Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

The bartender raised his eyebrows but quickly lowered them. He dropped ice in a glass, filled it with effervescence, and added a twist of lime.

  Hoffman tried to assimilate what he’d just heard. He felt as if he had been flipflopped twice by the spatula of life.

  Somehow, when Em grabbed that glass from him, she had neither intentionally saved his life nor committed suicide. Someone had murdered her. But . . . Cindy? His own sister?

  The priest wouldn’t lie to him. Somehow it was all true. Father Koesler would explain. Pictures at eleven.

  But wait: If Em had been the intended victim, then he had not been.

  He tried to absorb that single, simple fact. No one had tried to kill him. He was as alive and as likely to stay alive as he had been before the party Monday evening. And before the party Monday evening, he had not given death a serious thought.

  Reprieved! What do you know about that? Just as alive as he had been before the party Monday evening.

  It was beginning to take. He was getting used to the idea of being alive. Being alive means there is no one out there lying in wait for you, plotting your death.

  Being alive means having a healthy, strong body that no one is going to puncture with bullets or knives or invade with poison. Being alive means having a life expectancy of maybe twenty or thirty more years. Being alive put the roses back in his cheeks.

  “Andy . . .” He beckoned to the bartender. “. . . get rid of this water and bring me a perfect Rob Roy.”

  “Yes, sir!” The bartender’s spirits often reflected those of his customers. Down when they were down. Up when they were up. At the moment, he mirrored Frank Hoffman’s ebullience.

  Hoffman sipped his drink. It was the elixir of life and he’d been away from it too long.

  “Call for you, sir.” The bartender held the phone aloft. “Take it here?”

  Hoffman nodded, took the phone, and put the receiver to his ear. “Hoffman.”

  “Yes, sir. This is Kirkus . . . Al Kirkus.”

  “Yeah, Al. What’s up?”

  “Your letter, sir. I think it set a world’s record in getting here.”

  “That’s what happens when you hand-deliver, Al.”

  The letter! The goddamn letter! He’d forgotten about the letter!

  He hadn’t had any reason to think of it until this minute. When he’d had the letter and its copies delivered to the secretaries of the members of the board, he had figured he’d be dead by the time they read it.

  But he wasn’t going to be dead.

  This was very definitely a problem. But, he was certain, not an insurmountable one. “Wait a minute, Al . . . how do you know it’s been delivered?”

  “Because, sir, Clem Keely and I have been dismissed. When we got in this afternoon, we were given our notice. And just this morning, you said—”

  “This morning, I was guessing at the reaction of the board.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that, sir. But we were thinking, Clem and I, that with your record and experience—not to mention your contacts—you probably won’t have much of a problem finding another position. Probably right in town, too. So, Clem and I were thinking that . . . well, sir, to be perfectly frank, whether you can do anything for poor Clem or not, I was hoping, as your trusted aide, you would be able to take me with you.”

  “Take you with me, is it? You know better than that, Al. Fortunes of war and all. You take gambles in the game we’re in. We lost. Now, we recoup as best we can. I’m going to have enough trouble getting relocated myself, pal, without having you as an albatross around my neck.

  “Good luck, Al. Oh, and Al: Don’t call me again.” He disconnected.

  Kirkus sat dejected and deflated in an office that was no longer his. He wondered whether he should reconsider following through with the threat he’d sent Hoffman. If winning all the marbles became impossible, there was something to be said for revenge.

  Back at the club, Hoffman continued to sit at the bar, reflecting on his new, if not uncluttered, lease on life.

  That damned letter! If only he had held off long enough to be certain he was about to die. No, that wasn’t correct: When he’d sent the letter confessing to sabotaging Charlie Chase he had thought he was a dead man. But now, he was very much alive. And, due to an excess of premature virtue, out of a damn good job.

  Well, hell, there was still GM and Ford and Chrysler and AMC . . . and the foreigns. Somebody out there had to be interested in a top exec who knew and was willing to share the secrets and the plans of The Company in exchange for a good position wherein he could write his own ticket.

  The future didn’t look so bleak after all.

  “Andy,” he slammed his glass on the bar, “another!”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hoffman.”

  Hoffman sipped his second perfect Rob Roy.

  The future. Goddamn, that’s right. The future.

  “Andy, hand me that phone.”

  Hoffman dialed.

  “Yes?”

  “Jackie?”

  “Frank! Frank, how are you? Where are you?”

  “Jackie, about that . . . uh . . . wedding . . .”

  22.

  If there were any precipitation, it would be snow. It was cold enough. But even in the depths of a Michigan winter, longtime residents of the state knew that from November through April they could expect anything from a blizzard to a heat wave.

  The present cold snap had occasioned a rare log-burning in the fireplace of St. Anselm’s rectory, where Father Koesler was hosting his friends Inspector Walter Koznicki and Dr. Rudy Scholl.

  Koesler had made dinner. His was not the skill to attempt anything as complicated as a roast. When one was invited to a Koesler dinner, one could be quite sure of a steak or chops, a tossed salad, and cooked frozen vegetables. As Koesler did not believe in dessert, so neither did his guests.

  They were batching it this Tuesday evening. Koznicki’s wife, Wanda, was attending a confirmation ceremony being conducted by none other than Bishop Michael Ratigan. Scholl’s wife, Sonya, a psychologist like her husband, had appointments scheduled. She would join them later only if she got a cancellation. Koesler was batching it by order of Holy Mother Church.

  Dinner completed, the three men had repaired to the comfortable living room and were sitting around the fireplace. Koznicki, aware of Koesler’s strange inability to brew a decent cup, had volunteered to make the coffee.

  Most of their dinner conversation had revolved around the murder of Emma Hoffman. Which conversation was continuing.

  “Dr. Frank Putnam, of the National Institute of Mental Health, is responsible for a significant breakthrough in this field,” said Scholl. He had been commenting on the condition of Cindy Mercury, who had been diagnosed as a multiple personality.

  “Dr. Putnam,” Scholl continued, “had sort of inherited a forty-five-year-old woman who had been diagnosed as everything from an epileptic to a schizophrenic to manic-depressive, and even as having a brain tumor.

  “She had been given dozens of standard medications, as well as some experimental drugs. When you find a medical history like that, you know the men of science are just plain baffled. No one could understand her rapid changes of behavior. She was lethargic and listless one moment and vibrant and charming the next.

  “But it was that very swing in emotions which suggested to Dr. Putnam that she very well might be a multiple. And he was right. What had been thought to be a variety of mental diseases was really an internal struggle between personalities battling for control of the woman’s body.”

  “Not to digress,” said Koesler, who was forever digressing, “but it reminds me of something I once heard Sammy Davis, Jr. say in his nightclub act. Davis said that since he is both black and Jewish, when he wakes up in the morning he doesn’t know whether to be shiftless and lazy or stingy and mean.”

  “And only somebody like Sammy Davis could get away with such a racist comment,” said Scholl. “But, it does help to illustrate the point. You see, in very str
essful situations, frequently the subject’s only perceived alternatives are to stay and fight or to run. But what if you can do neither?

  “Say you’re a child, perhaps, or someone like Cindy. Cindy feels the embarrassment of her husband in having to accept a dole given in ill grace. She cannot fault the brother she loves. At the same time, she empathizes with the husband she loves. She cannot insist that her husband live within their means, even with Frank Hoffman augmenting those means. She knows Angle’s show business career demands a certain degree of ostentation. Yet, she is left to balance books that will not balance.

  “People have worked her into a tight little corner. She cannot fight them, nor can she run. On top of it all, there is the threat that her sister-in-law will pull down the whole house of cards by putting a stop to Frank’s contributions.

  “Finally, it becomes too much. She certainly can’t fight it. She’d like to run away, but she can’t do that either. She can only run away symbolically. Dissociation is symbolic flight.

  “It’s such a simple and successful way to handle unbearable stress that it becomes pathologically compelling. A different personality develops to handle each problem. One multiple named Pauline, for instance, has an alternate named Annie, who appears once each week to do the laundry. I’ve got a patient now, in fact, who, so far, has revealed eighty-one alternate personalities.”

  His listeners looked properly impressed.

  “When we were gathered at the Mercury home, as soon as Audrey began to speak, I was sure she was a multiple. Either that, or Cindy was giving an Academy Award performance. By the way, it is not unusual for multiples to sound and even look different from the host.

  “Under all the stress and pressure that Cindy felt, she probably subconsciously tried any number of psychological defenses. None of them solved the problem, until, again subconsciously, she chose dissociation. Her personality fragmented, creating Audrey, a very hard dame, who borrowed Cindy’s voice when it was appropriate, and even Cindy’s skill as a hypnotist, and created a damned clever solution to the problem by killing Emma Hoffman.”

  “Yes,” agreed Koznicki, “it is noteworthy that all the forensic psychiatrists called in by both defense and prosecution agreed that Cindy suffered a multiple personality. In all my experience, I have never seen such unanimity among psychiatrists called in to testify.”

  “Well,” Scholl commented, “Fritz Heinsohn did waffle a bit.”

  “What’s new?” remarked Koesler.

  “I think,” said Koznicki, “everyone agreed with the verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  “Audrey’s assertion that she could not be punished, that all we could do was hurt Cindy, was certainly on the mark,” said Scholl.

  “The court was forced to send her to the forensic center in Ann Arbor before they determined to give her a civil commitment,” Koznicki observed.

  “Yes,” added Scholl, “and with Frank Hoffman’s money helping, she should get excellent treatment at the Brockport Home in Massachusetts. It’s one of the best facilities in the country. I visited her there the other day, at her brother’s request, and she’s doing remarkably well. Of course, with these fusion attempts, it has to be anybody’s guess. But I really believe her prognosis is excellent.”

  “Well, for one thing, the pressure that caused the initial split disappeared with Emma’s death,” said Koesler.

  “And she certainly ought to find reassurance in her husband’s new job,” said Koznicki.

  “Have you seen his new show on Channel 7?” Koesler asked.

  “I believe,” Koznicki answered, “even those of us who do not watch daytime television have tuned in that program at least once just to see how Mr. Mercury is coming along.”

  “I think he was made for that kind of show,” Koesler enthused. “He’s got a steady supply of local and visiting show business personalities. He knows most of them and their chatter is always interesting. At least Angie keeps it interesting.

  “But most of all, now he’s got a steady—and, from all I’ve heard—a very respectable salary. He doesn’t have to go on the road anymore. And, with his exposure on that show, he’s getting all the better parts in local theater and commercials. I’m really pleased for them both. Cindy should recover, please God, completely. And she’ll have a much more normal home life waiting for her.”

  “Speaking of a normal life,” said Scholl, “weren’t you pleased to see Jacqueline LeBlanc return to her native Fall River? She’s still young enough to pick up the pieces and start over.”

  “Yes,” added Koesler, “she’ll probably marry some nice Irish Catholic lad and become another example, in Fall River’s peculiar view, of a mixed marriage between Irish and French Catholics.”

  “And what of Charles Chase?” Koznicki asked. “From what I read in the papers, he seems to be doing well.”

  “From what I’ve heard, that’s true,” Koesler responded. “I guess Frank Martin was eager to find out what was the cause of that disastrous presentation Mr. Chase made. On face value, his career seemed virtually over. But once it got out that he had been sabotaged by Frank Hoffman, Mr. Chase’s star took off again. According to most of our people in the parish who work for The Company, Mr. Chase may yet indeed, one day become chairman of the board.”

  “He will have to do it without the help of that Al Kirkus.” Koznicki smiled. Not only was he dismissed from The Company, but it was not difficult to establish that he was the one responsible for the threatening note sent to Frank Hoffman. One of the cleaning people noticed an interesting looking magazine in Kirkus’ wastebasket. But when she retrieved it to look at it, she was disgusted to find that it had been all cut up and clipped out.

  “If he can’t cover his tracks any more thoroughly than that, for his own welfare, I trust Mr. Kirkus will not turn to a life of crime.”

  “I was wondering about him,” said Scholl. “Wasn’t he charged with anything?”

  “It is a very gray area,” Koznicki answered. “In the final analysis, we decided to scare him within an inch of his life. We gave him an official talking to and told him what would happen if he ever crossed the line again . . . especially if he ever were to bother Mr. Hoffman or interfere with his life.

  “And speaking of Hoffman, with the solution to this investigation, we were able to close the books on two files. The earlier incident, when he came close to being killed at the glass plant? The Prosecuting Attorney’s office has ruled that an industrial accident. It seems, after all, that no one wants—at least actively wants—Mr. Hoffman dead.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Hoffman,” Scholl mused. “Is it true that he is now postmaster for an affluent Detroit suburb?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Koesler. “I’m afraid none of the other automotive companies would have him.”

  “Sort of restores your faith in the automotive community, doesn’t it?” Scholl laughed.

  “Yes, but what does it do to one’s faith in the U.S. Postal Service?” Koesler replied with a grimace. “I hear that they welcomed him as just the kind of man they needed. Of course, he had to take a whopping cut in income. But mere money is not what Frank Hoffman needs just now, what with his own savings and investments, and the inheritance from his late wife.

  “No, the position of postmaster is a political appointment. And that’s where Frank is headed—into politics. And I wouldn’t be surprised to see him climb steadily up the political ranks. Wouldn’t that be something—Frank Hoffman, president of the United States . . .” Koesler thought for a moment, then added, “God preserve us.”

  “Amen,” echoed Koznicki and Scholl.

  The coffee cups were empty. Koznicki offered refills. All declined. Koesler offered after-dinner liqueur. All declined. The evening was winding down.

  Suddenly, a bell jangled, startling everyone. It was the only discordant sound they had heard this evening. Scholl, for one, had forgotten he was in a rectory where anyone could call at any hour.

  “For the love of Pete!” Ko
esler exclaimed, rising. “It’s the phone. You might get the impression people normally call at this time of night. I assure you, they don’t.” He left the living room to answer the phone in his office.

  Scholl thought the statement a refreshing bit of candor. Most people complained about being too busy whether they were or not. Enjoyment of a leisurely work place seemed to be a cardinal sin to most Americans. And here was this suburban priest assuring them that the phone did not normally ring itself off the wall.

  Koesler reentered the room.

  “It’s Wanda,” he said to the Inspector. “You can take it in my office.”

  As Koznicki left the room, Scholl returned to a subject he had been pursuing earlier. “You’d be surprised, Father, how much company a dog can provide. And I’m sure you’d feel more secure. You must be alone in the rectory frequently. Few things scare off unwelcome visitors more than a barking dog.”

  Koesler, who had no intention of living with animals of any description, tried to humor his friend. “Well . . . I suppose St. Anselm’s could afford a small dog.”

  Scholl shook his head. “Father, if you’re going to get a dog, get a big dog. If you’re going to get a little dog, get a cat.”

  With that, Koznicki reentered the room, smiling broadly.

  “Something funny?” asked Koesler.

  “Does Bishop Ratigan normally enter into a dialogue with the children he confirms?”

  “Why, no . . . no. As far as I know, Mike has never even liked kids very much.”

  “Then he is even less likely to do so after tonight.” The Inspector shook his head. “For some reason, instead of preaching at the confirmation, the bishop began to ask questions, pretty much letting the children’s streams of consciousness take over.”

  “That’s certainly not like Mike,” Koesler commented.

  “I did not think so. Well, at one point, they had gotten into Bible history and one young lad mentioned Abraham. The bishop asked if any of the others knew who Abraham was. And one youngster volunteered, and I quote, Abraham Lincoln was our first president.’”

  They chuckled.