Lacy DeVere was seated at the late Hal Salden’s desk, studying his CRT.
In the wild, when a predator falls upon her prey, she is instantly all over the victim, who has no avenue for escape. The only element lacking when Lennon descended on DeVere was the victim’s exit, Throughout the city room, fingers paused above keys, heads turned, and mouths hung open as Lennon used every strong word she’d learned during her outstanding reportorial career.
Taken by surprise, DeVere, who in turn possessed a most colorful vocabulary, was on the defensive. She lurched to her feet, managed to grab her briefcase, and began backing out of the room. Unrelentingly, Lennon, eyes blazing, continued to advance, until, eschewing an elevator that was too removed, Lacy almost tumbled down the marble staircase.
Lennon marched back through the city room. Some of the personnel chuckled, some sat in shocked silence, others felt like hiding under their desks; one or two essayed applause, which was quickly aborted when Pat swiveled her head to glare at them.
She plunked herself down at her desk and, after a few moments, began to snicker. It was as if her rampage had purged her.
Hesitantly, Pringle McPhee sat down at a neighboring desk.
Lennon turned to her. “What’s on your mind, Pringle?”
McPhee couldn’t have been more thankful that Lennon had regained her composure. Especially in light of what she had to say. “Uh … Pat … I’m the one responsible for DeVere’s being up here.”
Lennon looked at her with increased interest. “No kidding! Whatever made you do a thing like that?”
Pringle bit her lip. “I don’t know exactly. She intimidates me, I guess. When the call came from the security desk that DeVere wanted to see me, I was just curious. So I met her in the lobby and she seemed real friendly. She said she wanted to check a couple of things through Hal’s computer. It was in connection with a tribute to Hal she was putting together.”
Lennon’s disbelief was evident. “DeVere doing a tribute! Even for someone who’s dead? Not very likely.”
“Well, she could have been.”
“More like she wanted to steal some ideas or some leads. Why do you let her get to you?”
Pringle’s embarrassment was still plain. “Because she is what you said about her—selfish, not very talented, but really cruel. That’s where the intimidation comes in. I know she can hurt me and … well … I’m afraid of her.”
“Pringle, what can she do to you? You lead a pretty straight life. Hell, by today’s standards you’re practically a Camp Fire girl.”
“There was that time … with the car … you know, the attempted murder. She knows …” Her voice trailed off.
“Pringle, you didn’t attempt murder, for God’s sake! You were the victim!”
“I know, I know. But I’m still afraid … of certain things. DeVere knows. I feel so vulnerable with her.”
Pringle reminded Pat of a frightened deer. She felt like cuddling her. But this was neither the time nor the place. She also felt angry, very angry, at DeVere. “So you let the bitch up here. Well, it can’t be all that bad. How long was she fiddling in Hal’s basket?”
“Oh, no more than ten or fifteen minutes at most.”
“You didn’t give her Hal’s password, did you?”
“How could I? I don’t even know it.”
Pat smiled as she leaned over and patted Pringle’s arm. “I don’t think she could have stumbled on it in that little time. Besides, I was feeling pretty rotten. I needed an outlet for some king-size frustrations. I didn’t even know I needed to explode until I did. DeVere was made to order. So …” Pat smiled. “… all’s well that ends well—” She broke off as she spotted her editor leading two visitors in her direction.
Pat felt a flutter of excitement; one of the visitors was Zoo Tully. The other was Father Robert Koesler.
In her job, Pat had met quite a few Detroit-area clergymen. But she knew one better than Father Koesler. Several stories she had covered either revolved around him or events he had been involved in. Only a few days ago, she’d interviewed him in the hospital. So she was well aware of his injury and how it had come about.
Introductions were unnecessary, as Pringle had encountered Tully and Koesler at St. Waldo’s.
Bob Ankenazy got to the point without preamble. “Pat, these two gentlemen need access to Hal Salden’s basket. You got in there the other day. Got time to help them now?”
“Sure,” Pat said. “Hal’s basket is getting to be a popular place.”
“Popular?” Tully’s interest was evident.
“The DeVere … uh … woman was poking around in there a few minutes ago,” Pat said. “I threw her out!”
Tully nodded. “Good for you.” No law against it, but odd that DeVere would be interested in Salden’s notes. He would preserve the incident in his mental file.
Ankenazy went back about his business as Lennon led Tully and Koesler to Salden’s desk. “How’re you getting along, Father?” Pat asked as they neared the desk.
“It’s okay. Hurts a bit.”
I’ll bet, thought Pat. Something here must be pretty damn important to drag a wounded priest away from needed rest and recuperation. Her never-quiet reporter’s instinct went into high gear.
When Tully had been investigating the missing priest, Pringle had told her, Koesler had been in tow. Not that that combo was unique. In the past few years, when there had been a strong Catholic element in a homicide investigation, Tully and Koesler had become a version of Disney’s Spin and Marty.
But that was over and done with. The police had abandoned the search for Father Keating. As far as the authorities were concerned, Keating undoubtedly had been murdered. But they couldn’t find the body and they had no suspects.
That was how things lay when Tully had been here a few days ago. He’d been working on the murder of Hal Salden. And Father Koesler had been nowhere in sight.
Then Koesler was shot—along with Guido Vespa, the once and maybe again mobster. Koesler was there because Vespa had asked the priest to meet him. At least that’s what Koesler had said in the hospital interview. Why? Who knows? According to Koesler, they were shot before Vespa got very far in explaining himself.
So then what? The cops should be out looking for whoever shot Vespa.
Instead, Tully’s back to search Hal’s basket. Why? They hadn’t found that much in it. Tully couldn’t have forgotten what he’d seen. He wanted Koesler to take a look. Why?
Hal Salden was a religion writer. Koesler’s a priest. Could that be the connection? Not very strong. If that were the connection, why wouldn’t Tully have brought Koesler with him the first time? Afterthought? Maybe.
Nothing else came to mind immediately. But it was an interesting puzzle. Definitely worth looking into.
Pat sat at the keyboard, the two men looking over her shoulder. She punched out HOLY SMOKE and the screen lit up. She waited for a reaction, but none came. Well, Tully had seen Hal’s little joke before. But Koesler made no comment. Serious business.
She punched up the “miracle” story of the allegedly possessed girl whose levitation was supposed to be curtailed by assigning a tall priest to get her down from the ceiling.
“Do anything for you?” Tully asked. Lennon knew the question was intended for Koesler.
“Outside of the fact that I don’t believe it, no, it doesn’t do anything for me,” Koesler replied.
Lennon moved on to the story of the Rochester Episcopal parish that had gotten its first female priest.
“What about this one?” Tully asked.
Koesler perused and pondered. “It would be a good story for Hal,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s lots of drama and conflict in women’s rights—or the lack of them—in the Church. This is an internal matter with the Episcopal Church, but I can understand the problem. Allowing the Mass to be offered in English, letting lay people distribute Communion, the greeting of peace—things like these generated an awful lot of bad feelings and anger
in the Catholic Church some twenty-five years ago. And a lot of that is still going on. And none of that approaches having a female priest, let alone a female rector. I happen to believe it’s the right way to go. But I can understand how some parishioners would react. The problem is, in which direction would their anger be focused? Would they be angry at the people who hired her? Ordained her? Or at the Church that made it possible? Or at the woman herself? Or the reporter who made their discomfort and pain so public? Would they kill the messenger?”
“Kill the messenger?” Lennon repeated softly. “Hal would be the messenger. But … I don’t think so.”
“In any case,” Koesler said, “I don’t see any connection.”
Connection? What connection? Lennon moved her prior theory—that there was some sort of link between the shootings of Salden and Vespa—from the back to the front burner of her mind.
Tully interrupted her thoughts. “Go on to the third item we were looking at the other day, Pat.”
Again, Koesler studied the words on the screen. “To tell the truth,” he said finally, “I don’t see what these have to do with anything. ‘Shells! look into … trace down! could be key!’“He looked at Lennon. “Does anybody know what this means?”
“I’m the one who thought this might be significant in some way,” she admitted. “I was wondering about Hal’s using all those exclamation marks.”
“It’s legitimate punctuation,” Koesler observed.
“Uh-huh,” Lennon agreed, “except that Hal Salden scarcely ever used an exclamation mark. There are people who use two or three of them after some statement they think is super important. That bugs the hell out of me. Then there are those who almost never use one. Hal belonged to that group. And look there: ten words and three exclamation points. It’s just odd. But I haven’t the slightest idea what the message means.”
“Shell Oil comes to mind,” Koesler said. “But I’ve got no clue why a religion writer might be interested in Shell Oil.” Pause. “Wait a minute: There’s a ‘K’ at the end. Could that stand for Keating? Father John Keating?” ,
Without response, Lennon flipped back to the St. Andrew’s item, and pointed to the solitary “K” at the bottom of that listing.
“I hadn’t noticed that,” Koesler said. “Two references to Keating in two different unconnected items? That doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
“We noticed the ‘K’s too,” Tully said. “Seems that Salden used to be a sportswriter.”
“Ah …” Koesler caught on immediately. “… and the ‘K’ stands for strikeout. Which is what I just did.”
“It’s okay, Father,” Tully said. “Not every hunch pays off. This was sort of a wild guess—that Salden’s notes might have rung a bell for you. It doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen. Sorry. Why don’t I get you back to the rectory and you can get some rest?”
Koesler agreed. But privately he had to admit he’d felt better in this city room than he had in the rectory. Distraction was proving to be a pretty effective anodyne. He resolved to keep his mind focused on anything but his misery.
Lennon watched thoughtfully as the two men left the room. There had to be some sort of connection between the shootings of Salden and Vespa. But what? Why had Tully brought Koesler—a wounded priest—into the Salden killing?
In any case, whatever Tully had hoped Koesler would find in Salden’s notes the priest had not found. So now what? Does Tully give up on trying to establish some sort of link between the shootings? Now that her interest has been aroused, should Pat Lennon give up trying to find out what the police are doing?
Fat chance.
23
If memory served, Lieutenant Tully usually arrived at work unusually early. That was why Father Koesler dialed Homicide at 7:00 A.M.
Koesler, in a steadfast effort to keep his mind active, thus distracting himself from discomfort, hadn’t needed to look far. He kept rehashing the murder of Father Keating. Which, somehow, had spawned the murders of Hal Salden and Guido Vespa, as well as the wounding of innocent bystanders at St. Agnes—and, of course, himself. In truth, he had not come to any conclusion, but he had come upon another possible avenue of inquiry. Thus the early-morning call to Tully.
Koesler was both in luck and correct: The lieutenant was in.
“I’ve been thinking about yesterday, Lieutenant,” Koesler opened. “You took me to the News and introduced me to Hal Salden’s notes. The one about the exorcism was just an amusingly odd story with a religious twist. Something like the now-outdated photos of nuns on roller coasters.
“The one about the Episcopal parish and its woman rector might, if one stretched his imagination far enough, provide some small motivation for anger at the reporter who was going to spotight that story. But it has no evident connection that I can think of to Vespa or Keating. The third note about ‘shell’ just has me baffled. So everything there seems to be a dead end.
“But,” Koesler continued, “I began thinking about the beginning of this thing—when you were investigating the disappearance of Father Keating. I went with you that one day. But I was not really collaborating with you. At that time, I was bound—so I thought—to keep a confessional secret. And that was about all I had on my mind. My main concern now is all that time we spent in the rectory at St. Waldo’s. I don’t know exactly what I might have done that I didn’t do. I only know that I didn’t do much of anything. So my question is: Do you think it would do any good to go back again?”
“Go back to the rectory and take another look?” Tully had been looking over reports waiting on his desk when he arrived just minutes before Koesler’s call.
“Yes. This time without the restrictions of a secret I thought I had to keep.”
Tully pondered the proposition. “Sounds good. Let’s do it. I’ll be right over to pick you up.” As he put the phone down, Tully admitted to himself that he wasn’t all that excited by Koesler’s offer. But it was head and shoulders above anything else he could think of. After jotting some memos for members of his squad, he left.
Considering all the personnel had been through, Koesler was surprised at their reaction to his and Tully’s arrival at St. Waldo’s.
Just a couple of weeks ago, this place had been awash with police from various communities. Now there was merely one detective and one simple parish priest.
But no sooner had the two visitors emerged from their car than the janitor, with a startled expression, dropped his garden tools into the shrubbery he’d been working on and quickly disappeared around the corner of the rectory.
Tully rang the doorbell. They could hear people moving about inside. The curtain fluttered as someone peered through it. Finally, as Tully was about to ring again, the door was opened by the woman both knew was the secretary. “Yes?” She looked as if she was about to cry.
Tully reintroduced himself and Koesler. “We’ve come to look around again.”
“I … I don’t think I can permit that.” She said it as if she might prefer being in purgatory than here just at this moment.
Tully was about to pull clout and scare her stiff, when Koesler spoke, “What is it, dear? Did someone tell you not to let anyone in?”
“Well … not anyone, Father. Only the police.”
“The police!” Tully did manage to frighten her, though he didn’t intend to. “How do you think we’re going to conduct a—”
“Who was it told you?” Koesler asked.
“Father Mitchell.” She hoped the spotlight would shift from herself to Mitchell,
“Fred?” Koesler said. “What in the world—? Where is Father Mitchell now? Can you get him?”
She nodded. “Would you mind waiting?”
“Outside?” Tully scared her again. He modulated his voice. “If this weren’t such a nice day …” The quieter tone helped.
Slowly and carefully the door was closed, leaving Tully and Koesler standing awkwardly on the porch. While they waited, they kept their thoughts to themselves. It was sever
al minutes before the door reopened. This time it was Father Fred Mitchell, obviously not in a receptive mood.
The first thing that caught his attention was the stark contrast of a white arm sling against Koesler’s black suit. “God! I didn’t expect to see you for a while. I read about what happened. How’s the arm?”
“Don’t ask,” Koesler replied. “What’s this about an embargo on the police?”
“Orders.”
“‘Orders’? Who said?” Such an order, thought Koesler, would have been completely out of character for Detroit’s archbishop, Cardinal Boyle. And of course St. Waldo’s was pastorless.
“The parish council met two evenings ago,” Mitchell explained.
“It was a regularly scheduled meeting. That’s where the order originated. The council decided to put its trust in prayer and the eventual return of Father Keating. So they resolved to allow no more disruptions in the ordinary routine of parish life. They were explicit when it came to police poking around disturbing everyone.”
“But … but whose idea was it to get the police involved in the first place?” Koesler was perplexed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mitchell replied. “When the pastor first disappeared, the council—well, the council president—was worried that something terrible had happened to him. But now, they’re convinced that he must be occupied in something very important—which, for his own good reasons, must be kept secret—and that he will return and explain in his own good time.”
“Do you really believe that?” Koesler asked.
Mitchell hesitated. “Well, no. Between you and me it seems ridiculous. But what am I? An associate with not very clearly defined boundaries on what kind of authority I’ve got in this situation. And, need I remind you, this parish contains some pretty important movers and shakers.”
Guido Vespa’s “confession” with the concomitant information about Keating’s murder had not been made public. Still, Tully found it incomprehensible that anyone still thought that Keating was alive.
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