Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

  Grey Eminence. The name given to François Leclerc du Tremblay (1577-1638), or Pere Joseph, as he was called, the CAPUCHIN agent and trusty counsellor of Cardinal Richelieu. It was inspired by his influence over Cardinal Richelieu's policies: he was, as it were, a shadowy CARDINAL in the background.

  -Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable

  gray eminence n [trans, of F. Éminence Grise, nickname of Père Joseph (François Joseph du Tremblay) †1638 F monk and diplomat who was confidant of Cardinal Richelieu, styled Éminence Rouge (red eminence); fr. the colors of their respective habits]: a person who exercises power behind the scenes.

  -Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary

  FOR JAVAN

  IN MEMORY OF

  CARDINAL JOHN F. DEARDEN AND MAY O’KRAY

  SATURDAY

  JULY 22

  CHAPTER

  1

  He killed the first guy he ever shot.

  Dumb luck, expertise, or a finely tuned reflex response? It didn’t make a damn bit of difference to David Powell. He was dead.

  David Powell, fifteen years old, grade school dropout, with a prodigious arrest record; purveyor of just about every manner of controlled substance, from the relatively innocuous marijuana to the current drug of choice, crack cocaine.

  The essence of David Powell-soul or whatever-was gone now. What remained had been dropped on a slab in the morgue. How had Shakespeare expressed it-“Shrunk to this little measure . . . a bleeding piece of earth.”

  Alonzo Tully was not particularly strong on Shakespeare, but he was pretty sure of those phrases from Julius Caesar.

  Zoo, as he was known to just about everyone, had been a Detroit police officer for twenty-two years, thirteen of them in Homicide. He dealt in death. He could not count the times he had stood in this dank, gray room in the Wayne County Medical Examiner’s building, attending an autopsy. Certainly he had been here for each and every murder case he’d investigated.

  Tully believed that each investigation needed all the help it could get. And, after the murder scene itself, the next best place to build one’s case, chronologically and every other way, was the morgue. The autopsy process, and the morgue’s boss, Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann, were instructive teachers.

  However, Tully needed little enlightening with regard to the death of David Powell. The case, as Hollywood was wont to put it, was open and shut. Or, in the jargon of the police, a platter case, i.e., presented on a silver platter.

  Tully had killed Powell. It was as simple as that-on paper. It was far more momentous to Tully.

  In his twenty-two-year career as a police officer, Tully had had to draw his gun numerous times. But outside of a firing range, he had never pulled the trigger. A record by no means unique in the department.

  He had told no one, but, last night, after it was over and the details were wrapped up, he had wept. It was the first time since his childhood. And it hadn’t happened that often even then. However, last night, at home, in Alice’s arms, he had wept.

  Tully dealt in death, but this was the first time he had ever killed anyone. And it had to be a kid!

  Moellmann removed Powell’s clothing meticulously. More than once, the M.E. had found bullets among the deceased’s garments. Bullets that had plowed through a body, exiting to lie among the clothing. Once a bullet entered the body there was just no telling where it might go. The course and extent of damage depended on such variables as the angle of entry, the distance between weapon and target, the class of weapon, the type of bullet, and the path it took inside the body. Bullets had been known to ricochet off bones. Bullets had been known to penetrate the aorta and be transported via the bloodstream elsewhere in the body.

  It was not unheard-of for Moellmann to wisecrack during autopsies. Today, out of deference to Tully, whom he respected, the M.E. merely made factual observations as he conducted his examination. And, due to his Prussian demeanor, which dictated that his subordinates follow his lead, the morgue was uncharacteristically quiet this morning as the other doctors mumbled through their respective autopsies.

  The clothing was removed and packed away for subsequent examination by the police crime laboratory. Powell’s body lay naked on the shiny metal tray. Firm, young flesh. A kid.

  Memory transported Tully to the events of last evening that had led to this. He could remember every detail. Indeed, would he ever forget?

  Actually, Tully’s squad had been investigating another crime entirely. As happened so frequently in Detroit these days, it was a multiple homicide connected with the drug traffic. Three dismembered male bodies had been found in plastic garbage bags in an alley in the north-central section of the city. All three were known drug dealers. Drugs-the most common current cause of gang war in this and many other cities in America.

  There followed some intense investigation, calling in of markers, and clandestine meetings with snitches. Everything pointed to a crack house on Curtis not far from Livernois in the vicinity of the University of Detroit.

  Tully and five of his squad placed the house under surveillance. This was not a drug bust, nor did they want it to become one. They were looking for David Powell. According to their information, it was Powell who had shot the victims, execution-style, before they were dismembered.

  The weather had been pleasant enough for an evening in late July. A clear sky, a gentle breeze, not oppressively hot.

  The six officers were in three unmarked cars, cruising the streets, occasionally parking, but making sure that at least one of them was keeping the house in sight at all times. The sort of duty that too often seemed unending. As it had last night.

  There were times, as traffic in and out of the house was fairly steady, that the officers strongly suspected the information given them was, intentionally or not, incorrect. Maybe David Powell was not in the house. Perhaps he had never been there.

  Then it happened. At about half-past nine, just as it was getting dark, Powell was sighted at the door talking with three young people who had just arrived.

  In a matter of seconds, all three cars drew up in front of the house. Sergeant Mangiapane, first on the sidewalk, was approaching Powell.

  Tully cursed silently. Of all the officers on this detail, Mangiapane most resembled the stereotypical cop. Large, and a good target, he was walking too quickly, too purposefully.

  Tully was out of his car only seconds behind Mangiapane.

  Everything happened quickly, too quickly to be assimilated at that moment. Only later, in retrospect, could events be pieced together.

  Tully saw the flash of the nickel-plated pistol as it emerged from Powell’s cardigan. Evidently Powell had no doubt or hesitation. In one motion the gun was in his hand and aimed at Mangiapane, who was only then going for his own weapon.

  But Tully’s .38 was out as he shouted at Powell. Later, it seemed it had been the shout that had momentarily distracted Powell. He wavered for a split second, unsure as to whether he should fire at the big white cop in front of him or at the guy who was yelling.

  At that instant of indecision, Powell opted for what should have been a sure kill directly ahead: he fired point-blank. Mangiapane spun and fell heavily to the pavement. Was Mangiapane dead or alive? Tully’s presumption was that he was dead. How could Powell have missed the kill at that distance?

  No time to speculate; the next shot would be at him. But it was a shot that would never come. Tully, aiming almost instinctively, fired once. Afterward, he remembered the look of almost childlike surprise on Powell’s face-as if he had but a moment to wonder that his life was over so soon. Then he tumbled down the porch steps.

  Pandemonium.

  One of the other cars called for backup. In no time, the street was overflowing with cops keeping order and bystanders attempting to u
pset order.

  Tully was numb. Of the numbers of dead and dying he had seen in the course of duty, this one alone belonged to him. Once in his career as a police officer, once in his entire life thus far, had he fired at anyone. And he had fired only once. One bullet, one dead person.

  Absently, he wondered about that bullet. Where had it hit Powell? Before he could check out the dead man, Tully had been whisked from the scene. With all the ensuing commotion, no telling what might have happened next.

  It seemed an unspoken consensus that it was essential to get two people out of there. Mangiapane needed medical attention and Tully needed protection from the crowd.

  Two EMS vans had arrived only minutes after the shootings. Mangiapane and Tully were packed into one and Powell in the other. Powell had no vital signs. But the technicians worked on him feverishly just in case.

  Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital pronounced him dead on arrival.

  Mangiapane’s was a shoulder wound. He was rushed from Mt. Carmel’s emergency room to the operating room. His condition was now listed as stable. That announcement was for the media’s benefit; Tully had more detailed information. Powell’s bullet had lodged in Mangiapane’s right shoulder. The bullet had been removed during a relatively brief operation. The prognosis was complete recovery. After an indeterminate time for rehabilitation, Mangiapane should be as good as new.

  The fact that Mangiapane had caught the slug in his right shoulder interested Tully. Since he himself had come from Powell’s left, Tully reasoned, his shout had distracted the kid just enough that he had shifted the gun ever so slightly toward the sound. Thus the bullet caught Mangiapane in the shoulder rather than inflicting a more serious wound to the chest.

  Tully’s stream of consciousness led him back to the question of his own bullet, the fatal shot. He returned his attention to Doc Moellmann and the autopsy.

  The M.E. had finished checking the body for bullet wounds, either entering or exiting. There was but one wound. The bullet had entered and stayed.

  Tully stole a glance at the body chart Moellmann and the other doctors used to diagram wounds and marks. There was a notation that the wound’s shape was oval, which indicated that the bullet had struck Powell’s body at an angle. Only natural since Tully had fired from ground level up toward the porch. There were no powder burns; Tully had fired from a distance.

  Moellmann continued his examination. Tully had to admit his interest was marginal. Unlike any other autopsy he’d ever attended, he knew exactly what had happened, who had done what to whom and, in all probability, what the conclusion would be. About the only question left to be determined was the path the bullet had taken and where it had finally lodged. Moellmann would take his time tracking its course.

  There were, Tully supposed, medical examiners who cut and hacked their way through bodies in search of bullets. But not Moellmann nor his associates. Moellmann’s creed was to describe the wound path in anatomical order and to document the path of the bullet by following the track of the hemorrhage through the organs before they were removed from the body. This saved the time and trouble of relying on X-rays to locate the bullet.

  While Moellmann measured and probed, Tully’s interest strayed to a body on an adjacent table. The dead man seemed to have been elderly. Quite obviously his throat had been cut. Another straightforward probable cause of death.

  Dr. Thomas Litka noted Tully’s interest. Catching Tully’s eye, he nodded toward the corpse. “Zoo, meet John Doe Number 26.”

  “Only 26?”

  Litka shrugged as he placed an abbreviated ruler alongside a gaping wound in John Doe’s neck. “That’s about par for this time of year.”

  Tully knew it was almost miraculous that the doctors, even with all their technology, managed to identify as many John and Jane Does as they did. From experience Tully knew that every avenue to identifying Number 26 had been explored with the probable exception of fingerprints.

  “How about the prints?”

  “Being processed.” Dr. Litka did not look up. “But I’ve seen this kind of pickup too many times. They aren’t going to find his prints. No sir, I got a hunch we’ll keep him a month, then they’ll bury him as Number 26.”

  Tully was willing to defer to Litka’s experience. “Where’d they find him?”

  “In an alley; northwest side, near Eight Mile.”

  “Last night?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long’d he been dead?”

  “They made it sometime yesterday afternoon. Found him about 9:00 or 10:00 last night.”

  About the same time David Powell got his, thought Tully. Two exits: one old, one young.

  “A bum,” Litka continued, nodding toward the dead man’s clothing, now in a neat pile. “No identification at all. Filthy. No labels. But all there. They didn’t even take his shoes.”

  Tully wondered at it. So senseless. There ought to be a motive for something so violent, so cataclysmic as murder. Yet, not infrequently, there was none, or at least no detectable one.

  And it was murder. He knew the telltale signs. Suicides seldom slit their own throats; they usually open a vein in their wrists. And when they did go for their own throats, there were usually several cuts. Tentative, perhaps, at first, until one slash was deep enough to cause death. Or else the cumulative effect of the cuts was eventually fatal.

  Tully studied the ruler Dr. Litka had placed near the cut. A technician was photographing the area for the records. The cut looked to be a couple of inches in length-considerable for a knife wound. And deep. Not the sort expected in a suicide.

  Of course Doc Litka knew that.

  “What are those scratches along the cut?” Tully asked.

  “Look to be the high points of a serrated weapon,” Litka replied.

  “Hunting knife.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you’d know it from those marks if it ever turned up.”

  “Probably; one of the teeth is missing. Not likely to turn up, though.”

  From the first moment he saw the body, Tully had been aware of other marks-none, of course, as arresting as the slit throat. “On the trunk, Doc: those insect bites?”

  “I thought so, too, at first. But they look more like he got hit with something. A beating of some kind. Happened before his throat got cut. They probably tortured him. Beats me why. A real mean killer, I suppose.”

  Some cop at this very moment was pondering the same questions, thought Tully And whoever the cop was, he undoubtedly knew it was not likely he’d find any good answers. A bum in an alley, probably sleeping off a cheap wine drunk. Some kids, maybe, or perhaps another bum with a sadistic turn of mind. Whatever, they beat him up, slit his throat, don’t even steal anything. Just for the hell of it. How you gonna find someone like that? Unless he or they do it again. Next time, maybe a mistake, or somebody’ll see something. But not much chance on this one.

  Doc Litka was wrapping up his examination. “Well, that does it. Bled to death. Exsanguination due to cutting of throat.” To Tully: “At least the poor guy went fast. The knife penetrated the large vein. An air embolism formed and got sucked in, causing foam, which produced a valve lock in the heart. One or two gasps and he was done.”

  A mercy . . . I guess, thought Tully.

  As he turned back to Doc Moellmann and the autopsy of David Powell, Tully noticed John Doe’s knees. Scarred. Probably reduced to crawling around the alley. What a life! Maybe somebody did him a favor by putting him out of his misery. And, as Litka had observed, quickly. Still, it was murder.

  Which was considerably more than one could say about David Powell. Justifiable homicide in the line of duty. Of course that verdict was not in yet. But it was a lead-pipe cinch.

  The Powell case was already in the hands of, and being investigated by, two agencies. Because it involved a killing, the investigation would stay within the Homicide Division, which had processed the scene of the shooting and would continue investigating until they reached a conclusion. I
ndependent of this investigation, the board of review would conduct its own hearings.

  The potential consequences of a cop-committed killing were so fraught that it seemed imperative that the investigation leave no doubt whatsoever. If it was a cop who got killed, an unspoken vendetta was sworn. Over and above the manifestation of grief over a fallen comrade, it was necessary to remind the criminal community that cop-killers get caught and are punished. If it was a cop who killed, there had to be no hint or semblance of a whitewash. The police were the only nonmilitary who were not only empowered but required to carry guns. That explicit power carried a heavy responsibility. The department was more eager than even the civilian populace to determine whether it was a case of justifiable homicide.

  In addition, one thing was certain when a cop killed anyone for any reason: Somebody was going to sue the department and/or the city. So, for this reason also, the investigation had to be thorough and objective and complete.

  Tully had witnessed such investigations too many times. He could write the script. Some witnesses-especially suppliers, pushers, and users of drugs-would cry, “police brutality.” They would swear that Powell never carried a weapon and certainly hadn’t had one last night. Others-neighbors who wanted that troublesome dope house closed down-would recall that Powell had come at the police with a blazing Uzi. Still others would advance that most frequently heard charge: racism. This type of individual would not be bothered in the slightest by the fact that Tully as well as Powell was black. For some Detroiters, racism was so automatically cited as the cause of all urban evil that the attitude itself had become colorblind.

  But the authorities had the slug from Mangiapane’s shoulder that had been fired from Powell’s gun. Ballistics would confirm that. And in a little while, Doc Moellmann would find the bullet Tully had fired. Those pieces of evidence, plus the testimony of credible witnesses, would exonerate him.