Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  “If Agnes Ventimiglia did not tell you, it will be interesting for you to know that she had a ‘best friend’ at work. She confided in this friend especially regarding the romance of her life. Although you were careful to keep your identity hidden from those who worked with Agnes, she gave a fairly detailed description of you to her friend—who in turn gave it to me. I have kept it fresh in my mind ever since. I have a rather good memory. And within that memory I have kept a special place for my first homicide investigation.

  “So, when I saw your picture, a part of the jigsaw puzzle came together.

  “Oh, it was not just the photo. Any number of men could fit the description that we had of you. Important is the fact that your fitting that description keeps you in the picture for the rest of the puzzle.

  “What moved me to look more closely into the connection between you and the Ventimiglia murder was the weapon you used this morning.” Koznicki paused in thought. “It seems as if that happened days ago.”

  “In any case, when I saw the photo of the fatal blow you gave the security guard, the first piece of the puzzle fell into place. As I looked at that photo, I saw in my mind’s eye the head wound of the Ventimiglia girl. To my eye they were identical. Our M.E. said that the similarities were so close it could hardly be a coincidence. As I say, seeing your mug shots made part of the puzzle come together.

  “There is a third piece that just fell. You may or may not remember which restaurant you took Agnes to for her last supper. It was the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars. Agnes told her friend that she had asked you to take her there. And you didn’t want to upset her for her last supper, did you?”

  The mocking look remained in Chardon’s eyes, but they flickered.

  “This afternoon I took some mug shots to the home of Joseph and Mollie Beyer, the owners of the late restaurant. Joe could not identify you. Neither could his wife—until just a few minutes ago. She just called me and without any coaching whatsoever, she picked you out. She remembered you. It was the eyes. She was frightened by your eyes. Once she remembered you, she recalled your companion for that evening: a very happy young lady. She remembers seeing Agnes’s picture in the papers after her body was discovered and identified. She did not recognize the girl in the picture as the happy young woman who had been in their restaurant a few weeks before. Agnes, plain innocent young lady that she was, was not particularly memorable. You were. Mollie put the two of you together at that dinner.

  “So you see, Mr. Chardon, the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fit rather snugly. We are in touch with those states that have warrants out for you. I suspect you understand why we are following all these leads when we have you dead to rights in this morning’s murder. There is always the possibility some present or future governor will be moved to pardon you. He or she might be able to do that without an enormous backlash of public opinion if you have been convicted of only one murder. That is not likely to occur if your record shows a history of multiple murders.

  “And of course there is a very special reason. I have a personal need to close the case of the murder of Agnes Ventimiglia. I feel I owe it to her, to her memory. And now, you see, I am very close to doing so.

  “Now, Mr. Chardon, you may think you were very clever in never committing a capital offense in a state that had the death penalty. But of course”—Koznicki spread his arms wide—“if you were clever you would not spend the rest of your life in a cage.”

  Koznicki walked away. He was, of course, aware that Chardon had said nothing. It didn’t matter. The inspector had enjoyed his monologue.

  HE WAS SURPRISED that he’d had that much of an appetite. As he finished brushing off his black clericals the crumbs that were the remnants of several slices of coffee cake, he looked up to see Maureen and Brenda watching him with some amusement. “I didn’t get a chance to finish my breakfast,” he explained in a non sequitur. Then, realizing that his breakfast was not the only thing left unfinished, he said to Maureen, “Do you think you could fill me in on the rest now?”

  Maureen pressed her lips together. Then she took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “Making the decision was the hard part. Once that was done, the mechanics of the thing weren’t all that difficult. I don’t mean the first decision. As you said, that was a financial necessity. I couldn’t be a working mother, I couldn’t afford to pay somebody to take care of Brenda, and I couldn’t keep her with me and depend on the dole or charity. I just couldn’t do that.

  “It was deciding to involve two children in my plans: That was brutally tough.”

  “But Mo, what if you’d had a boy instead of a girl?”

  “Things would’ve changed. I would’ve planned differently.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That, Bob, is because you’re a man. Men make plans and if something goes wrong, they have to start all over again, usually from the beginning. Women don’t usually make such elaborate plans, so they can bounce off unexpected obstacles, change course and keep going.

  “The only thing in my mind was to make him pay for what he’d done to me … and to our child. And, in the process, make an example of him that other people could learn from.

  “That driving urge is what got me through those months of exile—and a delivery you wouldn’t believe. The compulsive desire for revenge just intensified with each rotten trick he’d play on me.

  “Leaving me twisting in the wind was bad enough. Then I found out about his wife and son. But when he had his name removed from his own daughter’s birth record, that was the last straw! No ordinary revenge would be sufficient.

  “That’s when I decided to bring two girls home and confuse the matter.”

  “You certainly succeeded in that!”

  “After I had Brenda baptized, I let her become a ward of the court. Then I found another baby, also a ward of the court. I tracked down their foster homes, visited them, contributed all I could afford regularly to support them.

  “Back then, foster care was intended to be temporary. So it wasn’t difficult to get them into St. Vincent’s Orphanage. And later, it was simple, after my record of interest in their young lives, to take them home with me permanently. From that time on, it was a tricky business to train them for vastly different destinies.”

  Brenda stood and began pacing behind the couch. “When I was old enough, Mother confided in me, and me alone. Together we planned everything. We were of one mind. My goal was to insinuate myself into Ted’s life. He was super-Catholic, so I got a job at the chancery—the local hub of Catholicism.

  “That was it in a nutshell, Uncle Bob. Our plan was to bring down both father and son—and their baby, Nash Enterprises. And …”—her face telegraphed satisfaction—“that’s what we’re about to do.”

  “But you’ve been … uh, living with Ted Nash!”

  Brenda, without emotion, nodded. “We were pretty sure that with a father like Charlie Nash, the son would develop into a male chauvinist pig and worse.”

  “And Ted did not disappoint us,” Maureen said.

  “I went to lots of places where I knew Ted would be. I always dressed modestly in black and white. We knew that’s what Ted wanted in a woman. Then one night at a gathering honoring Ted, it clicked.”

  “But Ted claims you had your tubes tied. Is that—?”

  “That part’s true.”

  “But—”

  “Father Bob”—Brenda looked at him unflinchingly—“this was an incestuous relationship. I wasn’t going to have a child we produced, even by accident.”

  It was Koesler who flinched. “Oh, my God! I was so busy trying to figure all this out that I lost track … Ted is your half brother,” he said in a strangled voice. “And he doesn’t know it! Brenda, how could you …?”

  Revenge. It was the motive for all they had done. No price for this vengeance was too high. The look on their faces told him that.

  “And Mary Lou? The reason she left in a huff was because you finally told her everything?”


  “We will,” Maureen said sadly. “There’s a limit to what she can handle at one time.”

  “You mean she doesn’t yet know she isn’t your real daughter!?”

  “She will … soon. Right now she’s angry because she was used as a guinea pig.”

  “Another one of Ted’s ideas,” Brenda explained. “The one we were provoking him to come up with.” She was standing behind the couch now. “From his father’s rogues’ gallery, Ted came up with a smooth operator, a doctor whose license had been lifted. He was to take Lou to dinner, get her drunk, and get a sample of blood to check against Charlie’s for a DNA test.

  “She woke up with a hangover and a bruise on her arm. When the story hit the papers and the airwaves, she came over to see what was going on. We explained what that much was about. It was a real shock for her. That’s why she’s so angry.” Brenda shook her head. “After she calms down a bit, we’ll explain the rest—everything—to her.

  “She’ll be furious, of course,” Brenda added. “But we’re counting on the money she’ll be getting to help heal a bunch of wounds.”

  Koesler’s brow knitted. “Money … what money? What money will she be getting?”

  Brenda and Maureen exchanged glances.

  “Wait a minute …” The light was dawning for Koesler. “That’s what this business is all about this morning,” he said slowly. “The DNA test has indicated that Charlie is definitely not Mary Lou’s father.”

  Maureen nodded. “But all of them ‘know’ that Mary Lou is my ‘daughter.’”

  “So,” Koesler said, more sure of himself now, “they’re convinced that they’re home free. And they’ve issued the public announcement that they’re going to have the test made because they think they already know what the test will prove.”

  “That’s it,” Brenda said. “What they don’t know but will soon find out is that Charles and Maureen did have a daughter, but her name is not Mary Lou.”

  “And then?”

  “And then,” Brenda responded, “we will demand half of Nash Enterprises. And then,” she concluded, “Ted will lose a love partner and gain a sister—and a business partner.”

  “Wow!” The fervent exclamation was all Koesler could muster.

  “But,” he said finally, “isn’t there a different way to go about this?”

  “What?” Maureen asked bluntly.

  “A less conspicuous way,” Koesler said. “What I mean is … if the Nashes were convinced of the validity of your claim, maybe this could be settled—what’s the term?—out of court?”

  “No,” Maureen said.

  “Wait, Mother,” Brenda interrupted. “I can see some big advantages if we do it—or at least try to do it—Uncle Bob’s way. All the negative publicity would do the company no good. And I have some definite plans for a new environmentally conscious Nash Enterprises.”

  “He’d never believe either of us,” Maureen said.

  “What if I try?” Koesler asked.

  “You’d do that?” Brenda said wonderingly.

  “I’ve talked to Charlie Nash before. No reason I couldn’t do it again.”

  After some brief thought, Maureen spoke. “All right. It couldn’t hurt. And I have to agree, your way is better. But the agreement will have to be …” She chuckled. “I almost said, ‘in blood.’ It’ll have to be in writing, witnessed by an infinite number of lawyers.”

  “You don’t trust Dad” Brenda smiled.

  “Don’t use that word again,” Maureen said.

  Koesler stood. “Before I go …” He looked intently at one, then the other. “It’s over. ‘The comedy is over.’ The opera is ended. Do you think now you can finally bury the hatchet? Your plan seems to have worked perfectly. And some good may come of this. Will you return to the Sacraments now?”

  Neither woman spoke for several moments.

  Then, after a deep sigh, Maureen spoke. “It’s too early. It’s way too early. There’s lots left to heal. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Another pause. “That’s all I can say.”

  Koesler’s gaze moved again to Brenda. Again she met his eyes unflinchingly. She said nothing, merely shrugged.

  “I’ll pray for you,” Koesler said. “I really will.”

  C H A P T E R

  31

  FATHER KOESLER was more than mildly surprised at how easily he was granted an audience with Charles Nash. And yes, midmorning, this very time, would be fine.

  Of course Koesler did not need to be a psychic to know why the tycoon was feeling magnanimous. He had played a hand that didn’t stand a chance of winning, and he had won. What could Koesler do to him? What could any of his enemies do? He was on a roll. He sensed it.

  However, Nash had not advanced to an “open door” policy. The security was as uncompromising as ever. The doorman checked for Koesler’s name among the admittables, then the priest was announced. Once out of the elevator, he was immediately admitted to the huge white room.

  This time, Charlie Nash was not hidden in some other room; he was right out in the open. His wheelchair was positioned opposite a straight-back chair. Nash motioned Koesler to the vacant chair. He seated himself as the white-clad young manservant, taking Koesler’s topcoat and hat, disappeared into the adjoining room.

  Koesler studied Nash for a few moments. The old man’s mouth resembled a slit in a craggy rock, but, yes, Charlie was smiling. “Heard the news, have you?”

  “Yes”—Koesler nodded—“from several sources.”

  “You probably think I’ve lost my marbles. Come to see if I should be committed?”

  Koesler smiled tightly. “No, I don’t think you’ve lost your marbles. I think they’re scrambled around more than you think, though.”

  Nash inclined his head and looked more intently at Koesler. He was unsure what to make of the priest’s reply. He decided to put it on the back burner and forge on. “Stole a little thunder from the Monahan woman, didn’t I? Sort of nipped her move in the bud. Imagine …” There was that look again; it must have been a smile. “… spending most of your adult life planning a coup—almost living and breathing for revenge, and then having it all fall apart on you. All these years she’s been expecting to dump Mary Lou on me as my daughter! Hell, I can be frank with you. You’re not going to tell anyone and it doesn’t matter anymore anyway. But I gotta tell you: I believed it. What a load off my mind. But”—he looked at Koesler intently—“you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Oh, but I do. I’ve just come from Maureen’s home.”

  “They know?”

  “Mary Lou told Maureen about her very brief ‘romance.’ And about the bruise around the puncture mark on her arm. That, along with your announcement that you were prepared to be tested for a DNA match, pretty much brings them up to date.”

  Nash’s laugh was a cackle. “Generous of me, eh? Like betting on a one-horse race. Between you and me, I gotta give a lot of the credit to Teddy. He’s the one who thought of rigging the game. Him and that Brenda of his.” He shook his head. “And to think I was after you to break them up. Imagine that! Brenda’s maybe the best thing that ever happened to the kid.”

  “Well, as William S. Gilbert once wrote, ‘Things are seldom what they seem.’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Koesler hesitated. Charlie Nash was in such high spirits, it seemed a shame to bring him down. But, sooner or later, it had to be done. And with the news media snapping at their heels due to Nash’s announcement, the time to do it was now. Definitely now.

  Painstakingly, Koesler recounted the story of Maureen Monahan, the Monahan sisters, Mary Lou and Brenda.

  It was interesting watching the emotions just below the surface of Nash’s facade. First there was mild amusement, then doubt, then denial, then anger. Then rage exploded. “You expect me to believe this cockamamy pile of bullshit!”

  “You? You above all others! I expect you to believe every word.”

  “Never! It’s impo
ssible! Why, for God’s sake, man, you want me to believe that Brenda was in on this from the beginning? That she conspired against my son? Hell, before she proved herself, I would’ve agreed. But not now! My God! She even had herself fixed for Teddy!”

  “It wasn’t for Teddy. It wasn’t only adultery. It was incest! Teddy is her half brother. Brenda wasn’t going to have any children born of an incestuous relationship.”

  Nash began to gabble; a light froth appeared at the corners of his mouth. Koesler was concerned anew for him.

  “Well … well …” Nash sputtered, “what about the fact that I challenged Maureen publicly and agreed to a DNA test? You’re trying to tell me that I’ve made this disaster for myself. Do you expect me to believe that she was clever enough to foresee that I’d have the wrong girl tested and then put my head on the block with the media?”

  “The reason we have a problem with this is that we’re men.”

  “What?!”

  “If you or I had been planning this, we would’ve had to back up and start over any number of times.”

  “What?”

  “But women are able to bounce off obstacles and go right on.”

  “What?” The old man’s face was screwed up, his eyes squinted, in an attempt to comprehend.

  “Maureen assured me—and I believe her completely—that she had only one plan regarding you: the ultimate possible revenge. If the child had been a boy, the plan would have been different, but it would have gone forward. Now, she was determined to keep after you until you made an error. Then she would pounce.

  “So you secretly test Mary Lou’s DNA against yours—and then you announce that you’re willing to take a DNA test with Maureen’s child and make the results public. Now you’ve done it: You’ve made—what she considers—your inevitable blunder. And she’s ready to pounce.”

  Nash’s lips worked soundlessly. Then the words burst forth as the spittle flew. “I can’t believe it! I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it!”

  “You don’t want to believe it. But you do believe it,” Koesler said calmly. “Let me give you the final argument. You know Maureen about as well as anyone. Now, just a few minutes ago, you said you had believed that you were the father of Maureen’s child. And you believed—I believed—everybody believed—Mary Lou was that child.