the waiters at Roma Hall, we know that Thompson appeared to have been enticed; he was in a hurry to leave the hall, and he went willingly, even eagerly.”

  Harris looked up and paused. He had spoken a long time, and his voice sounded harsh.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, any ideas?” Harris opened it up to the floor.

  “From what Thompson wrote in his diary,” offered one officer, “it doesn’t take much imagination to figure what the two women could entice him with.”

  General laughter. Koesler continued to write as if Harris had not finished speaking.

  “Brand and Kirwan could have offered him something of value,” said another officer, “but I can’t see either of those two priests coming up with anything that would get him to come out. I would, for the moment, discount the priests.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. Koesler, who had stopped writing, seemed lost in thought.

  “That odometer reading on Lennon’s car that indicated she hadn’t left Detroit,” said a third officer, “well, odometers can be adjusted—and rather easily.”

  This comment launched general subdued conversation. Koesler’s eyes were closed, but his lips were moving silently. He seemed to be having an argument with himself.

  “That Cicero woman,” said a fourth officer, “she deliberately cleared the way to do something she didn’t want anybody to know about on Saturday night. I’d go back and lean on her story again.”

  The murmur following this opinion seemed equally divided between agreement and disagreement.

  Koesler cleared his throat. First hesitantly, then more loudly.

  Conversation came to a stop; all eyes turned toward the priest. After his blunder the previous day, no one could believe Koesler would dare offer another hypothesis. Only Koznicki smiled confidently. He had the deepest respect for his friend’s mind. The very fact that Koesler would speak at this meeting after what had taken place yesterday reinforced Koznicki’s confidence in him.

  In the strained silence, Koesler’s voice sounded strange even to himself. “I think I know,” he said, “where Monsignor Thompson is.”

  9

  Koesler found himself standing; he was not sure why. It was almost as if he were a child again, reciting in school.

  There was no doubt he had his audience’s attention. Either incredulously or credulously, the police officers were listening so intently one could have heard the proverbial pin.

  “Now I’m sure I can’t answer all your questions just yet. We don’t even know all the questions yet. But let’s look at what we do know and what, from this knowledge, we can safely infer.

  “When I sat here listening to Lieutenant Harris summarize the result of everyone’s investigation, a pattern emerged. It sounded as if each suspect seems to have made a plan for the week in question—during which it was generally known where the Monsignor was going to be on the eleventh and approximately when. Perhaps each suspect’s plan revolved around Monsignor Thompson, perhaps not. But, if we assume that each had something in mind, each seems to have carried out what could appear to be only half a plan, which is very strange.

  “One makes sure she is free to do whatever she wishes on the night in question but claims to have been sent on a wild goose chase that can be neither proved nor disproved.

  “Another reserves an extra cabin on a ship. Now, there’s a definite plan of some sort there. But, apparently, he does not use the cabin, which is listed under his name.

  “Another visits a topless bar for, as far as is known, the first time in his life. Did he intend to meet or take Monsignor there on the eleventh? As far as we know, the suspect did not even go to the bar on the eleventh, nor did the Monsignor.

  “Another visits a crematorium. Ominous by anyone’s standards, particularly if we are looking for a missing person and cannot even find his body. Yet, the suspect appears not to have returned to the crematorium.

  “Another visits a construction site. A marvelous place for a body; who’s going to tear down a building to see if someone is buried in its foundation? But the suspect does not return to that site.

  “Finally, a suspect drives a good number of miles to reach the locale of an assignment. A locale to which she is scheduled to return on Saturday night. What is in the vicinity of that locale? For one t
hing, the desolate shoreline of Lake Huron. Another handy place to deposit a body. And on the night of the disappearance, the suspect again checks out a company car, which she had reserved earlier in the week. But she does not go to the locale earlier planned; instead she ends up, she says, in a fruitless wait for a news source and, according to mileage records, does not leave the Detroit city limits.”

  “Wait a minute, Father,” Patrick interrupted. “You’re limiting your consideration to each of the suspects separately. What if they were acting in consort? What if it’s a conspiracy? What if each carried out only part of the entire plot? You know, the whole is equal to the sum of all its parts. What if they are all in this together, like the characters in Agatha Christie’s ‘Orient Express’?”

  Ah, thought Koesler, another mystery buff. You never know where they’re going to pop up.

  “That’s an interesting notion, Sergeant,” said Koesler. “But, with all due respect, I don’t think it will hold up. In ‘The Orient Express,’ not only did all the suspects know each other, they were all on the same train. Here, at least five of the six suspects share only one thing—inclusion in Monsignor Thompson’s diary. And since there is no indication they had known of the diary or had the opportunity of reading it prior to the disappearance, most of them, at least, would not even know of the others’ existence.”

  Koesler returned to his previous line of conjecture. “So, you see, each seems to have, in effect, carried out half a plan. But if each carried out only half a plan, then where is Monsignor Thompson? He should be here among us. But obviously, he is not. If he were, he certainly would not stand idly by while his reputation was being destroyed.

  “First of all, I believe he is alive. I believe this for several reasons. First, and least of all, is his constant and rather annoying habit of telling everyone that nothing ever happens to him.

  Second, I don’t think any of our suspects would make a very good murderer. And, I think that the fact that—to all appearances—one plan after another was not carried through is an indication of that. Now, of course, there is always the possibility that a person or persons unknown could be responsible for whatever has happened to Monsignor Thompson. Obviously, if he provokes a spirit of vengeance from six people we know, he is quite capable of provoking such a spirit from any number of people we don’t know.