Body Count

by William Kienzle

  “That bad!”

  “That bad. But if you continue your exercises you’ll regain most of your strength. But you’ll have to be very faithful to those exercises … do them religiously. As it were,” he added quasi-humorously.

  “Doctor, I normally sleep on my right side. How’s that going to work–I mean, with the arm?”

  “Don’t even think of it.”

  “That bad!”

  “That bad. You about ready for the onslaught of the media?”

  “I guess.”

  The doctor opened the door and stepped back.

  In they came. Though there weren’t nearly as many as Koesler expected, actually there were a representative number. As the door to his room had repeatedly opened and closed, the intermittent clamor had sounded as if it were coming from a considerable mob.

  TV, radio, and the print media were represented. Koesler recognized most of them, though he knew hardly any of them. One he did recognize and know was Pat Lennon of the News. He’d met her in the very beginning, on the occasion of the first homicide case in which he’d been involved, as well as on subsequent investigations. He knew that she was perhaps the premiere reporter in the city. Thus he wondered at her presence here. Because this incident involved him so deeply, he could not imagine that it was important enough to attract someone with Pat Lennon’s credentials.

  Koesler had not grasped the fact that the shooting of a mobster and a priest together was, by far, the top story of the day. It would make the national and even the international media.

  Limited as he was by his own knowledge of the case, as well as by the boundaries suggested by Inspector Koznicki, Koesler had relatively little information for these reporters. Only that he’d been called to that meeting with Vespa last night and before he’d said–or heard— very much at all, the two of them had been shot.

  No, Koesler had not known Vespa previously. No, since Vespa had had so little time before the shooting, Koesler did not know much of the reason for this meeting. No, he had no idea who had fired the shots.

  There were many more questions coming from every quarter, but none of Koesler’s answers were much more specific or helpful than these.

  The news groups left the room in their usual order. TV first, then radio, finally print.

  Last to leave was Pat Lennon. She lingered a moment. “You’ll have to forgive my buddies. They’ve got deadlines. I do too–but I just wanted to say I’m awfully sorry this happened to you.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” Koesler was aware that the media commonly gave the impression they cared for nothing but the story. He was also aware that in most cases the men and women of the media cared very deeply about the people and events that needed to be reported on. He was moved by Lennon’s expression of concern.

  Now that he was alone again, he realized he was tired to the point of exhaustion. And the pain was making itself felt again. Probably it had been there all along, but he’d been distracted by all the visitors— the police, Nick Dunn, the doctor, and the reporters. Whatever. The pain seemed to be denying him the sleep he desperately needed. With some reluctance, mixed with gratitude for its availability, he depressed the morphine button once again.

  While waiting for it to take effect, he thought about his situation.

  His involvement in this whole thing had begun when somebody considered him some sort of supersleuth. Nothing could be further from reality. Anyway, this somebody was determined to have Jake Keating executed, probably over unpaid gambling debts. This somebody didn’t want him–Father Koesler–to contribute anything to the inevitable investigation. Thus the bizarre plan of the fake confession.

  Well, the somebody was correct in that he had been called upon to take part in the investigation. And as far as contributing to any resolution of the case, he might just as well have been bound, gagged, and blindfolded. But if he hadn’t been silenced by what he had thought to be the seal of confession, what might he have contributed? There was no way of telling; it was a condition contrary to fact.

  If only that somebody had not had that wild misconception as to his detection talents, if only he had refused to meet Guido Vespa at Eastern Market … he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed in a sea of pain with a destroyed rotator cuff.

  The good news, he thought, as he began to drift, was that it was over. Once the police caught whoever had hired Guido, the case would be wrapped up. They might never find Jake Keating’s body. But one thing for sure, Koesler wasn’t going to help them find it.

  Part

  Three

  20

  It was good to be home. If one had to be in pain, there was a lot to be said for the comfort and familiarity of home. If all that could be done for one in the hospital was to medicate against pain, that could be accomplished as well at the rectory.

  The hospital agreed. So, on the third day—biblical?—he rose from his hospital bed and returned to the rectory.

  Before leaving Receiving Hospital, Koesler had attended his first physical rehabilitation session, and discovered how very little spontaneous motion he had in his right arm. The therapist assured him that if he was faithful to the exercises, he would recover at least some of his former mobility and strength. Perhaps more than a little. But it was going to be a long haul.

  Mary O’Connor, parish secretary, had been most solicitous, as had many of the parishioners. He had to assure them over and over that he was not ill, just injured. And that he was fully capable of getting around, laboring awkwardly through a one-arm Mass, and signing checks—as long as he moved the paper. He couldn’t move his arm.

  Father Dunn was doing his best to see to the routine needs of the parish, attend as many classes at the university as possible, fulfill his reading assignments, and put to rest as many of Koesler’s doubts and suspicions as possible.

  He had helped Koesler make phone calls to the Minneapolis Chancery as well as to several priests, all of whom attested to Dunn’s identity. Yes, Father Dunn had been granted a leave of absence. Yes, he was a classmate. Yes, he had told one and all that he was going to take up residence at St. Joseph’s parish in downtown Detroit. Yes, that certainly sounded like Nick Dunn’s voice on the telephone extension.

  In addition, Dunn had asked his Chancery to send him a celebret—a. document stating that he was a priest in good standing. It was something he might have brought with him to Detroit. But he’d had no inkling that he would become a suspect in a murder investigation.

  The relationship of Koesler and Dunn had altered somewhat. Koesler was uncomfortable having Dunn around. Koesler had intimated—if not made an outright accusation—that Dunn might be up to his ears in a murder conspiracy. Hardly the mark of a gracious host. Dunn, for his part, seemed to be in high good humor as he sought to allay the pastor’s fears. Dunn was the soul of cooperation in finding ways of establishing his identity and being completely open to any of Koesler’s suggestions along that line. Thus whatever tension existed seemed to stem from Koesler. It made him uncomfortable.

  Koesler had just taken a pill for pain when he heard the front doorbell.

  Dunn had already left for one of his morning classes at the university. Koesler could heard the click-clack of Mary O’Connor’s shoes on the hardwood floor. They had an understanding that since Koesler had no appointments on his calendar for this, his first morning back, Mary would screen all phone calls and visitors and pass along to Koesler only what might be termed emergencies or urgent business. Otherwise, on his behalf, she expressed his thanks for good wishes and gratitude for prayers.

  Mary appeared at the study door. “There are three people here you might want to see: Mr. and Mrs. Costello and Mr. Vespa.” Her concern was evident.

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. Please show them in, Mary. And could you get us some coffee? I’d do it, but things are still a bit awkward,” he added, indicating his right arm still encased in a tight sling that was suspended over his cassock.

  Mary nodded and went first to ad
mit the visitors, then to the kitchen, murmuring a grateful prayer that Father Koesler had given up making coffee for the duration. Everyone would be better off for it.

  The three visitors entered the study. Mrs. Costello went to Koesler immediately, took his left hand, and, before he could demur, kissed it. Her sympathy was obviously sincere. Carl Costello nodded, then took a chair across from Koesler, who was seated behind his desk. He had not attempted to stand. Remo Vespa stationed himself in front of the door.

  Costello inquired into the state of Koesler’s health. Koesler explained the injury and quoted the rehab technician’s assurance of at least partial recovery with fidelity to exercise. Amenities completed, Costello addressed the reason for the visit.

  “You have done us a great favor. A significant favor.” Costello regarded Koesler intently.

  “It was really nothing. All it took was a phone call.”

  “No, no, Father,” Mrs. Costello insisted. “Guido and Remo are like our own children. And to think that after all these years, Guido should be buried Catholic! What can we say? What can we do?”

  Koesler smiled at her. “I know your pastor. He tends to interpret Church law rather strictly. I thought he could use my input.”

  Quite naturally, since the shooting, Koesler was sensitive to the memory of Guido Vespa. After all, they had not only been shot at the same time but even with one of the same bullets.

  With Guido dead, Koesler had wondered about the funeral. How he would be buried probably wouldn’t have mattered to Guido one way or the other. But Koesler sensed it would matter a great deal to the grandparents, particularly to Guido’s grandmother. Both Mr. and Mrs. Costello had demonstrated a deep reverence for Koesler’s priesthood the one time they had met.

  Although, given Carl Costello’s earlier active membership in the mob, Koesler was unsure of his sincerity. But there seemed no doubt that Mrs. Costello really meant it. For her sake, if for no other reason, Koesler had decided to get involved in Guido’s funeral.

  Once he had determined which was the Costellos’ parish, a few judicious inquiries revealed, to no surprise, that Mrs. Costello attended Mass regularly, Carl showed up on important occasions, but neither Guido nor Remo had darkened the doorway since their youth. That part of Guido’s make-believe confession appeared to be accurate.

  The pastor was Koesler’s elder by nearly ten years. Now on the verge of retirement, Father Tintoreto lived by yesterday’s rules. With no one around to testify that Guido had even absentmindedly genuflected within anyone’s memory, Mario Tintoreto would surely refuse a Catholic funeral. On several occasions when priests gathered, Koesler had heard Tintoreto boast of threatening his recalcitrants with being “buried like a dog.” It seemed to be, particularly with Italians, the ultimate ultimatum. If the denial of Christian burial did not reach them, Tintoreto thought nothing would.

  For the pastor and for his parishioners, then, refusing to bury the dead had to be taken seriously. It was imperative there be no exceptions to the rule. Thus the Costellos had no hope for Guido. In Tintoreto’s favored phrase, Guido would be consigned to the earth like an animal.

  Enter Father Koesler with his phone call to Father Tintoreto, during which Koesler testified to not only having seen Guido in St. Joseph’s Church just a few weeks ago, but, imagine this: The backslider had actually made a confession! Koesler neglected to describe what sort of confession.

  Mario Tintoreto had been stunned. Indeed he could not recall ever having been so dumbfounded. But he could not doubt the word of a fellow priest no matter how much he wanted to. And he did want to.

  As far as Koesler was concerned, funerals were more for the consolation of the bereaved than for the benefit of the one who had already entered eternal life. He had thought no more about it until the appearance of the Costellos this morning and their expansive expressions of gratitude. For Remo, this was a matter of no importance. For Vita Costello, it was a miracle. For the Double C, it was a puzzle.

  For as long as he could remember, Carl Costello had kept careful tabs on who owed whom what. He was scrupulous about the balance sheet. He assumed everyone else conducted life’s affairs in the same manner. He had no idea why Koesler had intervened on Guido’s behalf, thereby bestowing a tremendous favor on Mrs. Costello. The truth was, the Double C owed for a significant favor. The question was: What did Koesler want?

  Koesler believed he read all this in Costello’s manner, in his eyes.

  “You have done us a great favor, Father.” There was a pronounced wheeze in Costello’s voice, perhaps from too much smoking, or a throat injury. “It is much more than a phone call. As far as I know,” he gestured to include not only everyone in the room but everyone in the whole world, “no one asked you to do us this goodness. You did it all on your own.” Costello did not articulate the word “Why?” but it hung in the air.

  “If it has helped you in your time of loss,” Koesler said “that’s good enough.”

  But Costello was not about to let the matter rest. “That meeting— when he was killed, you were wounded—what was that about? I don’t understand why he would call you. Talking to a priest, that was not something Guido did.”

  “He didn’t tell you anything about it?”

  Costello shook his head. “Nothing.” He looked Koesler full in the face. “Father, I know you would not lie, not even to effect a good thing like Guido’s Catholic burial … but did he really confess to you?”

  Mary O’Connor almost did not make it into the room with the tray holding the coffee. Remo was leaning back against the door as she pushed against it from the other side. Mary’s slight weight made little impression against his heft. Finally, she coughed loudly enough to be heard. Remo stepped away from the door and Mary almost fell into the room.

  It was a humorous exchange, but Koesler would not laugh until much, much later—in retrospect.

  A slightly embarrassed and self-conscious Mary O’Connor served the coffee and departed.

  Koesler turned back to Costello, and, fixing him with an intent look, said, “Yes, your grandson went to confession to me … sort of.”

  Costello was clearly confused. “‘Sort of’?”

  “Carl, Mrs. Costello, Remo … you already know more about this matter than the news media does. You know about my call to Father Tintoreto. My agreement with him was that when the media asks how Guido qualified for a Church burial service, he is to tell them only that he was given evidence that Guido had attended church recently. And that’s all he’s going to say. The media will press for more detail. But that’s all they’re going to get.”

  Costello chuckled. “Father Tintoreto will enjoy that. He likes being in charge.”

  “An exception was made for you three, the most immediate family Guido had. There was no disagreement on that point. You deserved to know. Now I’m going to tell you something only the police know.” Koesler, for the sake of expedience, chose to omit Dunn from those who knew about the bogus confession.

  First, Koesler needed to explain insofar as it was feasible why it was permissible to tell them the details of Guido’s confession-that-wasn’t-a-confession. As he began the explanation, he noted a look of surprise on Costello’s face similar to that which Koznicki had exhibited in the same circumstances.

  After Koesler’s third time through, when, by their expressions, it seemed his small audience comprehended and was satisfied, Koesler said again, “Now, I’ve just told you something only the police know. And it’s extremely important that no one else know … you understand?”

  The three looked at each other. Costello spoke. “We have observed omerta many times. We know well how to keep a confidence.”

  “Good,” Koesler said. “Now, I need to know: What do you make of it?”

  “The contract? The confession?” Costello asked.

  “The contract first.”

  “It’s been years,” Costello said, “since anyone in our ‘family’ accepted a contract. Our understanding was that we were o
ut of that business. I would have to guess that if there was an offer and Guido accepted it, the contract would have to have come from the outside.”

  “The outside?”

  “No ‘family’ would be involved. It would have to be from someone with no relationship with any of the families. Someone who knew of our past and counted on Guido to accept it.”

  “It’s possible then?”

  There was sadness in Costello’s eyes. “I don’t like to think of Guido betraying our trust. But yes, it is possible. Very possible. Whoever offered the contract would have to have a sweet pot …”

  “A lot of money?” Koesler interrupted to clarify.

  Costello nodded decisively. “A lot of money. If someone still active in a ‘family’ heard about it, it could have cost Guido his life.” Thinking on that, he added, “It did cost him his life.”

  “But not,” Koesler said, “at the hands of anyone in a ‘family’”

  “Not from what you’ve said,” Costello agreed. “It was most likely by the one who gave Guido the contract.”

  “Then what about the confession? What about its being part of the contract?” Koesler asked.

  Costello reflected for a few moments. Then, “It’s not uncommon for contracts to have other conditions attached to them. I’ve never heard of confession to be one of those conditions.”

  “As I told you, the police think it was to keep me from freely participating in the ensuing investigation.”

  Costello nodded. “And it was on the money. That’s why you were with the cops when they came to my house … right?”

  “Yes. If the theory is correct, the contractor assumed, from my past involvement, that the police would ask for my help. And the guilty party didn’t want to chance my helping the police. So—and I guess we’d have to say he was clever—he had the one who killed Father Keating confess to me that he had done it, and in doing so, he sealed my lips.

  “But, moving on: Do you think Guido could have done it? Killed a priest, I mean?”

  “Guido told you it was because of gambling debts?”