Father Koesler sensed that he had awakened more than once through the night. But this time his head was just a little clearer.
He looked around. No doubt about it, this was a hospital room. And, he observed gratefully, a private room. The times he had awakened earlier it was difficult to know whether he was dreaming. The dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder argued in favor of reality.
But this was the morning of a bleak, overcast day. His brain was beginning to function with some clarity. He remembered-or thought he remembered-a nurse explaining that if he experienced pain, he should push the button on his contraption just to the left of his bed. That would feed a measured dose of painkiller into him. He pushed the button.
Next, he tried to put the events of last evening together. It was not easy. Nothing even remotely similar had ever happened to him before.
Okay. He met Guido Vespa at the Eastern Market. Koesler remembered how dark it had been and how poorly lit the area was. It had been the first time he and Guido had been together when both of them were standing. They were roughly the same height, but Vespa was much heavier. All of this together probably explained why Koesler would not have seen the gunman. It was dark, and everything was in shadows. Koesler would most likely have not seen anyone approaching to the rear of Vespa due to Vespa’s bulk. Additionally, he had been paying such close attention to Vespa’s incredible story that it would have taken an almost deliberate effort of a third party to be noticed by Koesler.
And that brought him to the crux of the matter: Vespa’s message.
Could he take seriously Vespa’s claim that he had invented the detail of burying Father Keating with Monsignor Kern? Koesler believed he had to take the man seriously. For one thing, there hadn’t been an extra body in the coffin. But also-and Koesler now felt this to be so-last night Vespa was not kidding. It was almost as if he somehow realized that something was about to happen. In effect, it was a deathbed confession that became an actual confession at the point of death.
If that were true, then the heart of what he said also fell into the realm of a deathbed confession. And that was that he had had no intention whatsoever of making a sacramental confession on that memorable Saturday afternoon. It had been-what did Vespa say? — part of the contract. It was what theologians term “simulation.” It appeared to be the real thing, but it was sham. On the other side of the confessional, it would be as if the priest were to pretend to absolve but did not. Or like a priest pretending to consecrate the bread and wine at Mass but withholding the intention to consecrate.
Thus, Vespa’s confession was no confession at all. So, Koesler-and, for that matter, Dunn-was not bound by the seal of confession.
The remaining question was a very large Why? Vespa had explained last night that his pretending to make a confession was part of the contract to kill Keating. But why did the contract carry that provision?
As his thinking became more and more lucid, almost everything that came to mind ended in a question mark.
Why did Vespa fake a confession? Why would anyone stipulate to that as part of a contract? What had happened to Guido Vespa? Could he have survived last night’s shooting? Did whoever fired that gun intend to kill Koesler? Lots of questions, very few-or no-answers.
Koesler was not feeling at all well. His right arm lay across his waist in a sling and the arm was bound tightly to his body by a bandage around his chest. The pain was less sharp than it had been, but he did not want to press the morphine button again. In fact, he felt somewhat nauseated.
He located the nurse’s call button and pressed it. Within seconds the door opened. But instead of a nurse, Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Tully entered. Koesler’s expression telegraphed his surprise.
Koznicki smiled warmly. “We were waiting for you to wake up.”
Koesler returned the smile, though it was modified by his discomfort. “I guess I’m glad to see you. But I really need the nurse just now.”
With some confusion the two officers abruptly left the room, to be immediately replaced by a nurse. As soon as she heard his symptoms, she left, to return at once with an injection that quickly calmed his stomach.
Almost apologetically, the two men returned.
“You gave us a scare and a surprise,” Koznicki said. “The last thing I expected to hear last night was that you had been shot in the company of Guido Vespa in Eastern Market close to midnight.”
Koesler nodded slowly. “How is Guido? Did he make it?”
Koznicki shook his head. “He was dead at the scene. But you, how are you feeling?”
“I’ve been lots better. I guess I was shot. That’s a first. I haven’t seen the doctor yet.” It occurred to Koesler that the officers probably had seen his doctor. “How am I?” he added.
Koznicki smiled. “You will be all right. You sustained a shoulder wound from a bullet that seems to have passed through Guido Vespa and lodged in you. The surgeon says that your rotator cuff has been virtually destroyed-a combination of the wound and the fall you took after being shot. But everyone assures us that with a strong program of physical therapy, you should be almost as good as new.”
As Koznicki explained this, Koesler looked from one officer to the other. Koznicki was a policeman. But in this instance, he was first and foremost a good and close friend to Koesler. Tully, on the other hand, was in all instances a cop. And he was evidencing an eagerness to get some relevant facts. At this point, there seemed to be an implicit agreement among the three men that it was time to get down to business. Unspoken were Koesler’s acquiescence to be interrogated and Koznicki’s permission for Tully to interrogate.
“To begin then, Father,” Tully said, “what were you doing there with Vespa?”
“He called earlier last night and asked that I meet him there. It’s kind of a long story-one I couldn’t tell you before, and one I can tell you now.” Koesler began with Vespa’s confession that Saturday afternoon. The mere mention of the confession brought a startled look to Koznicki’s face. It bespoke his astonishment that Father Koesler would reveal what had been told him under the sacramental seal.
Koesler of course anticipated this reaction. Koznicki worried over the sacramental breach. Tully was more concerned with the legal implications of the confession.
So Koesler explained-several times, from different angles to make sure his freedom to talk now was completely understood-how the sacramental seal had been reduced to no more than a professional secret at best. From Vespa’s spontaneous revelation and the manner in which the explanation was made, it was clear that he had wanted Koesler to understand. Even if it were a professional secret, the need to solve Keating’s murder mandated Koesler’s complete candor in revealing his information to the police.
That explained, the three settled down to analyze the information.
Koesler proved far more easily convinced that Vespa’s claim to have double-buried Keating was poetic license. The officers, particularly Tully, decided to put that on the back burner to be resolved later, perhaps at the closing of the case.
Of more immediate interest was a contract that called not only for a murder but also for the confession-albeit simulated-of that killing to Father Koesler.
While Koesler was at a loss to understand it, neither of the police seemed to have any problem with it. “It was meant to silence you,” Koznicki stated.
“This began as a missing persons investigation,” Tully said. “It turned into a suspected homicide case. The important thing is that the central character was a priest.”
“In the past,” Koznicki continued, “you have been generous enough to give your time and insider’s knowledge to investigations such as this. Sometimes you have happened to be on the scene. More often we have asked for your cooperation and participation.”
“And that,” Tully said, “is actually exactly what happened here. We were called in on the missing priest case, and I called you. Whoever gave Vespa that contract knew our past association well enough to guess that we’d call on you. And we did. But you couldn’t give us much help, could you?”
“Well, no,” Koesler admitted. “I couldn’t do much of anything. I was mindful all the time that I couldn’t do anything that might compromise the seal.”
“Clever, was it not?” Koznicki said. “Whoever commissioned Vespa guessed correctly all the way along, and removed you from any active participation in this case by having Vespa make that bogus confession.”
“I’m curious,” Tully said. “What did you think when the investigation turned to Carl Costello-Vespa’s grandfather?”
It was Koesler’s turn to smile. “I was rooting for you-silently, but rooting anyway. In the beginning, I couldn’t refuse your request that I act as a sort of technical adviser. I’ve never begged off in the past. If I were to have just flat out turned you down, I was afraid that in itself would be suspicious. It might have led to a lot of questions, questions that could have had no answers.”
“That is a distinct possibility,” Koznicki said.
“So,” Koesler continued, “I decided I would help as much as I could without relying on anything at all from that confession. It was a very narrow boundary. I knew that going in, but I had no idea it would be as difficult as it proved. At one time, Lieutenant, I referred to Father Keating in the past tense-and you called me on it.”
“I remember. But it seemed a natural slip, especially since Homicide was investigating.”
“As long as you were asking for background information on the various characters-Keating and his associate priest-we were on neutral ground,” Koesler said.
“Looking back on it,” Tully said, “you weren’t your usual self. You did seem to be holding back. But of course that’s hindsight.”
“Well, I’d like to get in on it now,” Koesler said. “You are going to reopen the investigation, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Koznicki said. “We have the murder of Guido Vespa to solve. And thanks to the information you have now given us, we will reopen the investigation regarding Father Keating. In all probability, whoever issued the contract to Vespa in turn murdered Vespa and will be sought for conspiracy in the death of Father Keating.”
The two officers rose to leave. But before leaving, Tully said, “As far as getting back into this investigation, you’d better not count on that. You’ve got some recovering to do.”
“But-”
“Tell you what we’ll do,” Tully said. “We’ll try to keep you updated on our progress. We owe you that much.”
“And,” Koznicki added, “it may seem quiet in this room. But outside, in the corridor, there are lots of newspeople who are champing at the bit to get to you. And they will as soon as the doctors give permission.”
“What’s keeping them out there now?” Koesler asked.
“I’ve got a couple of uniforms on duty,” Tully said. “And we’ll keep one, at least, on duty around the clock. Whoever killed Vespa may have wanted you dead too. May have thought when you fell he’d got you both. In that case, he might try to get at you again. As long as you’re in this room, we can provide protection. So take it easy. And by the time you’re released, we may have this thing wrapped up.”
“The media,” Koesler said, “what should I tell them? Or what shouldn’t I tell them?”
“Good question,” Tully said. They had not anticipated the confessional material. He looked to Koznicki. After a moment’s thought, the inspector spoke. “It would be better if you did not mention the confession. Perhaps you should state only that Vespa called last night and asked you to meet him. Say that he made mention of the contract and then someone you could not see fired the shots.
“In other words, tell the truth, but not all the truth. There may never be a necessity to mention the false confession. It is enough that we know that you are not bound by the seal. It would cloud the matter if you had to explain this over and over again to the newspeople.”
Koznicki then promised that he would return soon for a visit, and the two officers said goodbye. Koesler could hear the clamor in the hallway as the door opened and they left his room.
The conversation had distracted Koesler from the pain. Now he was all too aware of it again. It was not as sharp as it had been. That was encouraging; he wanted to use the morphine as sparingly as possible.
There were so many things to think about. He was certain his mind would be too occupied with ancillary questions to pay much attention to this dulled pain.
His first thought was of Nick Dunn. Even so, Koesler considered it a belated reflection. After all, Dunn was in this as deeply as he. They had both been privy to the same confession. They had both been keeping the same secret. The difference was that Koesler had been shot and Dunn had not.
Of course in the balance of things, Koesler had only been wounded, whereas Vespa had been killed.
Vespa. Vespa and his simulated confession. I should have tumbled right off the bat … or at least lots earlier in this game. There was something rotten about this right from the start.
The confessional stalls were clearly marked. A child could have told the difference between the side that allowed a face-to-face visit and the side that provided anonymity. Why had Vespa entered the open side? It guaranteed Koesler’s seeing and recognizing a penitent who, having announced that this was his first confession since childhood, would naturally choose the screen. But before he entered the screened-off side, he had to be seen so that Koesler would know whose secret he was keeping.
Then why hadn’t he been able to quiet Vespa down? Why had Vespa insisted on talking so loudly? So loudly that he could easily be heard by anyone in the otherwise quiet church. Did he know the church was not empty? Did he know that Father Dunn was out there? No, how could Dunn have been there; he hadn’t known that Koesler had seen Vespa. He must’ve come in afterward. Or, had he …? Was Vespa’s loud voice for Dunn’s benefit?
So convenient that Dunn should arrive at just that crucial moment.
What did Koesler know about Dunn anyway? Nothing official, that’s for sure. A letter from a Minneapolis priest requesting residence at St. Joe’s while studying at U of D Mercy. Was he really a priest from Minneapolis? Was he really a priest? Was he in on this somehow?
The door opened. The media people were getting louder. The door had been opened by a police officer, probably the one guarding his door. “There’s a Father Dunn here to see you, Father.”
So this is how it was going to work. Koesler had never before had a secretary who packed a gun. He felt safer. “Show Father Dunn in, by all means.”
Again the babel in the corridor as the door was opened, the cop leaving, the priest entering.
Nick Dunn was the soul of concern. How sincere was this concern? Had Dunn known all that was going to happen ahead of time? Was he as surprised as Guido Vespa when the contractor decided to end the deal with a gun?
“How are you?” Dunn asked. “God,” he continued, without waiting for a reply, “what a shock! I was waiting up for you. I couldn’t figure out what was keeping you. Then the call from the hospital! I came right away. Do you remember: I gave you the Sacrament of the Sick. Do you remember?”
If Dunn was in on this, it was an award-winning performance. “Now that you mention it,” Koesler said, “I do seem to recall your being here.”
“They let me into the recovery room after they operated. You were unconscious. But I was here in this room with you afterward. Do you remember? I kept falling asleep. You told me to go home before I fell off the chair and hurt myself.”
“I said that?”
“Actually, you were kind of funny. At one time when you woke up and I was falling asleep, you said, ‘Can you not watch one hour with me?’”
“I said that?”
Dunn nodded.
“Well, thanks for the vigil, anyway-even if I don’t remember it all that clearly.”
“So how are you? How do you feel?”
“I’ve been better-lots better. But speaking of home, how’s everything at the parish?”
“Bob, you haven’t been gone that long. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything that needs taking care of. What the hell, I can stick around the rectory and take seriously that reading list the university handed out. Don’t worry, it’s not that big a deal. What’s the prognosis? How long’re you going to be here?”
“Haven’t seen the doctor yet. But I’ve seen the police and I’ve got something very important to tell you.”
Koesler related what Vespa had said about the nature of the confession they had both heard. The story was punctuated with “no kiddings” and “I’ll be damneds” from Dunn. All the while Koesler wondered how much of this was really news to him.
Nick Dunn seemed to digest this new information as quickly as Koesler could dish it out. Dunn asked many questions regarding the simulated confession and proposed some theories to attempt to explain the weird incident. But no matter who proposed the hypothesis, Koesler or Dunn, it could be no more than speculation-at least on Koesler’s part. Was it an attempt at silencing Koesler-and Dunn-or was it Vespa’s invention, like the disproved double burial?
“So,” Dunn concluded, “we were released from the seal by Vespa, only to be silenced again by the police.”
“That’s the way it looks. And, speaking of an investigation, we never had one.”
“What?”
“Well, not an investigation as such, but any kind of check into your background.”
“Huh?” Dunn appeared bewildered.
“I don’t want to seem less than a gracious host … but what do I really know about you? Somebody sent me a letter from Minneapolis requesting residence while he studied at a local university. I never checked into it. Outside of your showing up here, I have no idea who you really are.”
“Well, hell, you could always look me up in the Kennedy Directory, Bob.” A testy note crept into Dunn’s voice,
“And what would I find?” Koesler too was getting irritable. “I would be surprised if I didn’t find a listing for a Nicholas Dunn assigned to a Golden Valley parish in the Minneapolis-St. Paul diocese.”
Dunn spread his hands. “So?”
“So how do I know that it’s you?”
“Huh?”
“If I were going to impersonate a priest, I sure as hell would make sure I picked a name and an identity that existed in the Catholic Directory. It wouldn’t make sense not to; it’s too easy to check.
“And another thing,” Koesler continued, though Dunn made a futile attempt to say something, “when we first met on that Saturday afternoon, you made a number of mistakes.”
“Mistakes? What-?”
“You said you were my new associate. And you’re not, of course; you’re ‘in residence’ here. If you were an associate, you’d have faculties to function in this archdiocese and all you’d need would be my delegation. But we had to get you faculties.” Koesler’s attitude seemed to say he’d made a very telling point.
“Bob,” Dunn was defensive, “I didn’t mean that in the technical canonical sense. I just meant that I was here not only just to live but to help out … to be your associate. I didn’t think you’d-besides,” he broke off, “that was a long time ago. What the hell are you getting at?”
“And that’s not all …” A note of triumph crept into Koesler’s voice. “You said that the three main drags in Minneapolis were named after priests. That would be Marquette, Hennepin, and Nicolet. Well, Marquette and Hennepin were priests, but not Nicolet. He was a French explorer.” Another point scored.
Dunn seemed genuinely embarrassed. “I knew Nicolet wasn’t a priest. It was just a slip of the tongue, nothing more. You can remember that conversation in such detail? My God, what a memory!”
“And wasn’t it a convenient accident, such a coincidence, that you just happened to show up at the exact moment Guido Vespa was going to confession plenty loudly enough for you to hear everything he said? You didn’t arrive in church just a few moments earlier when Vespa entered the wrong side of the confessional and I saw him?”
“You saw him? You knew who he was! I didn’t know that!”
“Sure, you got there conveniently after he’d entered the other side of the confessional so you wouldn’t appear to know that I’d seen him. But you saw him when he left the confessional. So you could pretend you were the only one of us who knew who he was. That gave you a dominant role to play. You could recognize him in the picture in the paper the next morning. I couldn’t have shut you out of this case if I’d wanted to. And the paper … did you know in advance that his picture was going to run in the paper?”
Dunn was reduced to just looking at Koesler. Dunn’s mouth hung open. Then, slowly, a smile began to form. Gradually, it became a grin. “I’ll be damned,” Dunn said, “you suspect me!” His head tossed. “I love it!”
Dunn’s reaction served to push Koesler into a somewhat defensive posture. “Well …” he drew out the word, “a coincidence is a coincidence because there’s no rational explanation for remarkable similarities. Once you can build that missing explanation, the chance of coincidence begins to vanish. There were a whole bunch of coincidences surrounding your arrival. It’s only natural to try to shoot them down with a reasonable explanation.”
“And you think,” Dunn was obviously beginning to enjoy this, “you think that I was in on this thing. That maybe I’m not who I seem to be. That maybe I’m not even a priest?”
The ease with which Dunn was voicing what Koesler had merely implied was beginning to unnerve Koesler.
“If what you suggest were true,” Dunn said, “what would I have to gain from all this?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea of what anybody had to gain from all this. As far as I know, the earlier part of Vespa’s story is true: John Keating piled up some astronomical gambling debts. I can believe that. That a contract was put out for his murder and that Vespa did the killing. That Vespa’s fake confession, to keep me out of the picture, was part of the contract. But there are other people in this case. And we don’t know who they are. Somebody put out the contract. Somebody shot Vespa and me because Vespa told me that the confession was a fake. Maybe the two ‘somebodies’ are the same person.
“What I’m getting at is there’s room for lots more people in this case. Maybe all those coincidences were not really coincidences. In which case, you made your entrance at the perfect time to play a part in this matter. And if that is true, I don’t know what part you may be playing or what you have to gain. Only that your presence in this is more than a little suspicious.”
Dunn was still smiling. Koesler wondered if Dunn was not underplaying all this too much. Where he might have reacted with anger, he was reacting with good humor. The latter was proving more effective. Was it all a very good act?
“At this point,” said Dunn, “I could move out. But I don’t want to leave Detroit. I really want those courses at U of D. And especially with the priest shortage, I could get a residence in almost any parish. But one of the reasons I asked to stay with you is because I wanted to see how you operate, particularly when, as you put it, you get dragged into these police investigations.
“Well, I’m getting a better picture than even I counted on.
“So here’s what I’ll do: If you don’t want to throw me out right now, I’ll prove to your satisfaction that I am the real Father Nicholas Dunn from Minneapolis. And that I’m still in good standing with the diocese and the Church. Then, if you want to suspect that a real priest could get mixed up in this, I’ll do what I can to put your suspicions to rest.
“How about it?”
Koesler’s immediate thought was that a “real priest” was already mixed up in this-Jake Keating. But he didn’t mention that. Instead, he said, “Okay, let’s take it from there. You continue on at St. Joe’s. But I don’t think it’s asking too much for some documentation on your status.”
“Done then. And no hard feelings?” Dunn extended his hand.
Koesler became aware that he wasn’t going to be using his right hand for a while. He reached out his left hand. “No, no hard feelings. Sincere apologies if my suspicions prove groundless.”
There was a perfunctory knock and a white-jacketed man entered the room. An identification card hung from his breast pocket; a stethoscope dangled from around his neck. There were introductions all around. Father Dunn then left, promising to see to the routine services at St. Joe’s until Koesler could resume his duties.
“You’ve attracted quite a mob out there,” the doctor commented.
“The media people? I’m not looking forward to that.”
“I’ll limit their time with you. Think you can go about fifteen minutes?”
“Yeah, I think so. How bad is it … my shoulder, I mean?”
The doctor shook his head and pursed his lips. He was a fine-looking specimen. His full head of salt-and-pepper hair was styled. His features seemed chiseled from impressive granite. From Koesler’s position in bed, the doctor seemed about seven feet tall. Probably he was a six-footer. He put Koesler in mind of God. Or, rather, someone who thought he was God.
“The slug came out nicely,” the doctor said. “There wasn’t much I could do about the shoulder. The rotator cuff is, for all purposes, gone. There’s a hole like this,” he cupped his hands to form a large O. “I debrided it …”
“You what?”
“I … gave it a haircut. Cut away the damaged tissue. I made sure the bleeding was stopped, and closed you up. Want to see?”
Koesler was about to pass on the show-and-tell portion of this program when the doctor folded the hospital gown away from the shoulder and with one fluid motion pulled the bandage away from the skin.
Koesler was grateful he was not terribly hirsute. At least there was no hair pulled out by the roots. He turned his head to study the area. It was what was left of his shoulder as colorized by Ted Turner. There were glorious reds, purples, and oranges against a white background.
He was surprised there did not appear to be any stitches. “I’m stapled!”
The doctor chuckled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard them referred to as staples.”
“What then?”
“Clamps. But you’re just as correct; they’re staples. In a couple of weeks, I’ll take them out. Meanwhile, they’ll hold you together.”
“What happens next? I don’t know how much use I’ve got of my arm. It’s strapped to my body.”
“What comes next is you’ll start on physical therapy. They’ll move your arm. Then, little by little, you’ll move your arm. Then you’ll begin working with weights.”
“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.