Koesler walked to the general office. As he expected, Marygrove had a Catholic Directory of the Archdiocese of Detroit.
If nothing else, it had been a long time since he’d talked to his classmate, Father John Dunn. It would be pleasant to chat with him. And chat they would; John never used one word when he could think of two or three.
Koesler dialed 1-724-1135. Please God, let John be there and let this be the only call I have to make.
“You have reached Sacred Heart parish. This is the real-life Father John Dunn speaking. .”
“It’s Bob Koesler, John-”
“Bobby! It’s so nice for us out in the boondocks when one of you big city slickers remembers us.”
“John, though we seldom write, we never forget. But, as it is, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can we get down to business?”
“Ah, ’twas ever so.”
“John, I need some information you may have in your records about an individual-maybe a family. It should be a baptismal record, maybe a marriage record.”
“Are you going to take care of the bill for all this?”
“Quit kidding.”
“All right, what’s the name?”
“Krieg.”
Silence. Then: “What is this, a run on that family this week?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the second call I got this week on the Kriegs.”
It was Koesler’s turn to be taken aback. “Who else?”
“I forget the priest’s name. Said he was with the tribunal in Windsor.”
Koesler did not know what to make of this. It was completely unexpected-and was certain to require more phone calls. But, sufficient for the moment the mystery thereof. “Well, John,” he said, “let’s get with this before it’s time for the World Series.”
“Say, Bob, what about those Tigers? Things look pretty bleak for them this time around. Puts one in mind of ‘The score stood six to five for the Mudville Nine that day. .’”
Casey at the Bat! Well, it was small enough price to pay for finding Father Dunn at home and able to take nourishment.
23
When Father Koesler reached the classroom that was being used for the interrogation, he found it cordoned off by uniformed Detroit police. Evidently they had been instructed to allow him entree because, even as he hesitated, they opened a path for him.
He halted at the door of the classroom. A large two-way glass in the door permitted him to see into the room even if he could not hear what was being said. Whatever was going on must have been deadly serious judging from the expressions of those whose faces he could see. Sister Marie and Martha Benbow seemed to be in tears. The men looked as if they would be if it had been socially acceptable. He had arrived none too soon.
His knock at the door caused a look of surprise to supplant the intense grim expression everyone had been wearing. Lieutenant Tully appeared annoyed at the interruption. It was Inspector Koznicki who opened the door to Koesler.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your proceedings,” Koesler said.
“Quite all right, Father,” Koznicki said. “I fear we forgot you in the rush to begin this interrogation. Come right in.” He stepped back to let Koesler enter.
“If it’s all right with you, Inspector, instead of my coming in, I’d like to invite you to come out.”
Koznicki was clearly startled. “Come out? You want me to leave this interrogation?”
Koesler took a deep breath, then forged on. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. “Yes, Inspector, you, Lieutenant Tully, perhaps Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore. And … the Reverend Krieg.”
This select subcast of characters did consent-after some hesitation- to assemble in the office opposite the classroom. The police guards would ensure that the others, suspects all, would remain in their present classroom.
There was an air of expectancy in the office. Tully, Moore, and Mangiapane, as well as Koznicki, had, to a greater or lesser extent, worked with Koesler before. All knew that it was not like him to go out on a limb without good reason. It had better be considerably stronger than merely good to justify interrupting an interrogation that could and should close this investigation. Or so, at least, Tully thought.
Koesler easily dismissed the temptation to open with, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.” Instead. .
“Something occurred to me,” the priest said, “that may make a considerable impact on this situation. It happened when you”-he nodded at Moore-“gave me Reverend Krieg’s-what shall I call it? — his curriculum vitae, as it were.”
Krieg, to this point, had appeared politely interested, even amused. Now, for just a split second, a look of apprehension crossed his face. The expression was noted by both Koznicki and Tully.
“Allow me to recapitulate,” Koesler said, “not because any of us is unaware of what’s happened, but because, to suit my purpose, I have to separate the facts-what we know happened-from an interpretation of those facts.”
Tully, particularly, felt this unnecessary, but said nothing. He had gone this far in including the priest in this investigation; he could see no reason not to humor him one more time.
“We began,” Koesler proceeded, “with four writers and a publisher invited as an ad hoc faculty for this workshop. The writers specialize in mystery novels cast in a religious setting. The protagonist in their books, in each case, is an extension of the author of each one: an Episcopal priest, a rabbi, a Trappist monk, a religious Sister. The publisher specializes in religious books. All five of these people are successful, in varying degrees in this general field.
“Now, it’s been established that Reverend Krieg wants-covets might be a better word-these four writers for his stable. And, to this end, he has offered each of them a contract to be published by RG. Press. . all right so far?”
No one had any objection.
“I can well imagine,” Koesler continued, “that it would be flattering for a writer to be pursued by a publisher. But it’s a free country, and in keeping with that truth, there is nothing that says a writer must sign a contract with any specific publisher. All one need do is say no. Which, we are told, each and every one of these writers said to P.G. Press.
“On the other hand, it is nowhere written that a publisher need take no for an answer. And this, we are told, also happened. P.G. Press hounded-I think that’s the word-all four writers.
“Still, nothing terribly unusual going on. We’ve all had the experience of being pestered by salespeople who simply won’t give up. In fact, what we consider ‘pestering,’ to the dedicated salesperson is just a good salesperson doing his or her job.
“In this case, P.G. can say please. The writer can say no. P.G. can say pretty please. The writer can say a thousand times no. To some extent, just about everyone in this country has gone through this sort of verbal exchange at one time or another in one context or another.
“What startled every one of us on the outside looking in on this crossfire between writers and publisher was the vehemence of the writers in rejecting the publisher, and their evident antipathy-one might even say loathing or hatred-toward Reverend Krieg.
“Why, was the obvious question-why was everyone so emotionally riveted in his or her refusal to sign with P.G.? We are, after all, dealing with rational, dedicated religious people: a monk, a rabbi, a nun, and a priest. Here are people whom we should suppose have much more than average patience at their command. Here are people we would expect to be capable of politely refusing an offer-even if that offer were repeated too frequently. Yet even if we were to encounter one or another of the writers who might be lacking in a sustained ability to refuse politely ad infinitum we would not be terribly surprised. But, all of them? All of them? Each and every one of the writers was furious at P.G. Press and the Reverend Krieg. Why would that be?
“Then we learned that each of these writers had at least one deeply embarrassing episode in life that could spell ruin for career and/or vocation if
the secret were to be revealed. You police suspected the existence of such skeletons. Your investigation uncovered these embarrassing secrets. It was then you discovered why the writers were so angry and why they were having such difficulty in making their rejections of P.G.’s overtures stick. The Reverend Krieg had uncovered these secrets and was threatening to reveal them unless the writers signed. He was making them an offer they could not refuse: blackmail.”
“Now, just one minute, Father Koesler,” Krieg said. “Praise God! Blackmail is a strong word. You can’t prove-”
“Hear him out, Krieg,” Tully cut in. “I think he’s getting to the good part.”
“I surely hope so,” Koesler said. “Anyway, we now have the reason why the writers are so angry with P.G. Press in general and Klaus Krieg in particular. But, angry enough for one of them to kill him?”
“Well, one of them tried,” Moore said. “One of them tried and got Rabbi Winer by mistake. And that’s what we’re trying to figure out now. Which one-or ones-tried to kill Krieg and got Winer by mistake.” She did not try to conceal her impatience.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Koesler said, “but before the event you describe, something else happened that I think was related. Remember the psychodrama? Reverend Krieg set up this play within a play, as it were, in which he was murdered-ostensibly by one of the writers. The staging was so realistic that I called the police, and Lieutenant Tully and Sergeant Mangiapane came here to investigate a murder that hadn’t happened.”
Mangiapane smiled. “That’s okay, Father. It happens. Like I told you then, this was not the first false alarm we ever answered.”
“And it was very kind of you, Sergeant, to let me off the hook. But the question that’s never been answered to my satisfaction is why the Reverend went to all that trouble. It was explained away as a kind of game. But I’ve always thought it was more than that.”
Krieg was smiling broadly. “I think that explanation is sufficient. But, Praise God, if you’ve got to look for something more, you have only to look at my state of mind. After all, I am not insensitive. What it boils down to is that, yes, I want these writers under contract. It will be beneficial to them and to P.G. Press. All right, for our mutual good, I may have pursued this matter a bit further than the average publisher might. But, Praise God, I’m only doing it for their own good. Can I help it if they develop an antipathy toward me to the point where I fear for my life? Maybe I did have more than one reason for staging that psychodrama. Maybe I wanted them to face realistically what evil consequences would follow if I were to be murdered. And just maybe I wanted the police to be alerted as well. Is there some sort of crime in this? I mean, really! Praise God!”
It was Koesler’s turn to smile. “That’s it exactly, Reverend Krieg. You did want the police in on this as early as possible.
“The reason is obvious. You had to know you were assembling four very angry people-four very threatened people-at this conference. Despite their religious station, it was well within the realm of possibility that one or more of them, pushed to the wall, might try to harm you-maybe even threaten your life. You brought your own bodyguard with you. But I can see where you would value having police protection as well.
“In fact, I think that’s why you stipulated that I be invited to take part in this workshop: because I have a history, limited though it might be, of having been involved in homicide investigations in the past. You figured that with your cleverly staged murder, there was a good chance I would get the police involved. And I did.”
Krieg still smiled, but not as broadly. “Now why would I do a fool thing like that?”
“A very good question,” Koesler said. “It didn’t even occur to me until just a short time ago, when I started to think of things in a different light. It all began when I learned that you were once a Catholic.”
Krieg’s voice had a touch of challenge to it. “You’re not going to hold that against me, are you?”
“No, Reverend, not that. But when I discovered you’d been a Catholic, I began to look for telltale traits that might be vestiges of your Catholic upbringing. Call it an avocation, but I am so deeply into Catholicism that I tend to value those little habits and superstitions that most of us Catholics share.
“Except. . except that I didn’t find any such signs in your behavior. None at all.”
Krieg was clearly annoyed. “Really? Really! Hasn’t this gone on far enough? Inspector. . Lieutenant. . isn’t it about time we go back across the hall and get on with the investigation? I mean, Praise God, are we here to discuss homey little Catholic practices?”
“Sort of,” Koesler said. “But, as Lieutenant Tully said, we may be getting to the good part.
“After I looked for, but did not find, any distinctly Catholic idiosyncrasies in your mannerisms, it occurred to me that I might be going about this business backwards-something I’ve done lots more than once. So I just reviewed what I had observed about you in the few days I’ve known you.
“The very first thing that came to my mind when I tried to remember what you’d done that drew my attention was food.”
“Food!”
“Yes, food. I remembered our first dinner together on Sunday evening.”
“What of it?” Krieg was challenging. “I came late for dinner. As I remember, the food was cold.”
“Do you recall what you had to eat?”
“Of course not. It was of no consequence.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so at the time. But I noticed anyway.”
“And now you’re going to tell everyone what I had to eat for Sunday dinner.” Krieg was contemptuous. “Really, Inspector, how long is this going to go on? What earthly difference can it make what I ate?”
Koznicki, his expression of thoughtful interest unchanged, continued to gaze at Koesler. Tully looked as if he were withholding judgment. Moore and Mangiapane were kids watching “Sesame Street.”
“Actually,” Koesler replied, “it wasn’t so much what you ate as what you didn’t. The main course was beef Stroganoff. And I noticed that Rabbi Winer ate everything else that was served that night except the Stroganoff. He just toyed with that. Didn’t eat a bit of it.”
Krieg sighed noisily, signifying a boredom he was being forced to endure.
“When you arrived, Reverend, everyone else was just about finished with dinner.”
“That’s what I said. Or, if this is some sort of kangaroo court, perhaps I’d better phrase it, ‘I stipulated to that.’”
“But, Reverend, the dinner had not been served in common dishes. Each person was given an individual serving-a plate with the food already on it.”
“So?”
“So, it wasn’t a case of the food’s being cold. It wasn’t cooling in a common dish all the while we ate. Your meal, Reverend, was undoubtedly being kept warm since you were expected for dinner. But you looked at the remains of what had been served and decided to have something different than the rest of us.”
“That’s a crime?”
“Impolite, perhaps. Unmannerly, maybe. Not a crime. Not yet.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“You had what the rest of us had as far as the salad and vegetables were concerned. But as the main course, you had an omelet. And you had milk, followed by coffee with cream.”
“I did?”
“The kitchen staff undoubtedly could corroborate that.”
“Marvelous, Father Koesler; you have a unique memory. I can’t imagine anyone else who would-or would want to-recall everything I have to eat.”
“Oh, it didn’t make all that great an impression at the time. It was only later that I began to wonder about it, without even knowing I was wondering, in fact. And I began wondering the very next evening when we had dinner together again.”
“What did I eat, good Father?”
Koesler smiled. “We were served a fruit salad, beef broth, lamb, and red potatoes.”
“And I suppose the kitchen people could c
orroborate that again. Inspector, must I sit here and listen to this drivel?”
“For the moment I would do so if I were you,” Koznicki said. “Father Koesler is not in the habit of wasting anyone’s time.”
Krieg’s countenance hardened. “All right, Father. We had salad, broth, lamb, and-what? — potatoes.”
“And coffee,” Koesler said.
“And coffee,” Krieg repeated.
“Except that this time I noticed that only Sister Janet took cream in her coffee. I passed the cream to her and noticed that no one else asked for any.”
“Meaning I didn’t have cream in my coffee. Well, that should do it. . whatever ‘it’ is.” Krieg dripped sarcasm.
“‘It,’ Reverend Krieg, is dietary laws. It occurred to me when I was thinking of your growing up as a Catholic child learning Catholic habits, idiosyncrasies, superstitions, whatever, from your mother.”
“My mother!” There was a decided change in Krieg’s attitude. At mention of his mother, he became perceptibly aggressive. “What does my mother have to do with any of this?”
“Just about everything,” Koesler replied. “I was thinking of you in terms of myself. Two Catholic kids growing up in a Catholic environment. I was thinking of you learning about the rosary as I did, watching as Mother recited it regularly and fervently. Then it occurred to me: Maybe you were without any discernible Catholic mannerisms because you didn’t really grow up in a Catholic atmosphere. You didn’t learn the rosary from your mother. But you did learn that you should never mix dairy and meat products in the same meal.”
“This is an outrage!” Krieg erupted. “My mother is a saint! How dare you drag her into this sordid affair!”
“I think you’re right, Reverend: It is a rather wretched affair and your sainted mother doesn’t belong in it. It’s just that she taught you dietary customs. She taught you so well, you observe them without even thinking. That’s not odd. Catholics follow Church rules, regulations, and laws out of pure habit. There are any number of Catholics who still do not eat meat on Fridays. Outside of a certain few Fridays, it’s not even a matter of law any more. But many Catholics continue to exclude meat from their Friday menu. It’s a matter of ingrained habit.
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