“You’ve talked to Peter.”
“No, to Sergeant Ewing. After he processed Mr. Harison and put him in a holding cell, he phoned the chief deputy prosecutor and explained the case. It was the prosecutor’s opinion that we have here a most rare, if not unique, case and that he would have to check it out first thing in the morning.”
“Excuse me, but check what?”
“Various statutes and cases, to determine what, if any, charge to bring. He will, after all, be the one to prosecute the case.”
“What happens to Peter in the meantime?”
“That is the part I think you will like. The prosecutor asked Sergeant Ewing if he thought Mr. Harison would try to escape if he were released overnight.”
“And?”
“And the sergeant said he thought not. And, in very truth, I must agree. So, Mr. Harison was ‘released to appear.’ That is a term we use to indicate that when we get a warrant, the prisoner must return to our custody.”
“That means that Peter will at least be able to attend the funeral tomorrow morning?”
“I would think so, yes. It probably will take several hours to formulate the case against him. So it should be at least midmorning before a determination is made.”
“Thank God.” Koesler was genuinely relieved. “At least he’ll be able to attend the funeral. And then?”
“And then we shall see what we shall see.”
Part Eight
At the Grave
23
Father Koesler could remember—long, long ago—when he had been an altar boy. Especially on school days, it had been most desirable to accompany the priest to the cemetery. That way one could miss an entire morning of school.
In those days, priests usually ate breakfast—their first nourishment of the day—immediately following the funeral Mass. Then the priest and his altar boys were chauffeured to the cemetery by the mortician. Mourners usually were kept waiting in their cars until the priest finally arrived. All in all, the process consumed considerable time.
Like everything else, these things had changed. Now it was permissible as well as sensible to eat before Mass. Nor did the priest usually take altar boys with him to the cemetery.
Thus, Koesler arrived at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery alone and well in advance of the cortege. None of the visiting priests who had attended the Mass would be at the cemetery. The cemetery, Koesler thought sardonically, was for diehards. Only the most committed mourners accompanied the body to the grave. And literally no one this day would go all the way to the grave. In winter the final rites were held in the mausoleum. That was as close to the frozen ground as the funeral party could get.
There was no point in staying in his car and running the motor to keep warm. So Koesler entered the mausoleum as soon as he arrived. He was greeted by the cemetery’s manager. Over the years and through hundreds of burials, priests and cemetery personnel became acquaintances, if not friends.
“Cold enough for you, Father?”
“Plenty. And we’ve still got all of winter to go.”
“Got the burial permit with you, Father?” The manager carried a pad of permit certificates just in case a priest forgot It happened.
“Sure, here.”
“Ridley C. Groendal. Must have been kind of famous. Got a big obit in the paper.” The manager studied the certificate.
“Yeah, he was kind of famous.” Koesler had long since ceased to be surprised when a celebrity in an artistic field was not generally known. About the only ones widely famous were motion picture and television personalities.
“Really peculiar middle name, eh, Father?”
“Huh? Peculiar?” Koesler tried to recall Ridley’s middle name. At one time he’d known it but, never having a use for it he’d forgotten it. “It’s . . . it’s . . . oh . . . Charles, isn’t it?”
“Maybe according to the baptismal certificate, but not according to the birth or death certificate. Got it right off the county records. It’s Caligula.”
“Caligula! Are you sure?”
“Yep. Never seen that one before. I mean outside a history book.”
Caligula! Koesler had no reason to disbelieve the man. Rid had managed to keep it a secret all these years, if, indeed, he had ever known what his real name was. What kind of parent would give a name like that to a child? Thinking back on Ridley’s parents, Koesler could only guess it must have been Rid’s father. Some sort of ultimate joke played on a child the father never wanted. The name, now revealed, spoke volumes on what Ridley’s early life must have been.
Well, no more time for speculation. The cortege had arrived and was being organized by the funeral directors.
The metal casket was carried carefully up the few steps and set on the wheeled cart. A mortician guided it into the mausoleum. The mourners filed in and were directed to stand near either side wall. The crowd had thinned drastically. Only a few of those who had attended the Mass had come to the cemetery.
Once again, and for the final time, Koesler stood at the foot of Ridley Groendal’s casket. Although the entire cemetery had been consecrated, and although they were not standing at the open grave, it was customary to read the prayer:
“Lord God, through your mercy those who have lived in faith find eternal peace. Bless this grave and send your angel to watch over it. Forgive the sins of our brother whose body we bury here. Welcome him into your presence, and with your saints let him rejoice in you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Koesler sprinkled the casket with holy water again. As he continued the familiar prayers, he scanned the little group. Peter Harison, present by the grace of the prosecutor’s office. Dave, Mitch, Charlie, and Valerie were not there. Evidently, they were satisfied that Ridley would no longer be around to foul their lives. They trusted Koesler and the few remaining faithful to plant Ridley.
Peter Harison felt the tension ease. Why, he did not know. Perhaps because the burial service was near its conclusion. Perhaps because so few of those in the church had come to the cemetery. That was it, probably. Especially with the four—Palmer, Mitchell, Hogan, and Walsh—gone. Truthfully, they made him at least slightly uneasy. It was like being confined in a room with one’s own murder weapon—a club, a knife, a gun. And yet, the four were not really his weapons; he had merely orchestrated their assault of Ridley. The determination to kill Ridley had been theirs.
Harison—familiar as he was with his friend’s private life—knew well their animosity toward Ridley. Even though found out last night, it had been a damned clever plan—as uncomplicated as uncapping an active volcano. All he’d had to do was write them—posing as a fellow victim of Ridley’s venom—assuring them the time was ripe, and urging them to an act of revenge. In actuality, the time was more ripe than any of them could have suspected.
After that, it had been easy. So intent was Rid on killing himself that almost any occasion would have served. All Harison had to do was wait—and he was reasonably sure they all would write—until all the letters had been delivered; then, at an appropriate moment set them up for Rid.
The way Rid was abusing his health, Harison knew that almost any moment would be appropriate. And so it had been. That evening had been a classic. Rid had perfectly set himself up with his gluttony, guzzling, and attitude. All Harison needed to do was to stack the letters with their predictable contents and let nature take its course.
Soon, he felt sure, he would have to pay the price for what he had done. But, at most, it would be an earthly penalty. Before God, he’d done nothing wrong. Of that he was certain. They—Rid’s enemies—had killed him. Harison, at most, had let them do so. And, in any case, he had saved his friend from suicide and the eternal fires of hell. Let civil law do its damnedest. He was ready. He would not whimper.
As he neared the end of the Prayers at Graveside, Koesler noticed an additional person enter the mausoleum and take a place at the rear. It was Sergeant Ewing. He wore the same somber expression as the others. If one did
not know he was a police officer, there would be no way of telling he was not one with the other mourners.
Koesler concluded the rite:
“We command our brother, Ridley, to you, Lord. Now that he has passed from this life, may he live on in your presence. In your mercy and love, forgive whatever sins he may have committed through human weakness. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Koesler intoned, “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”
And all responded, “And may perpetual light shine upon him.”
“May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”
“Amen.”
The funeral director spoke briefly, thanking all for attending, and directing them back to their cars. After many funerals, at least those who had taken the trouble of going to the cemetery were invited to return to some location where a luncheon would be served. Not at this funeral. Everything ended at this point.
In silence, those present began to depart.
Peter Harison seemed at a loss. He appeared uncertain as to whether to go or stay. He moved as if to approach Father Koesler, then thought better of it and turned to leave.
When he was stopped by Ewing at the door, Harison seemed startled. The officer spoke earnestly to him for several minutes. From time to time, Harison nodded. Finally, when Ewing had finished, Harison made an abortive gesture, half turned as if to return to Koesler, decided against it, and hurriedly left the mausoleum.
Only Ewing and Koesler remained. The priest inclined his head slightly and looked inquiringly at the officer.
Ewing, smiling benignly, approached Koesler. “I suppose you’re wondering what happened.”
“I certainly am.”
“Well, you broke this case. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be among the first to know. My friend the prosecuting attorney got out his law books first thing this morning.
“And, briefly, the prosecutor has denied our request for the issuance of a warrant.”
“That means . . .?”
“Harison walks. He skates. For all intents and purposes, he’s free.”
“They’re not going to prosecute?”
“The determination is that, at most, it’s a civil cause of action. The charge would be Intentional Infliction of Mental Distress. So, in theory, Harison could be sued for soliciting those letters. But there’s no one left to sue him. Groendal is dead, survived by no one. No one close. No one who cares. The only one who cared was Harison and he killed the guy.”
“Then Peter will not be tried?”
“Without a warrant—no. There is no criminal charge.”
“But those letters did it. Reading them, as Rid did, killed him.”
“Father, I guess the moral is, if you’ve got a weak heart—diabetes, whatever—and you’re expecting some inflammatory mail, you’d better get someone to open your mail for you.”
“Well, I must say, nothing much surprises me anymore. But this is surprising.”
“It sure as hell is. The most the prosecutor said was that he’d have to face a higher judge. But I don’t operate on that level. If they get by a judge and jury in the city of Detroit, they’re by me.” Ewing turned and walked away.
“Thanks,” Koesler called after him. “Thanks for taking the trouble to explain it for me.”
Without turning, Ewing nodded and shrugged.
Koesler was alone in the marble vault. Alone with the mortal remains of Ridley C. Groendal.
The priest returned to the casket. He placed his hand against the metal. It was wet. Beads of holy water still clung to it.
As if a videotape was played at fast-forward, Ridley’s life, as Koesler knew it, passed before his memory. He and Ridley were children making their way through Holy Redeemer grade school in the good old days. There was the ill-fated concert when Rid took on Dave Palmer and lost. The treasured days of the seminary during which Rid tried to compete against a more talented playwright, Carroll Mitchell, and felt himself compelled to plagiarize. The friendship with Charlie Hogan that turned into a different lifestyle for Rid and got him expelled from the seminary. His awkward and fateful evening with Jane Condon that produced a doomed child and, eventually, an unexpected enemy in Valerie Walsh. His lasting love of Peter Harison and the one infidelity that cost Rid what little health he had left.
Koesler thought of what Sergeant Ewing had said: that the prosecutor had left those involved in Rid’s death to a higher than earthly judge. The matter now rested between God—the just judge—and the consciences of five people.
It was impossible for Koesler to crawl inside those consciences and learn what their individual judgments might be. But, if he had to bet on it, he would have wagered that their consciences would have told them that they had done God’s will at best or a good deed at worst. Peter Harison was convinced he had saved his friend from suicide and the fires of hell; the others that they had righted the scales of justice and insured that Ridley would ruin no more lives.
Koesler was brought back to the present with a start when the casket moved. He had been so lost in reverie, he had not noticed the attendant who came to take the coffin into a holding room. “Done here, Father?” The attendant was surprised the priest was still there. Usually, everyone cleared out immediately after the final rites.
“Oh . . . oh . . . yes. Sorry.”
“Gotta get ready for the next funeral. Just turned in the gate. Gonna be here in just a couple of minutes. Life goes on, y’know.”
Koesler watched as the casket was wheeled from the room. Life goes on? For some of us, yes. For others, no. You did not fit too well into this life, Rid. Be at rest now. Rid. Be at peace.
Acknowledgments
Gratitude for technical advice to:
Sgt. Roy Awe, Homicide, Detroit Police Department
Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University
Detroit Free Press:
Lawrence DeVine, Theater Critic
John Guinn, Music Critic
Neal Shine, Senior Managing Editor
Detroit Symphony Orchestra:
Cathy Compton, Viola
Oliver Green, Personnel Manager
Gunther Herbig, Music Director
Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department
Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit
Timothy Kenny, Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division, Wayne County Prosecutor’s Office
Walter D. Pool, M.D., Medical Consultant
Wendy Schulte, Modeling Consultant
Hal Youngblood, Host of “Hal Youngblood’s Nighttime Report”
Any technical error is the author’s.
Deadline for a Critic copyright © 1987, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
Excerpts from the English translation of Rite of Funerals ® 1970, International Committee on English in the Liturgy, Inc. (ICEL); excerpts from the English translation of The Roman Missal ® 1973, ICEL. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
ISBN 978-1-4494-2366-7
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.
The Father Koesler Mysteries
1. The Rosary Murders
2. Death Wears a Red Hat
3. Mind Over Murder
4. Assault with In
tent
5. Shadow of Death
6. Kill and Tell
7. Sudden Death
8. Deathbed
9. Deadline for a Critic
10. Marked for Murder
11. Eminence
12. Masquerade
13. Chameleon
14. Body Count
15. Dead Wrong
16. Bishop as Pawn
17. Call No Man Father
18. Requiem for Moses
19. The Man Who Loved God
20. The Greatest Evil
21. No Greater Love
22. Till Death
23. The Sacrifice
24. The Gathering
Here is a special preview of
Marked for Murder
The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 10
1
"It's all right, you know-I mean, if you can't. . ."
The young man tried feverishly-as he had for the past fifteen minutes-to stimulate himself. But the longer and more frantically he tried, the less likely it seemed that he would maintain or even attain an erection. And, before he'd begun, she had spent another quarter of an hour trying to help him. She'd used every means she knew. And she knew them all.
Nothing.
"Believe me, honey," Louise Bonner assured him, "it happens to everybody once in a while. It's nothing to get upset about. Tomorrow you'll probably have a hard-on all day."
"I can do it." His teeth were clenched as he thrashed about. "Goddammit, I've done it all my life."
"Yeah, sure, honey. But this is your first time with a woman, right?"
He flushed deeper as he continued his effort.
All his life. Louise suppressed a smile. All seventeen or eighteen years of his brief life. She had a mental image of him in his room, alone. On the walls, photos of females, nude or in various stages of dishabille. And there he would masturbate the night away. Then the fateful day-today. He'd saved his money. Or his father gave him ten bucks, told him to find a whore and become a man.
Deadline for a Critic Page 32