Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  He could turn on his heel and retrace his steps and perhaps come again to fight another day. Or, he could eliminate the guard.

  For him, the professional, the perfectionist, there really was no choice.

  He took his blackjack from his pocket. The grip felt natural—an extension of his hand. Noiselessly he stepped up behind her. He swung with all his might. The blackjack struck her squarely on the right temple. She crumpled to the floor.

  As with every other time he had used this weapon, there was no outcry, no external blood, no lingering consciousness. Death would follow in a matter of minutes.

  He opened a nearby door and turned on the light. It was an office that evidently had already been cleaned. The crew would have no reason to return here. He dragged the inert form into the office, turned out the light, and stepped back out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

  Should any of the cleaning crew ask about the missing guard, he was prepared to say that she had to check another floor and would be back soon—and meanwhile, he had to repair the phone in the archives room. He anticipated no further trouble. But he was confident he could handle whatever came up.

  As he continued down the hall toward the archives room, he froze for a moment as an elderly woman came toward him. She wore an old, threadbare dress, an apron in similar condition, and stockings that sagged around her ankles. She paid him little notice, glancing only at his clothing as she went past. Evidently the uniform was sufficient explanation for his presence. Everyone had a job to do. She cleaned offices, he repaired phones. She wouldn’t get in his way if he didn’t get in hers.

  She continued down the corridor, pushing her silent vacuum ahead of her. In a few moments, he heard the roaring sound as she began another room.

  The combination lock did not appear to be much of a challenge. And, with a setup like this, he was certain he could neutralize the alarm wires. A piece of cake.

  He had been at work on the combination for no more than ten minutes. Everything was falling into place; a few more turns and he would be ready for the large metal door handle, which he knew would yield.

  He didn’t hear them approach, probably due to the infernal noise of the vacuum. But he heard the voice clearly. “Okay, turkey, hold it right there!” It was a woman’s voice, but harsh. “Just lean forward and put both hands on the door where we can see ’em!”

  Chardon did as he was told. He also glanced back briefly. Two Detroit uniforms, one male, one female, both with guns drawn and aimed. No question of going for his own gun; he’d be dead before he could make his move.

  These things happen. But not to him. At least not often. Nothing to do now but play the hand he would be dealt.

  The male officer nudged Chardon to his feet, patted him down, and cuffed him. “Robbin’ the Church. My, my. Ain’t nothin’ sacred anymore.”

  The female officer, checking out Chardon’s tool collection, realized this was no penny-ante thief. Somehow they had nabbed a considerable fish. She pulled a card from her pocket and began to read. “You have the right to remain silent …”

  He was going to hold on to that right like a life preserver.

  C H A P T E R

  25

  IT WAS EARLY Saturday morning. Things were off to a slow start at 1300 Beaubien, police headquarters for the city of Detroit.

  As usual, among the earliest arrivals were Lieutenant Alonzo Tully and Inspector Walter Koznicki. Each was in his respective office in the Homicide Division.

  Tully—most of his confreres and closer acquaintances called him “Zoo”—was studying last night’s cases. The load was surprisingly light for a Friday night. Tonight would probably make up for that shortfall.

  One episode particularly caught his attention. And this he studied for some time with utmost care, stopping only to make an occasional phone call.

  Half an hour later, after a cursory knock, Tully entered the tight office of the head of Homicide.

  Koznicki smiled at his most prized detective. “Something, Alonzo?” Koznicki was almost the only officer who did not use the nickname.

  Tully, rubbing his chin, did not look up from the report as he stood across the desk from the Inspector. “You’re familiar with the Chancery Building on Washington Boulevard.” It was a statement. A Catholic as faithful as Koznicki could safely be presumed to be quite familiar with his Church’s structures.

  Koznicki leaned back in his chair and, as Tully looked up, nodded.

  “Did you,” Tully asked, “ever know of anyone who was murdered there?”

  Koznicki’s eyes widened. He thought for a moment. “No. No. There have been some strange occurrences, particularly when one includes St. Aloysius parish with the chancery. They occupy the same building,” he explained, almost as an aside. “But no, neither the parish nor the chancery. Although there was a time,” he added, thoughtfully, “when the head of a murder victim was found in the church itself.

  “But,” he continued, “since you ask about it, it must have happened. I did not hear of it on the news this morning.”

  “That’s because we get up early. The media is on the story now.” Tully passed the report to Koznicki, who immediately began reading.

  “Happened about 1:00 A.M.,” Tully commented. “Mangiapane and Moore responded. This is their report.” Tully paused, waiting for Koznicki to digest the report. When the inspector seemed to be reaching the final notations, Tully spoke again. “The first surprise is how the guy got through security. It’s a pretty good system.”

  “I did not know that. And it surprises me somewhat.”

  It was Tully’s turn to be surprised. “Walt, they’re in the middle of downtown, right off the street. Lots of other buildings in that neighborhood have bars on the windows and alarms all over the place.”

  Koznicki shook his head. “It is probably part of my upbringing. Churches were open all day, sometimes into the night hours. And yet, I would assume this security system is relatively recent.”

  “Maybe. But it’s there. And this guy just sailed straight through it.”

  “Someone from the inside?”

  “Maybe an inside job. There are lots of possibilities.”

  Koznicki glanced back to the report. “There is no name?”

  “The perp hasn’t said more than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ since we took him in. And that’s mostly ‘Do you want to use the John?’ questions. We sent his prints out with an urgent. I got a hunch when we get his ID, it’s gonna ring bells in some other states. This guy’s a high roller. You should see the tools he had.

  “As far as we can tell, the killing was casual. He had lots of options. Apparently he killed her because it was simpler for him.” Tully looked thoughtful. They both knew it was unusual for a B&E to kill. It wasn’t the usual M.O. But nowadays there were fewer and fewer absolutes.

  Koznicki shook his head sadly. There had been a more gentle time even for criminals, a time when murder was a rare occurrence. Now it seemed to replace an angry letter.

  “Hot from the soup,” Tully said of the photos that had just been developed and that he was laying out on Koznicki’s desk.

  Some of the shots showed the corridor as viewed by the perpetrator as he approached the guard. Other shots were of the door to the archives vault, as well as the tools the killer carried. Finally, an exhaustive series showed the victim from all possible angles.

  Koznicki seemed to be engaged in some peculiar game as he slid the pictures around his desk. Soon he had them in an order he found satisfactory. “This …” He pointed to an object in one of the photos. “… this is a standard blackjack?”

  Tully moved behind the desk to look over Koznicki’s shoulder.

  “Uh-huh,” Tully affirmed. Then, “Well, yes and no. It certainly does the job like any other blackjack. But there’s something different about it. I talked to Mangiapane on the phone. He said it was … like … custom-made. Something like a specially made cue that a professional billiard player uses. You know, he carries it
around with him from parlor to parlor, takes it out of its case, screws it together. Like Paul Newman,” he added, “or Jackie Gleason in The Hustler.”

  Koznicki’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “This was the only weapon the killer had?”

  Tully shook his head. “He had a gun, but he never got a chance to use it. The uniforms got the drop on him. If he’d gone for the gun, he’d be the M.E.’s patient now.”

  Koznicki, preoccupied with the photos, did not look up. “Who called our people?”

  “One of the cleaning ladies,” Tully said. “She was coming down the hallway when she spotted the guy. She took him to be a repairman, so she didn’t give him much thought—until she realized that the security guard wasn’t at her post. That’s when she decided she’d better call for help. Lucky she did,” he added.

  Koznicki absently drummed his index finger on one photo. It was a head shot of the victim; the finger was touching the spot that had been crushed. “Strange,” he mused, “a blackjack made to order and apparently the weapon of choice. And he needed only one blow to kill …”

  “Yeah, that is weird. Guns do the job. For something like this, probably a silencer. And if not a gun, a knife. I’d almost think something manual like strangulation before a blackjack. That’s like one of those vintage movies.”

  “There is something …” Koznicki’s finger continued its unmindful dance on the glossy. “There is something, but it will not come … Oh, well …”—the finger stopped—“it will come in due time.”

  Tully returned to the other side of the desk, took a chair, and leaned in so the two detectives were close. “This looks like a platter case, Walt. I can’t think of anything that could screw it up. Getting through that security system constitutes B&E. The prints on the ’jack are all his, and the M.E. is checking the death wound to confirm that it was caused by this ’jack. Only a couple of questions don’t have any answers yet. But they bug me.”

  “Oh?”

  “One,” Tully said, “why was there a security guard there?”

  “You yourself said they had adopted a security system in keeping with their changing neighborhood. Would it not be expected that they would employ guards?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But Mangiapane asked them how many guards were assigned every night. Just a routine question. But it comes out that the guards go off duty around six in the evening. Every evening. So, he asks, how come there are guards last night? And the answer is the cleaning people say they were afraid, so they asked for the added protection.”

  “Afraid? Afraid of what?”

  Tully shrugged. “I don’t know. Mangiapane doesn’t know. As far as I can tell, the cleaning people don’t even know. ‘There was talk,’ is all Mangiapane and Moore were able to get out of them.

  “So, that’s one. And two: What was in the archives room that a pro would be after? Did somebody hire him? And what was so damn important about it all that he would kill somebody in the process of getting it?”

  “I take it there is no answer as yet?”

  “Uh-uh. Nobody—at least none of the cleaning people—had even the slightest idea what was in there. Seems the guy in charge of that department does his own cleaning.”

  “It would be helpful if we had some answers to those questions, would it not?”

  “It certainly would. The questions probably will come up in the trial. Even without the answers I don’t see our perp walking—not ever. But it would be nice if the prosecutor could fill in the blanks.” Tully paused. “We could use some help.”

  “Help? What do you have in mind?”

  “Most of the time it doesn’t make any difference to me that I never got religion. Nine times out of ten religion doesn’t play too husky a part in a criminal investigation. But every once in a while …” Tully’s thought trailed off.

  “Such as now?”

  “‘Specially when we’re smack dab in the middle of the Catholic Church with all its rituals and its bureaucracy, and its rules and regulations, and its jargon. I mean, Walt, you are the most Catholic person I know—with one exception …” A hint of a smile played at Tully’s lips.

  Koznicki’s expression mirrored Tully’s. “Father Koesler?”

  “You read my mind.”

  “Would you like me to call him?”

  “I already did.”

  “You set me up.”

  “He’ll be here at nine. Wanta join us?”

  “I would not miss it,” Koznicki said with finality.

  Tully gathered up the photos on Koznicki’s desk, with the exception of one. The shot showing most explicitly the effects of the fatal blow Koznicki extracted from the pile. Tully did not question his boss, but departed, leaving Koznicki to study the photo as he pondered. Something … there is something here … something I cannot quite put my finger on.

  He continued his study, but the specific memory continued to elude him.

  C H A P T E R

  26

  THEY HAD NOT slept a wink all night.

  Ted and Brenda had alternated between sitting, pacing, and lying down, futilely hoping for revitalizing sleep. They had expected Chardon to call in the early hours after midnight, 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. They could not relax before that time, so anxious were they that everything would go off perfectly. They could not relax after that time in anxiety over what might have happened.

  There was no point in trying to call anyone. The chancery switchboard was shut down at night. If Chardon had completed his task, he would contact them.

  All they could do now was listen to local radio news. This they did through the early morning hours, with no result.

  Then 8:00 A.M. arrived, and the first reports of the attempted break-in at Detroit’s Catholic chancery, headquarters for the local Catholic Church. In the break-in attempt, a security guard had been killed. The name of the guard was being withheld pending notification of the family. A suspect was in custody. Police spokespersons declined to divulge the suspect’s name. Nor was any motive for the break-in advanced. More details would be reported as this story developed.

  Ted and Brenda were stunned. Chardon had been caught. Their scheme was in shambles. The only possible silver lining was the possibility that he had somehow taken care of Mary Lou’s baptismal record before he’d been apprehended. And even that would not be an unadulterated blessing.

  In any case, the story had broken; it was now feasible for Brenda to make some calls. After all, she did work at the chancery; it was only natural she would be concerned.

  One of her greater challenges was to put off explaining to Ted each and every call she made. One call quite naturally led to another, and she didn’t want to interrupt the flow by going over each in detail. She kept promising Ted he’d get every bit of information she could pry out of a series of people, each of whom had only a fragment of the story. To that end, she was scribbling copious notes.

  After a while, Ted gave up trying to read them. He wondered whether she would be able to decipher her own scrawl.

  Brenda was grateful when Ted gave up his vigil over her shoulder. It was much easier to function without him draped over her.

  Finally, the last call, at least in this series, was completed. Brenda motioned Ted to sit across from her, and there would be a self-administered debriefing. She spread her notes in front of her on the coffee table.

  “Well …” Her hands were trembling almost imperceptibly.”… realistically, there is practically no good news. So I’ll give you what little there is right off the top. Chardon appears to have said nothing. They don’t even have his name yet.”

  “They’ll get it.” Ted ran his fingers through his hair repeatedly.

  “The important thing, I think, is that he’s not running off at the mouth. If he had, there’d be some cops looking for us—or, rather, for you, since you’re the one who hired him.”

  Ted stared at her in disbelief. Doesn’t she know the rules of this game? Then, on second thought, Why should she? This was her first ti
me through this netherworld. “He won’t be talking, honey.”

  She looked bewildered. “He won’t?”

  “The worst that can happen to him—at least in Michigan, because we don’t have the death penalty—is that he’ll get life without parole for killing that guard. Now, we’ll make sure he gets a top lawyer. But, if he loses his trial … he loses. Nothing can change that. The time he does either will be very hard or it will be the best money can buy. If he drops the Nash name, he knows we’ll get him—even in prison. If he keeps his mouth shut, he knows we’ll grease the way and won’t stop trying to get him out. Rest easy: He won’t talk.”

  She was not playing poker; she really seemed relieved—greatly relieved. But, she reminded herself, that did not mean they were out of the woods. Their plan had disintegrated; now to pick up the pieces. “Okay. The good news is better than I figured. Now for the bad: Chardon didn’t get into the archives room. He was working on the combination when he was arrested.”

  “Damn! It could have gone either way, couldn’t it? You read about it all the time in the papers. They’re always complaining about the slow response to emergency calls. Dial 911 and take your chances. Sometimes the cops get there in seconds; other times an hour or more goes by. Just a different response from the cops and Chardon could, have taken care of the record. Hell! He might even have gotten away—” He stopped, his brow knit, then said thoughtfully, “What was a security guard doing there in the first place?” He looked at her searchingly. “I thought you said the guards leave about six in the evening. What happened?”

  An ironic smile appeared. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said. “We’re responsible for that—in a roundabout way.”

  “Huh?”

  “Remember Ford Park?”

  “How could I forget it?”

  “Remember when you told me about how you were going to rebuild and renew the area? You said it would be a great deal for the archdiocese to buy up some of that adjoining property for new parishes?”