Body Count

by William Kienzle

  “You didn’t tell Tully that,” Dunn wondered.

  “Almost. I was saved by prayer, I guess. That was too close to the confessional secret. Anyway,” Koesler continued, “according to your theory—if I’m following you correctly—since there is no indication that this gambling was going on aboveboard, so to speak, it may be presumed that Keating’s bets, as well as his debts, were with the Mafia.

  “And, from what is conventionally known about the Mafia, they do not stand still when someone tries to take advantage of them. So the Mafia, unable to get its money back, exacts retribution in the form of a contract to kill Father Keating.” Koesler shuddered. “This whole thing gets so ugly.”

  But Dunn, whose theory this basically was, continued with what he believed to be the correct scenario. “We already have, courtesy of the newspaper clipping, the complaint of ‘a high-ranking Mafia figure’ that nowadays they can’t depend on their own families to execute a contract. They have to use outside resources.

  “So here’s Keating, hopelessly in debt to the one remaining Detroit family. And this family, apparently—probably because they can’t trust this to anyone in their own organization—gives the contract to Guido Vespa. And he was, we know from that ancient Mafia chart-maybe still is—a button man.

  “So,” Dunn concluded, “Guido Vespa is offered and accepts the contract, kills John Keating, and later—because he’s never before murdered a priest, and because of his Catholic upbringing, however vague that may have been—he confesses the sin to you, and is overheard by me.” There was a look of irrepressible self-congratulation on Dunn’s smiling face.

  The two priests regarded each other in silence. At length, Koesler looked at his watch. Not much time before he would have to leave. “So …?”

  “So … what?” Dunn replied.

  “My question precisely,” Koesler said. “So what? Even if everything happened just the way you have constructed this chain of events, what difference does it make? The basis of this story is still Guido Vespa’s confession. Neither of us would have the slightest notion of what might have happened to Jake Keating if Vespa had not told us of his role in the disappearance. And that neither of us can disclose to anyone under any circumstances. If either of us were to go to the police and say that the Mafia put out a contract on Father Keating because he couldn’t pay his gambling debts, and the guy you’re looking for, the hit man in this case, is Guido Vespa, the police certainly would ask, ‘How do you know?’ And we would—we could—say nothing. There’s no proof of any of this except a confession that is completely out of bounds. So: So what?”

  Dunn gave every indication that he had not considered the implications of his scenario. Now he did so. The seconds were ticking away; Koesler would soon have to leave.

  “Well,” Dunn said finally, “you yourself said that this afternoon you tried to communicate with the police through ESP. And you were only trying to get them interested in Keating’s gambling habits and make Guido Vespa the focus of their investigation.

  “Okay, so it didn’t work. But ESP can work; it has worked. Now that we have the whole story, why don’t we try in a concerted way to get through to the cops with that extrasensory perception? That lieutenant will undoubtedly be talking to you again. You never know, there may be some way of communication, something we can’t anticipate right now. But something may occur. The Holy Spirit …”

  “Nice, Nick,” Koesler said. “I’m the last one who would question the power of ESP, especially when it’s fortified by prayer. ‘More things are accomplished by prayer than this world dreams of.’ But … but … do we have the whole story?”

  Dunn seemed perplexed. “Of course we do!”

  “Then,” Koesler said, “what about the car?”

  “What car?”

  “Jake Keating’s car. If Guido Vespa murdered Keating, what was Jack’s car doing parked outside the Costello house? Would a murderer take an easily traceable car and leave it where the police could make an obvious connection between victim and killer?”

  Dunn scratched his chin. “That is a puzzle. I don’t know—wait, didn’t you say that when you got to Costello’s house there were a lot of police technicians around the car?”

  “Right.”

  “And that one of them was working on fingerprints?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And he said there were no prints on the steering wheel?”

  Koesler nodded.

  “That means,” Dunn continued, “that Keating certainly didn’t drive the car to that spot. Why would he wipe his own prints off the wheel?”

  “True.”

  “Well … what we do know is that Guido Vespa killed Keating. Why would Vespa leave the car in front of his grandfather’s home?” Dunn paused. “I don’t think he could or would have done that.” He thought for another moment. “Wait: Guido wasn’t at the Costello home today; Remo was.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll bet Guido hasn’t been there since Friday. And if that’s the case,” Dunn was animated once more, “somebody else is involved. Like it says in the Bible, An enemy hath done this.’ Somebody who knew what Guido had done, some enemy of Guido’s, moved Keating’s car to that neighborhood and left it there. If this person knew that Guido wasn’t going to be there, and if this person knew that Guido alone—and nobody else in his family—knew about this contract—then what a beautiful way to get revenge! The Costellos, the Vespas, whatever, would have no idea where that car came from. They would have no reason to get rid of it. It wasn’t any business of theirs. But the cops will find it eventually and they’ll be able to trace it to its owner easily. And the Costellos and Vespas are in big trouble.”

  Dunn seemed to expect applause.

  Koesler thought it over. “It certainly sounds plausible. Next time I get a chance, I’ll try to find out if Guido was at the house anytime since Friday.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “That would be my appointment,” Koesler said. “I’d better go let them in.”

  “Them?”

  “A couple. She’s a Catholic. He’s thinking of converting.”

  Dunn looked puzzled.

  “Something wrong?” Koesler hesitated at the doorway.

  “Something else just occurred to me. I guess I’m playing devil’s advocate to my own theory. I know you’ve got to get the door, but could you give me another minute before you start in with them?”

  “Sure. I’llbe right back.”

  And he was. “So?”

  “It’s money,” Dunn said.

  “You need some?” Koesler was joking, or so he hoped.

  “No … no. Keating. From what you’ve told me, he had plenty of money. Of all the problems he had in his lifetime, money had to be the least of them … no? Then why couldn’t he pay off his losses? Especially since the alternative was death.”

  “It’s true, Nick, he did grow up with money. And he always had some special perks—like his contacts in the auto industry. But his parents left him merely comfortable, not wealthy. He didn’t have much more ready cash than the average priest. If he vacationed well, it was because some of his parishioners adopted him into their lifestyle.

  “No, I could well imagine that, if he gambled as compulsively as Guido Vespa said, he could well have been in over his head.”

  “Okay then, how about his parish? Maybe the wealthiest parish in this diocese, no?”

  “Sure it is. But … steal from the parish to pay off the Mafia? Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “I suppose the diocese would find out one way or the other in an audit.”

  “Well, there’s not going to be an audit. Not for a long while, anyway.”

  “Oh …” Dunn looked surprised. “Why not?”

  “The diocese doesn’t audit until there’s a change in pastors. Take it from one who moved from one parish to another about a year ago. The diocese sent its auditors to my former parish as well as to this one.”

  “Okay, but we know Ke
ating isn’t going to come back. What about that?”

  “We belong to a select few who know that, Nick. To the diocese, the parish isn’t vacant. They just don’t know where the pastor is. Trust me. There was a similar case a while back where a pastor had to go away for a long period of treatment. They merely appointed an administrator for the interim. Undoubtedly that’s what they’ll do now.”

  Koesler turned to leave, hesitated, then turned back. “Besides, in response to youradvocatus diaboli, there’s a parish council along with a finance committee that keeps a steady hand on parochial money. And you can be sure that with the sort of successful businessmen they have in that parish, the finances would be carefully watched.

  “And finally, Nick, if he had used money from St. Waldo’s coffers and paid his debts, he’d be alive today.”

  Dunn brightened. “So my theory stays intact!”

  Koesler smiled grimly. “Your theory stays intact.”

  Koesler walked down the hall toward the office where the couple awaited. As he walked, he could not shake the nagging thoughts surrounding the case of the missing Father Keating.

  Something about this case troubled him. Something besides the confessional technicalities quandary. Something that had been pulling at the corners of his consciousness from the very beginning. One thing was certain: Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with either Nick Dunn’s scenario or his own doubts.

  Actually, he thought, Dunn had done an excellent job of putting clues together to build a credible theory on what was behind the disappearance of Jake Keating. Except that Koesler had no real expectation that either he or Dunn would find any legitimate avenue to share what they knew and what they speculated. In all likelihood, it would all be buried in that completely isolated field protected by the sacred seal of confession.

  Nonetheless, Koesler wondered what it was beyond that that troubled him.

  12

  It was only an informal, casual understanding, nothing signed in blood or a legal contract. But Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee met in the News cafeteria most mornings before getting down to work. No hard feelings if one, the other, or both didn’t show up.

  By pure coincidence both arrived at the food counter simultaneously this morning. They greeted each other as enthusiastically as possible for the early hour. As the two moved down the line, most of the men in the cafeteria watched them, some surreptitiously, others openly. Each of the women was used to drawing male attention. Of the two, Pat was the more experienced in handling such attention.

  They seated themselves at their usual table in their usual corner. Like many workers they were creatures of habit.

  As usual, Pringle had selected a generous breakfast while Pat had coffee and toast.

  “I meant to tell you,” Pringle said, “that really was a great obit you wrote for Hal Salden.”

  “Well, thanks.” It was somewhat unusual to receive praise for writing an obituary. But in this case it had been a labor of love; Pat really had respected and liked Salden. She was pleased that Pringle had appreciated her effort.

  “I especially liked the way you brought out his professionalism,” Pringle said. “He was a really good reporter. He was always interesting and even fun to read.”

  Pat smiled as she spread a thin layer of marmalade on her unbuttered toast. “Yeah. I think religion writers today have a lot to live down. Most of today’s writers are genuine professionals. But a while back … well, there were some pretty weird characters covering religion. Let’s just say a lot of them didn’t do religion any favors. But today’s crop is by and large professional. And Hal was among the best of them. He respected his field, and it showed. He would have been really good at whatever beat. But religion was lucky to get him.”

  “I agree. And I think you brought that out in the obit. Are the cops any closer to getting his killer?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re on that story too, aren’t you?” Pringle was eating a bit more rapidly than usual.

  “Uh-huh. It’s curious. They haven’t got any suspects yet. But most of all, they haven’t got any motive. From what some of the witnesses say, it seems that the weapon was an automatic of some kind. There were two other people wounded, but Hal took the most rounds by far. It was like the gunman was not all that expert, but for all of that, Hal is dead.”

  “But why?” Pringle wondered. “It isn’t all that rare for a reporter to be injured in the line of duty. But usually it’s just an accident–being at the wrong place at the wrong time. So why aim at a reporter? You don’t like the news he’s reporting? That’s literally killing the messenger!”

  “Hold on, Pringle. The cops haven’t decided yet that Hal was the intended victim. I think the current theory is that the gunman is a psycho. If that is the case, they don’t know whether the guy was sore because the priest was forced to give up his parish, or mad because the priest got married. Or it was just some kook who saw an angry crowd and it was dark and he decided he could get away with some random shooting. All we know is that he got Hal and we’re the poorer for that.”

  “Yeah,” Pringle agreed, “what a waste!”

  “While we’re passing out bouquets, that was a nice job you did on that missing priest. You left the Freep in the dust. They just carried the news story yesterday. And you got an insider look. From now on, Pringle, it’s your story.”

  Pringle finished the last of her pancakes. Pat speculated that Pringle could eat so much and still stay slender because she ate so rapidly: She neither chewed nor digested her food—it just passed right through her.

  Pringle touched the paper napkin to her lips. She had only coffee left. Over that she would dawdle. “I kind of lucked into it—I was lucky to have been late. When I got to the rectory, I could see that Haggerty from the Freep and DeVere from the Reporter were trying every which way to get in. But the cops wouldn’t let them. Either the cops had orders or were cooperating with the priest’s wishes; whatever, they weren’t going to let anybody in.

  “I found out the TV and radio people had been there and gone. They just did some standups in front of the church and left.

  “I watched Haggerty and DeVere for a while. They were funny, especially Lacy.” She giggled. “I kept thinking of what you said and I could imagine her offering to sleep with every cop on duty there. Anyway, whatever she tried, it didn’t work—and she was furious.

  “That was when I decided if the front door was closed to visitors maybe the back door might open. I was lucky again. It turned out the housekeeper was very upset with all that was going on. Haggerty had already tried to get in the back way, but she wouldn’t let him in. Orders. Turned out Lacy didn’t even think to try it.”

  “Amazing!” Pat shook her head. “So how’d you get in?”

  “I asked for a glass of water. Told her I wasn’t feeling too well. Which was not far from true. On that alone, she let me in. Later, when it came out I was a reporter, it didn’t seem to matter. She wasn’t about to throw me out. We were getting along too well by then. She really wanted to talk—girl talk—but she also gave me some priceless background. Later, the secretary came in. Again some hesitation. But in the end she was pretty cooperative.”

  “How’d you get those quotes from the priest?”

  “That was where Father Mitchell was showing the police out of the rectory via the back door. When the cop, Lieutenant Tully, spotted me in the kitchen he was pretty upset. Then, after he thought it over, I think he was amused that I got in and Lacy was screaming her lungs out at the front door. He wouldn’t talk to me, but, on the other hand, he didn’t stop the others from talking. Besides, I’d already got the essence of the story from the two women. Mitchell’s comments were sort of the frosting on the cake. So that was pretty much it.”

  Pat was smiling, picturing Lacy DeVere stalled on the front porch, too damn blockheaded to use her imagination and try to find some other way of getting in. All of DeVere’s brashness got her diddly squat. Pringle’s journalis
tic flair got her the story.

  “I wonder,” Pat said, “what, if anything, DeVere went with?”

  “Well, I’ll be–” Pringle said, “I didn’t even look. I picked up a copy of the Reporter this morning and I didn’t even look to see if she’s in there.” Pringle spread the Reporter on the table and began paging through it. “Here it is.” She smoothed the paper flat and scanned the column. “You know, that’s not a very flattering picture of Lacy.”

  “That’s okay,” Pat said. “If people can’t recognize her from her picture, it just saves her from being identified and hit over the head by her many dissatisfied customers.” Pause. “Anything about St. Waldo’s and the missing Father Keating?”

  “Here it is.” Pringle read aloud:

  “‘Poor St. Waldo of the Wheels remains pastorless as of this writing. What could keep the high-stepping Father Jake Keating away from his benefice where he has the Midas touch? Nothing! shouts his superrich flock. So the powers that be suspect foul play. They’ve got no less than four police departments investigating the disappearance, including Detroit’s Homicide Division. While our Big City vies with D.C. for the title of Murder Capital of the U.S.A., Detroit’s finest are doing double duty in lieu of a moat keeping reporters from doing their job. Hey, fellas, go find the priest … if it’s not too late. Does the presence of Homicide give us any hints? Processional song for Waldo of the Wheels this Sunday: “Sometimes I Feel Like a Shepherdless Sheep.”’

  “Wow!” Pringle exclaimed. “That’s tasteless. I mean, that’s really tasteless.”