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 Something like the now-outdated photos of nuns on roller coasters.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 several 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.
“Father,” Tully’s tone was the soul of calm reason, “we’ve got a couple of ways to go at this point. You can step aside and let us look at whatever we need to look at … or” — he drew the word out-“I will go to the trouble of getting a warrant and come back with as many cops as I can rouse on short notice. One way or the other, we’re going to go in here. Now, which will it be?” Tully was smiling benevolently.
Mitchell returned the smile and stepped aside. “You have just made me an offer I can understand. However, I’d better call the council president and tell him what’s happening. Otherwise, I’m going to have to borrow your sling, Bob, for another part of my anatomy.”
“You do whatever you think right, Father.” Tully led the way into the rectory.
Koesler and Tully headed upstairs to Keating’s suite. The conspicuous opulence of Keating’s lifestyle still vaguely disturbed Tully. Yet the two men found no more than had been found before. Nor did any fresh insight occur to Koesler. He began to wonder if this were such a bright idea after all. With the doubt came the awareness of the dull ache in his shoulder. And with that ache came a renewed determination to get to the core of what had happened to Keating and Vespa and led to his being disabled.
Koesler looked again through drawers, closets, and files. Nothing. He shrugged, and he and Tully returned downstairs to scour Keating’s office and den and whatever else they came across. Desperation was not far off, and both of them knew it.
Meanwhile, Mitchell had placed a call to Eric Dunstable.
One did not simply call Dunstable. One placed a call. Odds were that the caller would never reach the man. At best, one might speak to a distant assistant and, if lucky, get to leave a message.
Mitchell would have been more than happy to leave a message that would get lost somewhere in the muddle of bureaucracy. As for Koesler and Tully’s searching the place, frankly, Mitchell didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t at all eager for Dunstable to get in on this and muck up something which, left alone, would probably just go away.
But as bad luck would have it, Dunstable had apparently given his staff instructions that any message coming from St. Waldo’s should be red-flagged.
Thus Mitchell’s call was expedited right through to the boss, who was not happy with the news.
Had this officer been informed of the council’s decision, Dunstable demanded to know. Mitchell assured him that the council’s vote to debar the police from parish property had been imparted.
Throughout this conversation, Mitchell continued mentally to thank God that he had handled this matter by the book. He had conducted everything strictly according to the council’s instructions. Now, if they wanted to get angry at someone, that someone would not be Fred Mitchell. It would be Lieutenant Tully.
And as it turned out, Eric Dunstable was very angry. So angry that he did what he hardly ever did: He canceled all further appointments and commitments for the day. This would place a most serious burden on the staff, including assistants and various vice presidents. Dunstable of course couldn’t have cared less. The phone calls, juggling of appointments and conferences, all were the underlings’ problems. Dunstable’s problem was to straighten out an uppity cop. He told Mitchell he was on his way. Mitchell could almost see the avenging knight galloping up Woodward Avenue on his white charger.
Since the door to Mitchell’s office had been left ajar, the parish secretary could not help but overhear Mitchell’s end of the phone conversation. That was sufficient for her to comprehend what was going on and, more to the point, what was about to happen.
Understandably, she was upset. Having no other shoulder on which to lean, she went to the kitchen and confided in the cook.
The cook reacted with alarm. What to do?
Nothing, the secretary suggested.
It was the cook’s opinion that shortly all hell was going to bust loose. The secretary concurred, but counseled that was precisely why they should do nothing: stay out of the way and hope and pray that Vesuvius would blow in another direction.
But, the cook argued, so omnivorous was the council president’s appetite when aroused, that the two women might be swallowed whole and regurgitated unemployed.
How could that be; they were no more than innocent bystanders, the secretary maintained.
They were also, countered the cook, replaceable-and the only ones in sight who were expendable. Dunstable could not fire, dismiss, or otherwise discipline a Detroit police officer-or either of the two priests. The janitor was off hiding somewhere. That, the cook concluded, “leaves you and me, dearie.”
The secretary finally came around to the cook’s evaluation of this mess. But what to do? What course of action could save them from the wrath of Dunstable?
After several moments of worried wondering, the cook thought she might have a solution. “Remember that nice reporter who was here that day that all the cops were swarming around?”
The secretary reflected. “A … DeVere? Lacy DeVere?”
“No, no, no!” the cook said irritably. “She was definitely not nice. The other one … the one I let in the back door. You remember; you and I talked with her while the cops searched.”
“Oh.” The light of recognition lit in the secretary’s eyes. “Yes. That was … uh … Pringle, Pringle McSomething.”
“Pringle McPhee!” the cook supplied. “Let’s call her and see if she’ll come over. Dunstable won’t dare do anything to us if we’ve got a reporter as a witness.”
“I don’t know about that,” said a worried secretary. “But it’s worth a try.”
“You remember me: I’m the cook at St. Waldo’s. Remember?”
Pringle McPhee motioned Pat Lennon to pick up the extension phone.
“Yes, of course. What’s up?”
“I … we … were wondering if you’d consider coming over here.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“We think Mr. Dunstable might fire us,”
“What?”
“This is the secretary. Remember me?”
“Yes …”
“I’m on the extension phone. See, the parish council passed a resolution that no policemen be admitted to the rectory until Father Keating returns.”
“They actually think-”
“Well, there’s a police officer here now. He and that Father Koesler are rummaging through Father Keating’s rooms in direct violation of the council’s order.”
Silently, for Lennon’s benefit, Pringle formed the words: This is crazy. Aloud she said, “Wait! Who’s there, and what are they doing?”
“Father Koesler and that Lieutenant Tully. It’s the lieutenant that’s got us in all this trouble. I wasn’t supposed to let in any police. So I got Father Mitchell. But then the officer just barged right in anyway-Threatened to bring a whole bunch of policemen if Father Mitchell didn’t let him in.”
“So Father Mitchell let him in?”
“I guess he didn’t have any choice.”
“Well, what’s this about Mr. Dunstable and getting fired?”
“Father Mitchell called Mr. Dunstable. And he’s on his way here right now. He’s president of the parish council. We’re afraid he might fire us. We know that’s not your concern. But we thought you might want to find out what’s going on. You could come in the back door like before.”
Pringle glanced at Pat, who winked and nodded.
“We’ll be right over,” Pringle said.
“We?”
“I’m going to bring another reporter with me.”
“Fine!” said the secretary as she hung up. “The more the merrier.”
“They’re coming?” the cook asked.
“They’re coming,” the secretary affirmed.
“Then we’re as ready as we ever will be.”
“Not quite,” the secretary said. “I’ll just take some refreshments into Father Keating’s office.”