Chameleon fk-13

by William X. Kienzle

  Foley chuckled, which disquieted the dog, who began to bark.

  The archbishop glanced at the mantel. Eleven exactly. He shook his head. What a body clock!

  “All right, John Paul: It’s time. Let’s go.”

  The dog bounded from his lap and beelined for the door. Foley went to the closet, struggled into his boots and coat, put on his hat, buckled the collar with its license tag around John Paul’s neck, and out into the winter they went.

  As was their custom, they commenced to walk completely around the small compact block. John Paul, as usual, sniffed at everything, paying special attention to trees, streetlights, and the fire hydrant. Foley, watching the dog’s breath emerge as vapor, wondered why they were all still up here in the Winter Wonderland, as the Chamber of Commerce would have it. The dog at least had a coat that seemed to insulate it from the cold. But what of humans? Particularly those with skin that was thin and bones thai were brittle?

  He walked slowly, far too deliberately for the little dog, who covered twice the distance by running ahead and then returning, diving into snowbanks and finding his stubby legs too short for reaching the ground as he scrambled out of the drifts.

  Foley smiled as he contemplated his dog and lost concern over nearly everything else. Maybe there was something to say for having all the seasons, as Michigan very definitely did.

  He was feeling fairly carefree as they turned the final corner heading back to the condo. That was when the dog stopped and began to growl.

  “Come now, you vicious puppy,” Foley said in a gentle tone. “It’s too late to go chasing cats.”

  That was when he noticed movement behind the large blue spruce. Whatever was back there was far too large to be a cat, or a dog for that matter. The motion continued as a man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing dark clothes, and his hat was pulled low on his head. As he advanced toward Foley the streetlight picked up his features. John Paul, now barking furiously, appeared about to snap at the man’s shins.

  “Stop it!” Foley commanded. “Keep quiet! Come here! Sit! Stay!”

  The little dog, obediently hushed, came and sat on the sidewalk next to Foley. The archbishop peered into the shadows, “Why … what are you doing here?”

  There was no answer. The man continued to gaze at Foley.

  Without explanation it became clear to Foley. “You … you’re the one, aren’t you?”

  Silence.

  “But, why me? Whatever can this mean? What would I-?”

  Still, silence. But as the man raised his arm slightly, the glimmer of the streetlight reflected sharply on the gun’s metal surface.

  “May I … at least let the dog inside? He’s done nothing.”

  The hand continued its steady motion upward.

  “Give me a moment, please.” Foley turned his back and knelt on the sidewalk next to his dog, who looked at him wonderingly. The archbishop murmured one of the closing prayers of compline. “Vigilemus cum Christo, et requiescamus in pace-”

  The quiet air was shattered by the roar of the gun. Foley pitched forward. He lay motionless. His years speeded the process of dying. It was over before he could reflect on another thought.

  The dog, who had sprung straight up in the air at the gun’s blast, barked furiously, then tentatively. Then he began to whimper, stopping only to lick the body of his master, who would never again reach out to comfort the small animal.

  Later, much later, a night-owl resident of the condominium spotted the dog sitting near what seemed to be a pile of laundry. After a closer look, the resident raced to phone 911.

  In order to remove the body they had to almost peel the dog from its master.

  By then, the assassin was long gone.

  24

  The general reaction of the public to archbishop foley’s murder could not have been foreseen. At the very least, it was not anticipated by Detroit’s city government.

  In death, the undeclared affection in which Foley was held during life overflowed. Messages of sorrow, disbelief, horror, and anger poured into the chancery. Condolences came from both the powerful and the ordinary of Florida, Cincinnati, Detroit, other parts of this and other countries as well as, of course, the Vatican.

  Detroit’s Mayor Cobb was forced to face yet another crisis.

  Detroit’s citizens, generally, were titillated by the murder of a hooker mistaken for her nun sister. They were puzzled and drawn into the speculation that accompanied the murder of a Catholic leader. Was there, as the police investigation seemed to indicate, a connection between the two killings?

  But in these two murders, there was no consensus of emotional involvement on the part of the public.

  That changed with the murder of a warm, kindly, harmless old man who had, in his own quiet way, charmed a frequently jaded city.

  Editorials in the press, on radio and television typically excoriated the city that could not protect even the most gentle of its citizens, The movers and shakers demanded a speedy wrap-up to this investigation.

  A decree went out from Maynard Cobb: Sew it up-now! Use whatever manpower necessary, but solve it-now!

  Cobb’s directive trickled through the chain of command, sometimes increasing, sometimes diminishing, the creative vulgarity of its original form.

  Eventually, the order and commission reached Lieutenant Alonzo Tully. It was not the first time he had been picked to lead a special task force. He didn’t like it now any more than he ever had.

  It wasn’t the department; it was city government. If you’ve got a pesky problem, throw money at it. If you’ve got a particularly offensive murder case, throw a large bunch of homicide detectives at it.

  There was comfort in numbers. But a case like this was not cracked because it got buried under tons of cops. It was a lucky break, dogged police work, mainly the investigative know-how of a seasoned and dedicated detective.

  But, no matter; the message was clear: The mayor wanted a show of force to indicate to his constituents that the city was doing all it could. Now the mayor could claim, in effect, It ain’t my fault. Now the spotlight was on the department: You’ve got top priority; go get yourself a lucky break.

  Mostly because he could trust them to do precisely what was required of them, Tully chose as his closest assistants on this, Angie Moore and Phil Mangiapane. Also-and of equal importance-they had been in on the case more or less continuously from its inception to date.

  Moore, Mangiapane, and Tully were at a table in a Greek-town restaurant near police headquarters. Tully had just gotten the word from Inspector Koznicki about the task force and the lieutenant’s role in it. The special force was being assembled at this moment but Tully wanted-needed-a quiet moment with two of his most trusted associates.

  “Are they sure?” Moore asked. “I mean, did it go through ballistics?”

  “You got doubts?” Mangiapane was being sarcastic.

  Moore slowly shook her head. “Not really, I guess.”

  “There wasn’t any doubt,” Tully said. “But, yeah, it did go through. Ballistics is under the same kind of pressure we are, A.38 caliber wad cutter; same marks, same gun.”

  “Really rips my theory to hell and gone, don’t it?” Mangiapane said.

  “What theory was that?” Moore wanted to know.

  Tully explained the discovered connection between the distant cousins-Fred Stapleton and Sister Joan-and their dotty aunt at Lourdes Nursing Home. “We were going to draw you in on this theory this morning, Angie. But, last night …”

  “Sounds good to me,” Moore said. “Like the kind of break we wanted. What’s the matter with it?”

  “Well,” Tully said, “the orginal theory had it that Fred Stapleton was aware of the small fortune he was about to inherit and so was his cousin Joan Donovan. Only he wanted the whole fortune, not just half of it. He tried to kill the nun, but made a fatal error-literally-and got the hooker instead.”

  As Tully sipped his coffee he seemed to drift into his private stream of c
onsciousness.

  “The problem,” Mangiapane explained, “was why would Stapleton go and kill the Hoffer guy.”

  “To cover his tracks,” Moore replied. “And to throw us off the track. He would get us thinking that there was a plot to knock off officials of the Detroit Catholic Church. Our investigation would go off in that direction, while Stapleton could double back and get Donovan.”

  Mangiapane grinned. “Great minds …”

  “The problem, of course,” Tully rejoined the conversation, “is why would he go on? He only needed to kill Hoffer and his plan would be well off the ground. He had us doing just what he wanted. We were running all over ourselves in the Catholic administration. He was free to go back after the nun. Why would he go and kill the old man?”

  “Yeah, he already achieved his secondary objective,” Mangiapane said.

  A brief silence followed as the three either warmed their hands around their cups or actually sipped the strong coffee.

  “Wait a minute,” Moore said. “I have an idea.”

  “Let’s hearit,” Tullysaid.”

  “Supposing Stapleton found out-supposing, one way or another, he discovered that Manj was on to him. Right off the top I’m not sure how he would’ve known that. From the old woman, maybe?”

  Mangiapane shook his head, “She’s a full-time looney tune,”

  “Your aunt?”

  “I don’t think so, but I can check easy enough.”

  “Another patient who overheard or knew?” Moore persisted.

  Tully rubbed the stubble he hadn’t had the time to shave this morning. “A possibility. A definite possibility. Make that a top priority, Manj. Get enough manpower to quiz everybody at the home. Stapleton might have found out from someone out there that the lady is your aunt, that she talked to you, that you had checked the old lady’s will.

  “If he found out-that’s a pretty big‘if,’ but possible-it just might be that he wanted to get us back on the original track by killing the old man.

  “Good, Angie, very good. Get on that now, will you-both of you.”

  Moore was up and moving. Mangiapane, gulping the remainder of his coffee, was only a step behind.

  Tully caught the waitress’s eye and pointed to his mug. She refilled it with regular coffee, He needed to be as wide-awake as possible.

  It was always heartening to have something going for you during an investigation. And, in Moore’s hypothesis, the Stapleton connection with his cousin was revived. But it was still on tremendously shaky ground.

  The scenario from the beginning had been extremely flimsy, he had to admit. It was based entirely on hearsay

  Apparendy the old lady was related to both Donovan and Stapleton. She had a fortune of some as-yet-undetermined amount. She was leaving whatever she had to the two; Mangiapane’s reading of the will indicated that.

  After diat, what?

  Did Stapleton need money that badly? Did he murder the wrong cousin? Did he kill Hoffer? If he did, was that part of the original plan, or was he winging it?

  There wasn’t a shred of proof. Deep down, Tully suspected that should this case work out just the way they were figuring it now, he might begin to believe in miracles.

  He knew what he must do. And he didn’t want to do it. He had to take one more dive into the murky administrative waters of the archdiocese of Detroit.

  Father Koesler had never seen his archbishop in such a state.

  As a result of heart surgery a few years before, Mark Boyle had slimmed down. He now took regular and extensive walks for exercise. Lately, he’d looked fine. Trim in his inevitable clerical suit, vest, and collar, with gold pectoral chain; thinning white hair smoothed over a noble head; his handsome Irish features topped a better-than-six-foot frame.

  But today, though none of his physical characteristics had changed, he seemed somehow deflated, almost as if air had been let out of his body and it had shriveled somewhat.

  He had phoned and asked Koesler to stop by. Yet now as the archbishop greeted him, Koesler got the impression that Boyle was distracted and unsure why the priest was there. But he soon recovered, at least to the point of getting down to business.

  “Good of you to come, Father, at such short notice.” Boyle’s formality remained unchanged.

  “Certainly, Eminence. I’m sorry about Archbishop Foley. I admired him, and I know he was your good friend.”

  Boyle’s eyes welled up. Koesler thought the Cardinal might actually weep. But he pinched his eyelids and quickly regained his composure.

  “It was just yesterday that Archbishop Foley was sitting in this chair that you are using,” Boyle said. “He was so alive. Though he was retired, he was still very active and alert. A great loss. And so tragic. But … that is not why I asked you here.”

  Koesler waited, saying nothing.

  Boyle continued. “While we visited yesterday, I got a message that you had arrived for your appointment with him. He hadn’t mentioned the appointment, so I knew nothing about it. However, I now wonder whether it might not cast some light on last night’s tragic occurrence.” His eyebrows arched as he looked to Koesler for any relevant information.

  Koesler proceeded to recount most of his conversation with Foley, including the names of the two suspects high in the order of importance to the police investigation. The Cardinal listened attentively, fingers forming a pyramid that touched his lips, eyes never leaving Koesler’s face, seemingly not even blinking.

  After Koesler finished his narration, neither man moved or spoke for a few moments.

  “What interests-troubles-me,” Boyle said finally, “is why he was so concerned about this matter.”

  “The very same question I had, Eminence. I mean, we are all concerned about these murders, of course. But it wasn’t at all clear to me why he was so anxious to the point of calling me in to talk about it. So, eventually, I asked him. The reason for his special concern was yourself, Eminence.”

  “Me?” Boyle was startled.

  “He was afraid that you were slated to be the next victim. No, it was more than apprehension; it was a premonition. That’s what he called it: a premonition.”

  “He actually thought …”

  “It came to him in prayer. The passage about striking the shepherd and scattering the sheep. Of course he’d seen that Scripture countless times in prayer and preaching. But the other day he read it again and, as he expressed it, it was as if he experienced some sort of revelation. Suddenly, the shepherd was yourself and the purpose behind these killings was-well, it wasn’t clear to him. But it had to do with further confusing the faithful.

  “In that hypothesis, it wouldn’t so much matter whether the killings were being committed by someone like Arnold Carson or Fred Stapleton. The target was the atmosphere created by Vatican II. There was anger-in this case insane anger-about too much or not enough change engendered by the council.

  “I tended to agree with him about the motive for the killings. But as for your being a target-or becoming a victim of this murderer … well … it was Archbishop Foley’s premonition, not mine. However, I must confess, he was very persuasive.”

  “Worried about me … isn’t that like him.”

  The archbishop should have used the past tense, thought Koesler. Foley was no longer among the living. He wondered if the reality of Foley’s death had not yet reached the Cardinal’s consciousness.

  “There remains one final question, Father: Why would the archbishop call on you specifically?”

  The question was a mild surprise to Koesler. While they had never discussed it, he knew the Cardinal was aware of his involvement in past homicide investigations. He thought Foley’s reason for calling on him might have been obvious to Boyle. But then, on quick reflection, Koesler remembered that only yesterday he himself had not divined the reason Foley had called him in until the archbishop had explained.

  So, with greater understanding, Koesler explained to Boyle. “Archbishop Foley had heard that I’d had some e
xperience, at least some contact with the police in certain instances in the past.”

  “That’s right, you have. And,” he reflected, “I am the very one who told him about you.”

  “Archbishop Foley, to put it bluntly, wanted me to get rather actively involved in this case,”

  “Actively?”

  “Eminence, I may in the past have been a resource for the police when there was a strong element of Catholicism or religion involved in an investigation. But the archbishop was entirely correct in assuming that I did not dive right in and volunteer my services. He wanted me to do so in this case, He said he would pray for me.”

  “And did you?”

  “Did I …?”

  “Dive right in as he asked you to?”

  “Eminence, that was just yesterday. I have been thinking about it. But to be perfectly frank, I haven’t the slightest notion where to begin. I truly believe Archbishop Foley is in a much better position in heaven to have his prayers answered, but no manner of inspiration is getting through to me.”

  Cardinal Boyle swiveled his chair so that he was looking out the window at a once-posh Washington Boulevard. He was deep in thought. Koesler did not intrude.

  At length, Boyle spoke. “Father, it is beyond my dominion to commission you or assign you the task of ‘diving right in’ as you put it. But I would like you to.”

  “You would?” During their association, Cardinal Boyle had assigned Koesler to a number of diverse jobs, Strangest of all, given his lack of journalistic training, had been the assignment as editor-in-chief of the Detroit Catholic. But nothing could compare with asking him to, in effect, solve some murders.

  “Does this surprise you?” Boyle asked.

  “I’m flabbergasted.”

  “I had given some consideration to asking this of you. However, I don’t think in the end I would have asked you if you had not told me of Archbishop Foley’s request. I feel we owe this to him … to his memory,”

  “Well, I’m … impressed. I’d like to tell you that with a double episcopal commission, I am indeed about to dive right in. But I still haven’t the foggiest idea of where to begin,”