As he caught sight of Koznicki, Tully did not quite smile. Rather, the lines in his face eased. “Well,” he said, “what brings you in today?”
Koznicki lowered himself carefully into a chair opposite Tully, who wondered why the chair did not snap, or at very least cry out for mercy.
“A missing priest, ” Koznicki replied.
“Oh? I didn’t hear about any missing priest.”
“Few have.” Koznicki touched a handkerchief to his beaded forehead. “He has only been missing since Friday.”
“Just … missing?”
“So far as we know.”
“Why did they bother you? We’re not Missing Persons. Besides, has it been seventy-two hours yet?”
“Not quite. But let me begin at the beginning. This priest is Father John Keating, pastor of St. Waldo’s of the Hills in Bloomfield Hills. Have you heard of him?”
Tully shook his head slowly. “Haven’t heard of him. Haven’t heard of the church. But I’ve certainly heard of Bloomfield Hills.”
A fleeting smile from Koznicki. “As it turns out, the fact that it is Bloomfield Hills has everything to do with some departures from standard procedure. St. Waldo’s of the Hills may very well be the wealthiest parish in the archdiocese of Detroit,”
“I can well imagine.”
“So, ” Koznicki continued, “it is not surprising that among its parishioners can be found some of the most influential people in this area.”
Tully was beginning to anticipate Koznicki’s direction, and he was not delighted.
“In any case, ” Koznicki continued, “Father Keating was last seen Friday afternoon. He told the housekeeper he was going to Detroit on business and that he would be home for dinner. That is the last anyone appears to have seen of him.”
Tully glanced at his watch. “In another twenty-four hours that will be an excellent case for the Missing Persons Division of the Bloomfield Hills Department—if they’ve got a Missing Persons.”
“You were not listening as attentively as you ordinarily do, Alonzo. St. Waldo’s parish contains some of the most influential people in this area.”
“Influential enough to get the Bloomfield Hills cops to up the ante to forty-eight hours instead of seventy-two?” Tully was trying to forestall what he reluctantly envisioned as the inevitable.
“Influential enough, ” Koznicki specified, “to have a missing persons investigation started twenty-four hours early. Influential enough to have the case investigated not only by Bloomfield Hills but Detroit as well.”
Tully looked at the array of files on his desk. In a way, he was saying good-bye to them, or at least “till we meet again.” Briefly, he thought of trying to talk Koznicki out of this assignment. But then he thought better of it. Walt Koznicki was not the type to speak or act rashly or without careful consideration. He expected his assignments to be carried out, not disputed. Tully knew there was no point in arguing the issue. It was useless to try to change Koznicki’s mind.
Too bad. A couple of the cases he’d been studying had been very attractive—compelling, almost.
One was the murder of a man at high noon on Jefferson Avenue directly in front of the Renaissance Center—or, as Detroiters knew it, the Ren Cen.
Lunchtime crowds had filled the streets, yet with plenty of people around, no one had come forward to give witness. The well-dressed attorney had left his downtown office to attend a business luncheon in one of the Ren Cen’s many restaurants. He had just crossed Jefferson when suddenly he fell to the sidewalk. No one came to his aid. People walked around and even over him until one of the traffic officers came over to investigate. But it was too late. He was dead, said the medical examiner, before he hit the pavement. Poisoned, the ME pronounced. The vehicle probably something like an umbrella nib or a stick with a pointed tip. The victim would have felt nothing more than a sharp prick. A large crowd, a busy street; he probably didn’t pay much attention, or probably disregarded it. Some careless pedestrian—a midday annoyance. As it turned out, it wasn’t carelessness, not with a poisoned weapon. Deliberate murder. Murder One. The victim had been identified as, among other things, closely linked to the local Mafia.
The other case beckoning Tully was the murder of a Detroit News reporter. He had been killed just outside an inner-city church; apt, since he was the religion writer for the News. He was covering a complex, multifaceted story, involving a priest, the parish’s pastor, who had gotten married months previously. His marital state had just come to light and the archdiocese was taking steps to oust him from the parish and have him defrocked.
Outraged parishioners had called a meeting at the church. They didn’t care whether or not he was married; they did not want to lose their priest. In response, a throng far larger than all the possible members of that parish had gathered. The standing-room-only crowd spilled out onto the street. The leaders of the protest had whipped the multitude into a revival-type frenzy. At the very peak of that passionate response, according to bystanders, shots rang out, which caused the uproar to increase, when no one thought that possible. Several people were hit, the reporter six times. He was dead on arrival at Detroit Receiving Hospital.
Two dead men, neither a platter case. The missing facet of each case was the motive.
There were any number of reasons why animosity toward a lawyer could explode into violence. Frequently, lawyers entered people’s lives at one or another crisis period. A harsh divorce settlement. A botched divorce case. The same with reference to a host of similar situations: property settlement, child custody, disability judgment, acrimonious estate matter, and so forth. Among all these possibilities, which one? And why poison? One of those bizarre Mafia statements? It was unusual, and that’s what whetted Tully’s interest.
And the reporter? Not in Tully’s memory had a local news writer been murdered. As far as he could see, people took out their frustrations with the media by an angry letter to the editor. Or perhaps, at most, a lawsuit. Why would anyone kill a reporter—and a religion writer at that?
For his part, Tully could not quite fathom why the crowd was so unhinged over what was happening to that priest. Tully had only a surface knowledge of organized religion. He was aware that the Catholic clergy were not allowed to marry. In fact, he’d had quite a cram course in the Roman Catholic Church’s rules and regulations concerning celibacy. A bizarre case last year had highlighted that Church feature. But—okay—so a priest gets married, he breaks the rule, and,. Tully supposed, he’s out. Maybe there’s an appeal possibility. But it’s all there in Church law; why should lay people get all worked up? Were those bullets intended for someone else? Tully thought not. When several rounds all hit the same target, it’s not likely the shooter missed what he wanted to hit.
All this Tully could have communicated to Inspector Koznicki in a plea to pursue the cases that were already his. But from long experience, he knew such an appeal was foredoomed. At best, he—or maybe the Bloomfield cops—would find this missing priest in a hurry and Tully could get back to his work.
Could that have been the reason Koznicki was dumping this business on him? Ol’ Walt was a crafty guy. He would be well aware that Tully wanted no part of a missing person investigation. And that Tully would do everything in his power to get rid of it. And that the only way to do that would be to solve it or bring it to a successful or otherwise conclusion.
In any event, Tully hoped that some of these intriguing cases would still be waiting for him when he got back to the real world of Homicide.
Tully gathered the files, tapped them neatly together, placed them on the far corner of the desk, and faced Koznicki squarely. For better or worse, Tully was now at Koznicki’s disposal.
“Okay,” Tully said, “let’s start from the top. It might help to know just who this ‘influential’ person is who got everybody to throw out the rule book.”
“Eric Dunstable.”
“U.S. Motors?”
“Chairman of the board.”
&n
bsp; Tully nodded. “That’s influential. What’s he got to do with it?”
“He’s a parishioner at St. Waldo’s—make that an invoked parishioner. He is, in fact, president of the parish council.”
Tully reflected on that. “Well, now, Walt, my education on things Catholic hasn’t quite got that far. But it does sound impressive.”
Only Koznicki’s eyes smiled. “A parish council is elected by parishioners. The president, usually, is elected, in turn, by the other council members. Or the council member who gets the most votes becomes the president. Suffice to say that the position—”
“—is an ‘influential’ position,” Tully broke in. “Whatever this guy does is going to be influential, isn’t it?”
“So it seems.”
“Or he doesn’t play.”
Koznicki considered a further analysis of the council president’s role irrelevant. He moved on. “The housekeeper at St. Waldo’s was not overly concerned when Father Keating did not appear for dinner on Friday evening. It seems he is not only somewhat undependable in matters he considers of minor importance—such as a commitment to a meal—but he generally does not bother explaining.”
“Sounds like a real sweetheart.”
“Undoubtedly he has other virtues,” Koznicki said noncommittally. “Apparently, he did not return to the rectory Friday night. He was not there Saturday morning and nothing in his room was disturbed. The bed was not slept in.”
“Let me guess: still no concern.”
“Correct. But Saturday is another story. As you can well imagine, Alonzo, the weekend is a terribly busy time for priests, what with confession and the Masses.”
“Masses?”
“Services. At St. Waldo’s there is a Mass late Saturday afternoon, with confessions before and after, and four Masses Sunday morning.”
Tully was impressed. “Quite a load for one guy.”
It took a moment for Koznicki to realize that Tully thought that the same priest presided at all these Masses. “Oh, no, Alonzo, there is help. I do not know how many priests assist at that parish of a Sunday, but you may rest assured Father Keating does not carry that load alone. I believe he has a full-time assistant and I would assume he has secured another priest—perhaps more than one—to help from time to time. St. Waldo of the Hills is not the sort of parish that would be strapped for help.”
“Okay.” So far so good, thought Tully. “So the priest wasn’t there yesterday—or today.”
“Exactly. And this was unprecedented. Father Keating invariably supervised the operation on weekends, settling such questions as which priests would offer which Masses, compiling announcements; in short, making sure everything ran smoothly.”
“He didn’t call? No word?”
“None. Needless to say, everyone was and is quite concerned. Earlier this afternoon, Mr. Dunstable stepped in.”
“Or took charge.”
“Probably more accurate. He contacted the Bloomfield Hills Police, and they are already on the case. And then he contacted our mayor.”
“Cobb? He found Cobb? On a Sunday?” Tully snorted. “You did say he was influential.”
“Mr. Dunstable and the mayor are quite close socially.”
Tully shrugged. “I suppose it’s about time Dunstable got something in return for all those contributions. One last question, Walt: Why me? I mean, I know no mere question is going to get me out of this one, but just for the record, why me?”
Koznicki treated it as a rhetorical question. “The mayor promised Mr. Dunstable our best detective would head the investigation. And the mayor is aware of your record.” There was a note of barely disguised pride in Koznicki’s voice over the fact that the mayor recognized Tully’s accomplishments.
Koznicki rose slowly. “The mayor contacted the chief, who notified me. I think it best you call in the troops immediately. By the way, the Bloomfield Hills and other suburban police will be assigned to you for the term of this investigation. You will head up this task force.”
Koznicki left, knowing he had placed the matter in most competent hands.
The only silver lining Tully could perceive was that as missing persons go, a missing priest is at least a little out of the ordinary. Maybe he would learn something along the way.
In any case, this would, Tully vowed, be one of the briefest searches in the history of missing persons investigations. He would find the errant priest and bring him home safely. Then he would get back to serious business.
5
Pat Lennon sat alone at a small table in a far corner of the cafeteria on the second floor of the Detroit News.
She was by no means alone in the cafeteria. A large percentage of those who worked in the News’s downtown building began the workday in this spacious dining room. Some hit the cafeteria before their desks. Bleary-eyed, still in their coats, they would straggle in, knowing the day would not get moving until they had their coffee.
Most of them were creatures of habit, sitting at the same table each day, trading gossip with the same people.
That’s why Lennon sat alone. Any number of reporters—safe to say all the males—would have been delighted to join her. But her usual companion at this hour was Pringle McPhee, who, this Monday morning, was late.
Pat sipped her coffee with mounting impatience. If Pringle didn’t step on it, Pat would go on to the city room without her. Just as she was about to give up, in bounced Pringle. She spotted Pat, smiled and waved to her, then headed for the snail-paced line at the elongated buffet.
Pat watched as Pringle moved along, selecting cold cereal, scrambled eggs, sweet rolls, and coffee. Quite a breakfast, especially for one as trim and slender as Pringle. Pat wondered how she kept her shape without any bridle on that voracious appetite.
Pringle’s limp was barely noticeable. Indeed, if one did not know about the problem, one would scarcely be aware of it. As Lennon looked on, she remembered almost subconsciously that night when the car hit Pringle. Now, four years later, Pat could still enumerate Pringle’s wounds: bilateral broken legs, a closed head injury, skull fracture, fractured pelvis, fractures of facial bones, abdominal damage, and six broken ribs on the right side.
Pat remembered so well the list of injuries because not only had Pringle been run down in lieu of Pat, Pat had played a vital part in Pringle’s rehabilitation.
The rehabilitation had been a remarkable success. Providentially for such a lovely girl, there were no scars. Remaining was only that suggestion of a limp—and a subtle weakening in Pringle’s self-confidence.
There was no diminution in her professional confidence. She was a good reporter, steadily getting better, and aware of her worth as a journalist. Her vulnerability lay in her fear of danger. The dread, while understandably natural, bordered on the phobic.
Pringle, in her mid-twenties when she was injured, had defeated death by a hair’s breadth. An extraordinarily healthy specimen, she had been able to do practically anything she set out to accomplish. Then came the overwhelming trauma, and the long, agonizing struggle to make the slightest gesture, to think clearly, to walk. Where before she would ski the most forbidding hills, now she hesitated at crossing a busy street.
Because Pat understood all this, she was especially understanding and protective with Pringle. She was a little more than ten years Pringle’s senior. The two could have been sisters. Only in comparison with Pringle could Lennon be considered full-figured. They were, simply, two beautiful women.
Pringle sat in her accustomed chair. Pat smiled as she watched her unload her busy tray.
“Anything more on Hal?” Pringle asked.
“Not that I’ve heard.”
Pringle didn’t give her eggs a chance to get cold. “What do you think?” she asked between bites. “I mean, it’s all so senseless, isn’t it?”
They were talking, as was just about everyone, about the killing of Harold Salden, the religion writer for the Detroit News.
“Sure it’s senseless. I guess it just
underscores this crazy society with guns all over the place. And we’re right in the middle of it. We’re there covering stories that are all about violence. That’s what Hal was doing when he was shot: covering a story in a violent atmosphere. It could have happened to any of us.”
Pringle dropped a forkful of eggs back onto her plate. Pat glanced at her. Pringle’s hand was trembling. Instantly, Lennon regretted her words. It wasn’t tactful to mention in Pringle’s presence that their profession could be and occasionally was hazardous. Pringle didn’t need that.
Quickly, Pat added, “Of course, there’s another angle as far as what happened to Hal. Unlike lots of religion writers in thegood old days, Hal was a damn good reporter. Good reporters have a tendency to make enemies. You know the old principle: If you have no enemies, you’re not doing anything. In that case, then, maybe it wasn’t senseless after all.”
“What do you mean?” Pringle’s concern was evident.
“I mean there are at least a couple of ways of looking at Hal’s shooting. It could have been pure chance: He just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe it was somebody who hada grudge.”
“A grudge against Hal? Pat, he was a religion writer! Who’d have any reason to hold a grudge against a religion writer?”
“You forget, he was also a first-rate reporter. And don’t think there aren’t some very violent people mixed up in so-called religious affairs. There’s always the good old Islamic jihad; Allah and Yahweh never did get along. And how about the pro-life and pro-choice people when they confront each other on a street corner? Anger and violence all over the place. Even religion? Especially religion! And Hal covered that scene. He must have made some enemies. Any of them could have done it.”
This wasn’t going well, Pat had to admit. The further she speculated about Hal’s murder, the more she was adding to Pringle’s nameless fear. This might be an appropriate moment to call a halt to this conversation and get on with the day. She should be at work now anyway. She pushed her chair back from the table.
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