Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  “Yes, yes … I remember.”

  “Do you remember what came next?”

  “Sure. I suggested that you present the proposition to your boss, McGraw. And you said you did.”

  “And I did. And he bought the whole concept. He was as enthusiastic about the prospect as I’ve ever seen him about anything.

  “What I didn’t know was that he was going to become a Nervous Nellie. The closer the time came for the archdiocese to buy the properties, the more McGraw got frantic that somebody else would hear about it … that there’d be a leak somehow, and that the archdiocese would get into a bidding war for the land. He warned everyone to be extra careful to prevent any word escaping.

  “I knew about that. Most of the people in Finance and Administration reacted kind of lightheartedly … like McGraw was getting paranoid. Nobody was going to steal our plans any more than anyone was going to leak any information. Only a few of us know what was in the works anyway.

  “What we—what I— didn’t know, is that McGraw had stashed all the paperwork for this project in the archives for super safekeeping. And then he spooked the cleaning crew. He told them they’d have to be on their guard for about a week. He didn’t bother telling them what they had to be so cautious about … only that their very lives were at stake.”

  “My God! ‘Paranoid’ doesn’t begin to describe McGraw. It’s too weak a word.”

  “That’s the way he is,” Brenda said. “Anyway, that’s how it happened. I didn’t know—hardly anyone did—but the cleaning people demanded protection for the duration of whatever it was that so scared Mr. McGraw. They weren’t going to be in that building alone during nighttime hours, especially when somebody might invade the place. They knew about the security system, but that wasn’t enough: They wanted people—real live guards. They wanted the same company that provided daytime monitoring to send someone while they were there at night.”

  “Who okayed it?”

  “McGraw.”

  “And he didn’t tell anybody outside of the cleaning people?”

  “That’s the way he is. Never let your right hand know what your left is doing. Even though extending the guards’ hours wasn’t his original idea, he wholeheartedly endorsed it.”

  “And that’s why our well-laid plan failed.”

  “And that’s why we’ll never be able to try that again,” she responded, “at least not in the foreseeable future. Now they know someone wants to get into the archives—although they don’t know why … Say, there’s a thought—”

  “What?” Ted was eager to grasp at straws.

  “If McGraw buys this—if he believes that Chardon was hired to break into the archives to get the papers McGraw squirreled in there, then as soon as this land deal is completed there won’t be any need for the increased security. We might be able to try it again.” She looked at him encouragingly. “Certainly there must be another safecracker in that list your father gave you.”

  Ted stopped running his hands through his hair. He folded them in his lap. “Maybe. Maybe a second try would work.” His brow knit again. “But something else has been bouncing around in my head while we were waiting this morning. And the idea is stronger now that we know what happened and why.”

  “What?”

  Ted looked at her steadily. “I think what we did to try to get hold of that baptism record was the right thing to do. I didn’t realize how much I disliked Dad’s defensive strategy until I got this aggressive plan going. And I was right: Going after that document was right on. It was just a freak accident that fouled up a damn good plan.

  “Dad’s going to be sore as hell about this. He’ll want to go back to counterpunching whatever moves Maureen makes. But I can handle that.

  “What occurs to me now is that with all the things we’ve planned to outwit Maureen, there’s something we haven’t considered that’s fundamental to this whole thing.” He paused.

  “What’s that?”

  “We haven’t established whether or not Mary Lou is actually Dad’s daughter.”

  “What!?”

  “Oh, sure, Dad seems to have accepted his paternity. But that’s based on his presumption that Maureen was such a ‘nice girl’ and that she was so exclusively in love with him that she wouldn’t have had anything to do with anyone else. But that’s an unconfirmed presumption. Just an unconfirmed presumption.

  “And it’s so like Dad. ‘What else could it be? No one could be unfaithful to me. Impossible!’ But it’s not impossible. Unlikely, maybe; impossible, no!”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “What I’m getting at is that very likely someplace down the road, somebody may demand a DNA test to prove whether or not Dad is Mary’s Lou’s father. Now that could just be a bluff to get Dad to accept the claim. All we’ve got for that eventuality is a whole bunch of stalling tactics. But what if …” He looked firmly at her. “… what if, in the end, Dad is not Mary Lou’s father? And what,” in rising excitement, “what if we had proof of that? The ball game would be over.” He smacked his knee in elation. “Don’t you see?”

  “I see, all right. But how could you prove such a thing? If you had a DNA test made, everyone would know the result. And, if what we believe is true—that Mary Lou is your father’s daughter—then the game’s over. And we lose. Isn’t that an enormous chance to take?”

  “That’s the whole idea!” Ted was enthusiastic. “We’re not going public. This is—what shall we call it?—a trial run.”

  “A trial run?”

  “Uh-huh. All I need is a little information from you, and we’re in business. And this time my plan is not going to fail.”

  C H A P T E R

  27

  FATHER KOESLER had suggested meeting Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Tully at the chancery. But, to simplify matters, Koesler accepted their offer to pick him up at St. Joseph’s rectory.

  No introductions were needed. All three knew each other from previous episodes when the priest had made available to the police his expertise in matters Catholic. So, Koesler fitted himself without additional comment into the rear seat of Koznicki’s car for the very brief trip to the Chancery Building, whose memorable address was 1234 Washington Boulevard.

  During the drive, Koesler reflected on the familiarity of a setting: 1300 Beaubien, or any precinct station for that matter, was a home away from home for the police. No matter how many times a civilian might enter such a place, he or she would never be as “at home” as an officer. Sharing a specialized way of life, with its distinct dangers, duties, and rewards, created a bonding that no outsider could penetrate.

  However, these two policemen were about to enter Koesler’s peculiar venue, headquarters for the Roman Catholic Church of Detroit. While he did not actually work there, the “business” of the chancery was his business. And while he did not know the identities of all the employees there, Koesler was on a first-name basis with all the chancery priests and auxiliary bishops. And he needed no introduction to the Cardinal archbishop. Priests and bishops were the heart and soul of what the chancery was all about.

  Just as the police were at home in their stations, so Koesler was at home in virtually any rectory or church or, a fortiori, the chancery. He could well understand and empathize with the police desire to have him along.

  Under ordinary conditions, the chancery, as well as Washington Boulevard, would have been virtually deserted on a Saturday; one could fire a cannon down the boulevard without harming a soul. Conditions today were not ordinary; such a shot might wipe out many of the local television and radio crews, print reporters and photographers, as well as quite a few uniformed police.

  This weekend had begun slowly as far as crime was concerned: some bar brawls, domestic disturbances, a few muggings, armed robberies, and the popular drive-by shootings. Most Detroiters owned guns, and Detroit’s mayoral administration never saw a gun it did not want to protect.

  In the context of these mundane and repetitive crimes, a B&E to
pped off by a murder in the Catholic chancery was deemed major news.

  As it turned out, the police were fortunate to have a priest expert walk them through this investigation. On their own, the news media were almost foreordained to blunder on any number of Church technicalities. Today or tomorrow, or in the weeks to come, priests watching or reading reports on Catholic events would grimace at such errors as: Vatican for Viaticum; missile for missal; Georgian for Gregorian; beautitudes for beatitudes; beautification for beatification; cannonize for canonize; immaculate conception for virgin birth; celibate for chaste; leaving the Church for leaving the priesthood; sea for see; blessed bread for consecrated bread; and the ever-popular Villa della Rosa for the Via Dolorosa.

  Such blunders are the result, most charitably, of finding oneself in a foreign culture. A complication that would not be a problem for Koznicki and Tully thanks to their resource person, Father Koesler.

  Koznicki parked as near the building as possible. Few cars were legally parked today. News people tried for a comment but none was given. A no-nonsense attitude and IDs gained the trio entry to the elevator through a harried security guard who, but for last night’s shocking events, would have been home in bed.

  The third floor was swarming: Chancery personnel were looking officious, distressed, or confused, depending on their respective involvement in the problem area. Uniformed police were busy securing what was deemed necessary. Police technicians, armed with the tools of investigation, were examining, collecting, and recording anything and everything that could be construed as evidence. Rounding out the assemblage were several officers from Tully’s Homicide squad, including Sergeants Phil Mangiapane and Angie Moore, who, sighting the new arrivals, made their way along the corridor to report.

  After greeting Koesler, familiar to them from previous investigations, the pair informed the newcomers about what was now common knowledge, at least on the third floor. Which was that the likely objective of the intruder most probably was the land purchase plans and proposals that had been placed in the archives room.

  Mangiapane in particular seemed pleased that everything was falling into place. The suspect was in custody. And, although he as yet had said nothing and was stoically awaiting his attorney, the perpetrator had been taken in flagrante delicto. And now, to cap the climax, they had a credible motive: the theft of documents that could mean millions of dollars to the right people.

  Tully looked at Koznicki. “Too pat?”

  “I think that a distinct possibility,” Koznicki responded.

  Mangiapane appeared wounded at their doubt. “Zoo, whaddya mean? It’s on the platter. This is a gift horse …”

  “And one,” Koznicki completed, “that you do not want to look in the mouth. Is that it, Sergeant?”

  “Well … yes,” Mangiapane admitted. “We got the perp. We got the corpse. We got the weapon. And now, we got the motive. Believe me, before we found out about what was locked away in that room, we were up …” He paused, considering the attentive presence of Father Koesler, and decided on a substitute phrase. “We were up a tree for a motive. I mean, what in chancery archives could be worth all this?”

  “It’s okay, Manj,” Tully said. “We’re with you. It’s just that this thing maybe is a little too pat. Now, we hope it comes down just like you’ve got it. We just want to take another look. We don’t want to take a chance of this thing blowing up on us when it comes to trial.”

  “Is the person in charge of the archives here?” Koznicki asked.

  “He got … sick when he heard what happened,” Mangiapane said. “Ulcer acting up—uh, just a minute …” The sergeant stepped around some nearby technicians and returned immediately with a young man who seemed to be enjoying all the excitement. “Inspector, this is Mr. Maher. He’s one of the few people who knows the combination that opens the vault door.”

  Koznicki and Tully identified themselves to the new arrival. Koesler and Maher already knew each other; Koesler addressed him as Harry.

  “Has the door been opened yet?” Koznicki asked.

  “No,” Maher replied. “Nobody’s touched it since the burglar. Some of your people were looking for fingerprints, I think.”

  “Then, would you open it, please?” Koznicki requested.

  The group walked to the door, sidestepping people occupying the crowded corridor.

  Maher noted the lock’s indicator was pointing at the number twenty. He leaned forward so that his finger movements were hidden from view, and, in a few seconds, the door was open.

  “That was fast,” Tully commented.

  “I noticed the lock was aimed at the number twenty,” Maher replied. “That’s one of the numbers of the combination. I took a chance and simply went on from there. The guy who was working on this door was almost done. And he was right on with the combination as far as he got. That’s really something,” he marveled. “This is a tough lock.”

  “Interesting,” Koznicki commented.

  The group entered the room and fanned out, examining the various cabinets and shelves, taking care to touch nothing.

  “Can you tell us what is in here?” Koznicki asked.

  “Not as well as the archivist. But, in general, anything regarding Church teachings; building records; appointment letters of priests; anything having to do with parishes; files on bishops; parish records—baptismal records; confidential letters to the apostolic delegate that might have to do with disruptions in the diocese or problems with priests; appointments of bishops to Detroit; documents from the Pope; correspondence between the diocese and the Vatican; and, of course, those plans for land purchase that were placed in here very recently, and which seem to be the focus of everyone’s attention.”

  “You do yourself poor service, Mr. Maher,” Koznicki said. “You seem to know quite a bit about this room.”

  “Really only a general knowledge of what’s kept in here. I would have a devil of a time trying to put my finger on any of these things specifically,” Maher said.

  Tully turned to Koesler. “So, what do you think? Outside of the land purchase plans, what’s exciting enough in here to provoke a robbery and a murder?”

  Just then, a uniformed policewoman entered the room and handed a packet to Koznicki, identifying the contents as mug shots of the suspect. Koznicki opened the envelope and studied the photos as Koesler addressed Tully’s question. “Beats me,” the priest admitted. “It could be almost anything—or nothing. Judging by the contents that Harry just enumerated, I’d guess those land acquisition papers might be the most financially valuable item here.

  “There are other possibilities worth speculating on. But I’m afraid they’re pretty thin. There’s lots of information about priests who’ve gotten into trouble of one sort or another. Maybe even a bishop or two—”

  “The possibility of blackmail or extortion,” Tully interposed.

  Koesler nodded. “I would guess so … at least the possibility. Then there’s the Vatican correspondence and confidential letters to the apostolic delegate.” Koesler noted a fresh furrow in Tully’s forehead. “The apostolic delegate,” he clarified, “is something like an ambassador, but not quite. He’s a representative of the Vatican sent by the Pope to provide the Vatican connection between the Catholics of this country—really the bishops of this country—and the authorities in Rome. He lets the bishops in on what’s on the Pope’s mind. And, probably more important, informs the Pope about the state of the Church in whatever country we’re talking about. Here we’re considering the United States,” he explained. It was Tully’s turn to nod.

  “But, outside of some delicious gossip, I can’t think of anybody’s being so interested in who’s had trouble or what relations are between U.S. bishops and the Vatican as to risk breaking in here. And in any case, it boggles the mind to think anyone would kill for that kind of information.” He shrugged. “I suppose if you went through this stuff pretty much page by page, you might find something that rang a bell. But that could take almost fore
ver.”

  Tully shook his head. “Yeah, without a confession by the perp, it might just take forever. And he hasn’t said word one about what he was doin’ in here.”

  Koesler and Tully simultaneously realized that Koznicki hadn’t been at all involved in this speculation.

  The inspector, having most carefully studied the mug shots, was gazing into space.

  “Something, Walt?” Tully asked.

  “Father,” Koznicki said, “do you recall our conversation about how we had just missed each other when you were a young assistant pastor at St. Ursula’s and I was in the midst of my first homicide investigation?”

  Koesler grinned. “I sure do. There I was in the parochial school, giving the kiddies a test, as I recall. And there you were in the church looking for the killer who was responsible for that funeral. Like ships passing in the night. And it wasn’t till years later—when I found the body of that murdered nun—that we actually met.” He thought for a minute. “That first murder—where we just missed each other—that was never solved, was it?”

  “No, it was filed as an open murder. But,” Koznicki continued, “something has been troubling me this morning. And whatever it is, I think it has something to do with that murder. The name of the victim … Agnes …”

  “Ventimiglia,” Koesler supplied. “I think the reason I remember it is that we priests talked about her death at some length. And, of course, the news media made it notorious.”

  Koznicki seemed to be barely listening. “Earlier this morning I was almost mesmerized by a photo of the guard who was killed here. Something about the fatal blow jarred a memory. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. But now …” He tapped the two photos that bore no name, only a number. He then held up the pictures—full face and profile—of the man, so that Koesler and Tully could view them.

  “You can see,” Koznicki said, “that the suspect appears to be of an indeterminate age. He might be in his forties or fifties. There are few lines in his face. You will note his height: five feet eight inches. Not tall, not short. He has a full head of hair. It might have been dark brown or black at one time. Now, of course, it is salt and pepper. Even though he has just been through a harrowing experience, being arrested and processed, there is hardly a hair out of place. It clings so tightly to his head—a head that one might describe as ‘patrician.’ Now, I call your attention to his eyes. Those thick eyebrows, and the eyes themselves—riveting, extremely expressive, dominating, almost cruel.”