Body Count

by William Kienzle

  “Okay, so he was away from the parish Sunday evening and all of Monday. Anybody know where he went?”

  Moore shook her head. “No, but that’s not all. Wednesday was his ‘day off.’”

  “Wednesday!” Tully exhibited surprise. “What happened to Monday?”

  Moore laughed. “Apparently, he was away a lot.”

  “And nobody knew where he went or why? What if there was an emergency?”

  “Oh, he always had somebody covering for him,” Moore said. “There’s the younger priest—the assistant. Or, if he wasn’t available, there were the other priests who helped out on weekends. They have other jobs—one teaches at Catholic Central High School, the other is a hospital chaplain—so they’re pretty busy. But in a pinch they can take care of the few emergencies that might pop up. And there’s also an answering service.”

  “Sounds like an absentee pastor,” Tully said. “Is he ever around? I mean, why did Dunstable stir up all the troops?”

  “That’s the thing, Zoo,” Moore said. “He’s around when he’s supposed to be. There’s the weekend services and Tuesday and Thursday. If there’s a meeting—parish council or one of the council’s commissions or anything like that—he’s pretty reliable. That’s the reason the crew got shook up when he wasn’t there when he was supposed to be.”

  It didn’t make much sense. Tully could not imagine living in that manner. For him, his job as a police officer consumed almost his every thought. And while he well knew that not everyone by any means matched his dedication to work, he had had the impression that priests, ministers, and rabbis came close to matching him. Especially priests; wasn’t that why they didn’t get married and have a family—to be totally dedicated to their work?

  “Well,” Tully said, “in Keating’s laid-back schedule, was there anything on the docket for Friday evenings? Saturday mornings? Someplace he should be? Someplace we could look for him?”

  “The secretary said that Fridays he spent nearly the whole day working on his sermon for the weekend Masses,” Mangiapane said. “So it was a little odd that he took off Friday afternoon. He usually spent Friday nights at the rectory. And he was always around Saturday all day to make sure everything was all set. The housekeeper would have expected him for Friday dinner even if he hadn’t told her he’d be back. So everybody got more and more worried as the weekend went by and no Father Keating.”

  Tully glanced at both officers. “What kind of car did he drive?”

  “Lincoln Town Car, ’91, black, in tip-top shape,” Moore read from her notes.

  “The make and plates,” Tully said, “we got that on LEIN?”

  “Sure thing, Zoo,” Mangiapane said. “We got ’em on first thing.”

  There was silence for afew moments. Tully seemed deep in thought. Finally he spoke.

  “Something’s missing.” He looked at them both again. “A dimension. Like this priest seems to be no more than two dimensions. He’s like a shadow. There are all kinds of people who know him—some pretty good. But there’s nothing clear-cut about their descriptions.”

  “I got the same impression, Zoo,” Moore said.

  “Me too,” Mangiapane admitted.

  There was another prolonged silence.

  “Here’s an idea, Zoo,” Mangiapane said brightly. “What we seem stuck on is this guy’s personality and his lifestyle, but most of all his personality. And we’re not getting much help from the people we’ve questioned.”

  “What’s your point, Manj?”

  “Well,” the big sergeant spoke hesitantly, “sometimes … in the past … we, uh … we’ve called in help.”

  “‘Help’?”

  “Experts … for advice … you know, in areas where we’re not familiar. Like … the personality of a particular priest. And his lifestyle.”

  Tully thought he knew where Mangiapane was leading. “Like … who?”

  “Well, I was thinking … Father Koesler. He’s been a good resource in the past.”

  Tully considered for a few moments. Mangiapane remained impassive. Moore looked interested. Finally Tully spoke. “Call in some outside help? I don’t plan on this case lasting that long. It’d cost us time to talk him into it, time to get him up to speed, time to brief him.”

  “We’re not exactly breaking any speed records right now, Zoo,” Mangiapane said. “Father Koesler could maybe get us a shortcut or two. Finish this thing up and” —Mangiapane knew this would be the clincher—“we could get back to our regular cases.”

  Tully reflected. “It might work,” he said. “It just might work.”

  It was just a few minutes before 6:00 and dinnertime at St. Joseph’s rectory. The aroma of the cooking roast and vegetables drifted through the rectory. Fathers Koesler and Dunn were sipping, Dunn a Beefeater martini, Koesler a bourbon Manhattan. The aroma of the food promised satisfaction, the drinks were relaxing, the weather was ideal. All seemed well.

  The two priests were discussing Dunn’s first day at the University of Detroit Mercy.

  “I’ve always found,” Koesler was saying, “that the worst place to try to find a parking spot was on a college campus until you get a permit to park on the college campus. But of course you’ve got to park on the college campus in order to apply for the permit. Sort of a catch-22.”

  Dunn smiled. “I guess you’re right. I haven’t been on all that many campuses. But U of D seems to have licked that problem—at least temporarily. They give you a day pass that at least gets you to a visitors’ lot. After that, I got my sticker and did some registering.”

  “Really. What are you signed up for?”

  Dunn took an index card out of the inside pocket of his jacket, “Let’s see; there’s Introductory Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, Psychology of Religion, and Death and Dying.”

  “Isn’t that a pretty big bite?”

  “No, I don’t think so. After all, I’m just auditing, not going for credit. I won’t do all the required readings. I’m really interested in the Abnormal, Religion of course, and Death and Dying. Intro to Psych is a prerequisite for all of them. Besides, I’m a holy priest of God and it’s a Jesuit school; I’m counting on their being kind.

  “By the way, I’m officially a ‘special student.’ I hope they mean that in a positive way.”

  “I’m sure they do. Good luck.” Koesler raised his glass in salute, then drained the last of the Manhattan. That’s the way it used to be, he thought. Then it was no more. The perks accorded men of the cloth seemed to melt away during the sixties and seventies. Now, who knows, maybe it’s coming back …

  The phone rang. Mary O’Connor was gone for the day. And the housekeeper had made it abundantly clear that she was not to be disturbed, especially during the home stretch of meal preparation. Koesler answered the phone. “St. Joseph’s.”

  “Father Koesler?”

  He knew the voice. Something inside Koesler quivered. “Yes, this is he.”

  “This is Lieutenant Tully, Homicide.”

  Suspicion confirmed. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  Dunn looked up, suddenly interested. Of course he could hear only Koesler’s end of the conversation.

  “We’re in the middle of an investigation. Actually, it’s a missing persons case at the moment. But there are reasons Homicide has been brought into it. To be brief, do you know a Father John Keating?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” But he was thinking, Yes, I did.

  “I don’t know whether you knew it, but he’s been missing since Friday. By now, several police departments are searching for him. But we’re coming up short on what makes the man tick. We need to fill in some missing spaces. Would you be willing to help?”

  “Really, Lieutenant, I don’t know how I could be of help.”

  Dunn was rapt. Hot damn! I’ll bet that’s Keating they’re calling about. They’re following my scenario; they’re asking Koesler to help.

  “You’ve helped us in the past, Father. We think you might be able to help us now. How about it
?” When Koesler did not reply immediately, Tully added, almost offhandedly, “If you have any doubts, I could ask Walt Koznicki to call.”

  Oh, God! That’s the last thing in the world I want. It would take tremendous concentration and carefulness not to let anything from that confession escape his safekeeping even with just Lieutenant Tully looking over his shoulder. How much more difficult it would be with an old friend like the inspector. “I don’t know, Lieutenant …” Koesler’s tone was apologetic. “I’m awfully busy and pressed just now.”

  Tully’s sigh was deep. “I can’t force you to help us. But the longer this priest is missing, the greater the probability that we’re not going to find him.”

  Silence.

  “He is a priest,” Tully emphasized.

  Briefly, Koesler considered the number of times he had responded to a request for assistance from the police. At no time had there been a greater ostensible reason for him to cooperate than in this instance. Outside of an intolerable secret such as he was now guarding, there was no adequate reason for his not providing all the help and direction possible. But there was no way he could tell the police, or anyone, why he was reluctant about getting involved. There was no way out of this. He had to get involved. Maybe he’d find a way to help without touching on the secret. It would be an extremely narrow line to walk. He breathed a quick prayer for guidance. “All right, Lieutenant, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Fine. I’ll be right over—“

  “Wait!” Koesler’s tone was forceful. “Not now. Not tonight. I have several extremely important appointments. I simply cannot break into that schedule. I simply can’t.”

  Though disappointed, Tully would not be choosy—and he knew it. “First thing tomorrow then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fight all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll see you then.” Tully hung up.

  The housekeeper’s voice came from the dining room. “Dinner, Fathers.”

  Koesler left his now empty glass on an end table. Dunn carried his unfinished martini with him. “It happened, didn’t it?” Dunn was elated. “You got called into the Keating case. He’s officially … what—not dead?”

  “Missing.”

  “And they want you to help find him. Delicious.”

  “Look, could we forget this for now? I do have some important appointments this evening, and I’d like to try to enjoy supper without courting indigestion. Who knows, maybe they’ll find Father Keating before tomorrow morning.”

  “Let us pray.”

  “Okay. Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen indeed.”

  7

  For a Monday night, the crowd wasn’t bad. The Fast Lane actually was filled with customers. In that sense, it wasn’t a bad crowd. But there was no line of people waiting to get in.

  Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee arrived around 9:00 P.M., which, for that establishment, was the shank of the evening.

  They’d met for dinner after work. They’d been doing that with some frequency lately. After dinner, Pringle had suggested they visit The Fast Lane. The club, in a downtown section known as Bricktown, had been open only a few months and she hadn’t been there yet. Pat was not eager to go; she’d been there once and didn’t much care for it. But Pringle’s suggestion was more an appeal. So Pat agreed, with the proviso that they keep their visit brief.

  The sound assaulted them as they opened the door. Pringle smiled. It was her sort of place. Pat winced and acknowledged to herself that they were doomed to shout for pretty much the rest of the evening.

  They were faced with a choice: upstairs or downstairs?

  “What’s down?” Pringle asked loudly.

  “Pool tables. Adult—very adult—video games,” Pat answered just as loudly.

  “And up?”

  “Dancing. The club.”

  “Then it’s up.” Pringle took the stairs, followed by Pat.

  It was just a few steps to the first—actually the second—level, the dance floor. Pringle’s mouth dropped open as she beheld the surreal scene.

  The building was rectangular with two rectangular tiers above the dance floor. Looking up into the high recesses of the vaulted ceiling, Pringle could imagine herself in a bullring, the Colosseum, or an ancient opera house … though it was safe to say no concert hall had ever heard a sound like this.

  The noise level was several times louder than a screeching jet. The dance floor was almost choking with gyrating bodies, all amazingly there of their own volition. Except for those who were dancing so close they were almost on the other side of each other, it was difficult to tell who was whose partner. From the two upper levels, spectators enjoyed a more encompassing view. And they were enjoying the view; otherwise why would so many be crowded against the railings taking in the action below?

  In a reserved spot in the uppermost tier sat a very kinetic disc jockey. He not only played the tapes, he controlled the volume, the fluctuating glitter and flash, the strobes, and the video projectors that threw much-larger-than-life images of the dancers onto the gigantic screens—not unlike those in sports palaces that endlessly repeat instant replays.

  Pat and Pringle took the stairs. Arriving at the second tier, they discovered why so many of the patrons were clustered at the inner railings. All the alcoves were occupied by couples, threesomes, and quartets in various stages of assignation. Here and there fronting the outer walls were black granite-and-marble bars with soft, cushy stools These were pretty well occupied, although there was an occasional empty stool.

  Not only was it impossible not to be overwhelmed by the music, they could feel it. The entire floor throbbed to the tempo that spread concussively into and through their bodies.

  The scene was not much short of a full-blown bacchanal.

  Pringle squeezed her way to a bar and got drinks for herself and Pat. They found a spot near one of the corners where they could watch most of the action—on the floor, at the bars, along the railings, and, if one considered sex a spectator sport, in the alcoves.

  “I had no idea!” Pringle almost had to shout to be heard above the din.

  “They don’t leave much to the imagination,” Pat yelled back.

  As they took in the action, it was easy to spot singles mingling in the crowd. It was hard not to pity them. Most were desperate for someone—anyone—who would value them. And most would fail to find that certain someone here.

  What with the haze—there were only nominal smoke-free areas in the club—and the kaleidoscopic lighting, identifying specific dancers was challenging. But even in this maze, Pringle thought she spotted someone she knew, someone everyone knew. “Isn’t that … ?”

  Pat tried following Pringle’s line of vision, “Isn’t that … who?”

  “You know …” Pringle was uncertain. “The gossip columnist? With the Suburban Reporter?”

  “Where?”

  “There. Don’t you see?” Pringle was now pointing. “Dancing … there, near the far corner … see?”

  Even though the two of them were almost shouting, they also had to face each other and mouth their words exaggeratedly in order to communicate through the clangor and resonance.

  Gradually, Pat’s vision did manage to cut through the smoke and the strobe flashes. “Very good, Pringle. It is indeed, Sally Dean.”

  “No, no …” Pringle shook her head. “Lacy De Vere.”

  Pat grinned. “I knew her when she was Sally Dean.”

  “Really?” Pringle turned to look at the subject in question and then back to face Pat. “She changed her name? I didn’t know that.”

  “Pringle, she—“ Pat stopped and jerked her head toward a justvacated alcove. She and Pringle made a beeline for the space and settled into the chairs. They were as grateful for the quasi haven from the noise as they were for the seats. Now at least they could carry on a conversation without im
mediate threat to their vocal cords. “Pringle, she changed just about everything. Her name—legally; her hips—liposuction; her breasts—implants; her nose—plastic surgery; her hair coloring—her hairdresser knows; and several husbands—divorce.”

  “Wow! I would have guessed the hair—that’s amost unlikely shade. But I didn’t know the rest.”

  “We worked together—no, at the same time—at the Free Press. A long time ago, maybe ten years. She was Sally Dean then, a staff writer—and not a very good one either.”

  “I knew you’d been at the Freep,” Pringle said, “but … Sally Dean? I never heard of her.”

  “Don’t feel bad. Not many people remember the name. I’ll never know how she got past the personnel director. Ordinarily he was one of the best in judging prospective employees, but he sure blew that one. Or maybe,” she added, “he was away on vacation.”

  “She was that bad?”

  “Walking proof that a good copy editor really can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. She couldn’t spell. She had no concept of grammar. She paid no attention to detail. She put streets on the wrong side of town. She misidentified people in her stories.”

  Pringle’s eyes widened. “How did she ever make it through probation?”

  “She slept well.”

  “She—? Oh, I get it.”

  “Seemed like her only talent. It was unerring the way she could pick out whose star was rising at the paper. Then she’d practically throw the poor boob into bed and almost literally rape him.”

  Pringle giggled. “Poetic license?”

  “Only a little. But not grossly exaggerated.”

  “Well, what happened to her? I mean at the Freep?”

  Pat half smiled at the memory. “She picked the right guy, as usual, but he moved.”

  “Moved?”

  “Moved on. He’s in Hollywood now. He writes for TV mostly.”

  “She couldn’t go with him?”

  “Uh-uh. He didn’t need a waif then and he needs one even less now. Like the song from Pajama Game says, ‘He’s living in the Taj Mahal/In every room a different doll.’”