On the long, chauffeured drive to St. Waldo’s, Eric Dunstable had time to cool off. He just didn’t use it. Instead, he was more indignant than he’d been when Mitchell informed him that Waldo’s rectory had been invaded.
Father Mitchell, in turn, was taken aback when Dunstable, after storming through the front entrance, proceeded to hold the associate pastor responsible.
Mitchell figured he had played it safe, gone by the book. Sure there was a police officer here in defiance of the parish council’s order. And granted, Mitchell had admitted him. But that had been only to forestall Tully’s threat to summon loads of cops. That latter state would have been much worse than the first. Besides, Tully had said he would return with not only a bunch of cops, but also a warrant. So any way this played out, Tully was going to get into the rectory and look around, parish council or no parish council. So how could Dunstable fault what Mitchell had done?
What Father Mitchell failed to comprehend was that Eric Dunstable did not deal in failure. His only frame of reference was success. In not tolerating checkmate, he had gone through countless employees, associates, friends, and even one wife.
Mitchell was well able to deal with occasional failure, projects that became doomed. He could understand that sometimes, despite one’s best efforts and under circumstances beyond one’s control, things simply didn’t work out. And Tully’s inevitable renewed investigation within St. Waldo’s rectory was a case in point.
So there was a gap. Mitchell couldn’t understand why Dunstable couldn’t understand why blocking Tully had proved impossible. Dunstable couldn’t understand why Mitchell hadn’t carried out the council’s order.
If it had been within Dunstable’s jurisdiction, he would have dismissed the priest with extreme prejudice. As it was, Dunstable resolved to speak to the Cardinal about this undependable young man.
Having dealt with and diminished Mitchell, Dunstable turned to Tully.
The lieutenant had been studying Dunstable as he psychologically castrated the young priest. Tully judged Dunstable to be a bully-successful, but no more than a bully at the core. Tully’s experience indicated that all bullies are essentially insecure. As long as one gave them room to intimidate, as Mitchell had, they would have their way, manipulating and trampling everyone in their path. Thus when Dunstable, now in a virtual convulsion of fury, turned to the lieutenant, Tully was ready for him.
Tully stood utterly relaxed, arms hanging loosely. He fixed his eyes intently on Dunstable’s. It was a contest to match that of Ursus and the bull in Quo Vadis. Koesler found it a fascinating contest of wills.
Slowly Dunstable began to falter. He blinked nervously, and his eyes strayed from Tully’s.
It was not so much what Tully said as his manner of presentation. Everything he said was true. But it wasn’t the content that turned the tide but the calm authority with which Tully delivered the message. That was it: authority. There was a difference between genuine rooted authority and a facade built on the sands of bravado.
Two examples sprang to Koesler’s mind. There were all those enemies of Christ who held immense power of religious domination over the people. The scribes and Pharisees appeared to have an authority above that of Jesus, who was, after all, no more than one of the people. But it was the people who saw the truth. As Mark noted, “The people were spellbound by his teaching because he taught with authority, and not like the scribes.”
So it was with these two. Dunstable, successful, fulfilled, and wealthy beyond most people’s dreams. But nothing more than a bully, a fraud. Tully, on the other hand, spoke with the quiet decisiveness that even a bully had to respect.
The other example that came to Koesler’s mind indicated that true authority recognizes true authority. As in the case of the centurion in the Gospel whose favorite servant was at the point of death. Jesus agreed to come and cure. But the centurion said he was unworthy to host Jesus; he told him just to say the word and there would be healing. “Just give the order and my servant will be cured. I too am a man who knows the meaning of an order …”
In any case, Dunstable had been deflated. Yet Tully, in making certain that Dunstable had been neutralized, let him save a portion of face.
Grumbling all the way, Dunstable poured a cup of coffee and took a seat next to Koesler on the couch.
Even though the white sling cradling Koesler’s arm had been obvious all along, only now for the first time did Dunstable express concern for Koesler’s injury. Of course he was aware of how the priest had been wounded, so there was no need to go into that. It was easy to treat Koesler with a measure of respect. After all, he was a priest-and not a hairy young thing like Mitchell.
It was easy also for Koesler to start on a friendly basis with Dunstable. It was a play on the “tough cop, nice cop” routine. Even though Koesler was by no means a cop, he and Tully had somehow created a professional relationship in this case. And if Tully had civilly but firmly told Dunstable where to get off, Koesler was the station Dunstable landed on.
Meanwhile, Mitchell had retreated out of the line of fire to one corner of the room. He’d been confused and humiliated. He would not recover, at least for the duration of his stay at St. Waldo’s.
Tully turned to Mitchell. “I suppose all that’s left is to take a look at the books.”
“Books?” Dunstable emerged warily from his protective cocoon. “What books?”
“Ledgers, financial records.”
“See here, Lieutenant,” Dunstable reverted to form, “this is something else entirely! These are sensitive records. Why, an audit hasn’t even been ordered by the archdiocese yet!”
“This is not an audit, Mr. Dunstable. We don’t even know what we’re looking for. We don’t know whether we’ve seen what we’re looking for and didn’t recognize it. We’re in the dark. Humor us.”
Again Koesler was deeply impressed with Tully’s handling of himself, the situation, and particularly Dunstable. It was the manner, the tone, the self-assurance. However he accomplished it, the lieutenant had Dunstable on a string.
“Father Mitchell,” Tully said, “where are the financial records kept, please?” By his respectful treatment, Tully attempted to restore some of the young priest’s dignity.
Mitchell hesitated, glanced at Dunstable, then back at Tully. “In the safe behind his desk.”
“Locked?”
“Not usually,” Mitchell replied.
“He had nothing to hide,” Dunstable snapped.
Mitchell crossed to the safe and tried the handle. It turned easily. He opened the door, reached in, removed several large, gray ledgers, and placed them on the desk.
Tully moved behind the desk, opened one of the books, and began paging through it almost aimlessly.
“I want to be on record that I protest your delving into the private records of this parish,” Dunstable said firmly,
“Noted.” Tully did not look up,
“I say it’s an invasion of privacy …” Dunstable had been reduced to muttering.
“You might want to take a look at these,” Tully said, as he glanced at Koesler.
Koesler walked to the desk and began looking through the ledgers. He had almost forgotten that he was indeed the prime cause of this “invasion” of St. Waldo’s. However, like Tully, Koesler was going through this without direction, hoping that something strange, indicative, or suggestive would pop up and grab his attention. He felt like praying the old Catholic rhyme: “Dear St. Anthony, please come around/Something is lost and can’t be found,” Except that he didn’t know what was lost.
“I say it’s an insult-a gratuitous insult-to impugn the integrity of a man like Father Keating.” Dunstable had risen to something more articulate than a mutter.
Neither Tully nor Koesler responded. Actually Koesler was the only one of the two paying any attention at all to Dunstable.
“You know, I’ve been over those books,” Dunstable continued his monologue. “I know what I’m looking at when I’ve got a financial statement in front of me. There’s nothing wrong with those books. All they show is that we have a generous parish, that the parish is well managed, and that we pay our bills on time. Our D and B, if we had one, would be impeccable.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Koesler said with little feeling.
“This is a waste of time. A waste of everyone’s time. A waste of my time.”
Koesler tended to agree. It was proving to be a monumental waste of time. Tully continued to page through the books. He was now practically up to date in the financial records. Koesler, losing interest in the books, turned his attention to the fuming executive on the couch. “You were close to Father Keating, weren’t you?” he said kindly.
“I am close to Father Keating.”
“Of course. You must be one of those who even vacationed with him.”
Dunstable appreciated the friendly approach Koesler was extending. By God, these old-time priests appreciated his standing! He warmed to the memory of those vacations. “Yes, we were among those privileged to have the good father with us occasionally at home and on vacations as well.”
In his imagination, Koesler had to grant that a Keating-Dunstable vacation undoubtedly was a lot more splendid than Florida with the good old boys.
“He was-uh, is — a very close friend. He has always been with me when I needed him.”
Koesler thought the man might break down and cry.
“I don’t think,” Dunstable continued, “anyone could have been more helpful, concerned, or involved than Father Jack was when we went through that annulment process.”
“You had an annulment?” Koesler was loath to go, unbidden, into anyone’s private affairs. But Dunstable had brought up the subject and apparently wanted to proclaim Keating’s solicitous care during what admittedly was a traumatic procedure.
“Yes. My first wife. Back in eighty-five.”
“Followed by a convalidation?” Koesler diplomatically steered the exchange so that Dunstable did not have to admit specifically that after divorcing his first wife he had invalidly married his second wife and only later, after the declaration of nullity, married his second wife in the Church.
“Yes.” Dunstable seemed uncomfortable that he’d brought up the subject. But in his effort to indicate what a kind pastor Keating had been, he had let the cat out of the bag. He hoped Tully had not been paying attention. In this hope he was fortunate. Mitchell may or may not have known that, for a time, Dunstable had “lived in sin” with his second wife. It was there in the records to which Mitchell had access. But Mitchell didn’t matter. And Koesler seemed a nice sort.
Koesler was pleased. He was so proud of his priesthood, he took quite personally both the good and bad reports about other priests. Besides, sometime in the future Father Keating’s body might turn up. In which case, there would be a funeral. It was at least possible that Koesler might be asked to deliver a eulogy. Learning as many good things as possible about Keating could be a practically rewarding enterprise.
Koesler did not want to delve into the reason Dunstable’s first marriage had been ruled null from its inception-which would have to have been the case or the Church would never have granted a decree of nullity.
Had he been curious, it would have been simple for Koesler to discover that the first Mrs. Dunstable had been committed to a rather nice rest home for the mentally disturbed. And that she was there to this day. Koesler’s assumption at that point would have been that her unbalanced condition was proved to have existed prior to her marriage to Dunstable. Otherwise, if he had married a sane woman who later became ill, the marriage could not have been declared null on those grounds. The marriage would have been found valid and there would have been no way the Church would recognize Dunstable’s freedom to marry. Nor would the Church have convalidated Dunstable’s civil second marriage.
These would have been Koesler’s assumptions if he had been aware of the first Mrs. Dunstable’s present whereabouts.
These assumptions would have been only partly incorrect.
The first Mrs. Dunstable had been quite sane, though not entirely wise, when she married. Years of psychological abuse, the never-ending demand for perfection, service, sacrifice, and dedication to Dunstable, along with his requirement that she perform in public as a loved and pampered spouse, drove the poor woman bonkers.
He divorced her when she slipped into a psychotic state, and he had her committed. But God did not will that Dunstable remain alone. At least that’s the way he saw it. He married again. But his previous marriage prevented the second marriage from being valid in the eyes of the Church.
Dunstable was more than uncomfortable with this. It was common knowledge that he was Catholic-a pillar of the Church-and that, the second time around, he did not have benefit of clergy.
Enter Father Keating.
From experience and manipulation, Keating knew that one could find any number of psychotherapists-psychiatrists, psychologists-who could be counted on to categorize someone as sane or insane, depending upon which state was desired. And in conjunction with his search into the first Mrs. Dunstable’s past, Keating was able to come up with several such therapists. Those who judged her to be quite sane at the time of her marriage were discarded. Those who found that her unfortunate condition had been alive and thriving as early as her teen years were the ones interviewed for the record.
Thus, with some expediting from a bishop or so, the nullity was granted and a quiet convalidation was witnessed by Father John Keating himself.
“Yes,” Dunstable reaffirmed, “Father Jack was with me-with us-when we really needed him. I don’t know what we’d have done without him.”
Koesler was touched by the seeming sincerity of this tribute. “How did he help?”
Dunstable was most willing to go into some detail. “He just was … there. He opened the canonical procedure. He helped with the presentation of the case-even picked out the witnesses and arranged for them to testify. Just shepherded the whole thing through from beginning to end. Even had a bishop-a friend of his-smooth the way. But,” he emphasized defensively, “that doesn’t mean I got any special consideration because of my position. It’s not that I bought this dispensation!”
“I understand,” Koesler said. “I understand. Thank God the day is past when the Church can be accused of selling these decisions.”
“That’s right.” Dunstable seemed gratified that Koesler understood. “Father Jack actually kept the cost to an absolute minimum.”
Tully had been paying only cursory attention to the records that marched past his eyes. He had been paying even less attention to the conversation between Koesler and Dunstable. But he hadn’t banked on silence. Like someone half asleep in front of a blaring television when someone turns it off: One is not prepared for silence, so one comes wide awake.
Dunstable had a similar reaction. Why hadn’t Father Koesler replied? Their conversation had been running so smoothly. The priest should have said something to the effect of “Wasn’t that thoughtful of Father Jack?” Instead, he said nothing.
The silence was electric.
“Excuse me, Mr. Dunstable,” Koesler said quietly after a few moments, “did you say something about Father Keating keeping the cost of your nullity declaration to a minimum?”
Dunstable felt unsure of himself, an exceedingly rare state. What had been a casual conversation with Koesler, with no indication that either Mitchell or Tully was paying any mind, had suddenly taken on some undefined significance.
The aura of hauteur appeared to have dissolved. “Well, Father Jack explained how a case like mine would have to go to Rome. All the documents, all the testimony would have to be translated into Latin. Attorneys in Rome would have to be retained to argue the case.
“Really, gentlemen …” Dunstable addressed not only Koesler, but the others, since everyone now was paying rapt attention. “… he didn’t have to go through all that. Don’t you see: It’s just one more example of how kind and thoughtful Father Jack was during my time of need.
“Of course,” he added, “I understand that things cost money.” He smiled-a we’re-men-of-the-world smile. “We all have to live, after all. I presented a case that had to be worked on. Well, you pay for work. No one understands that better than I. Those lawyers in Rome have to eat! After all, I am well able to pay. Father Jack explained that if I were poor, there would be no charge. I think that rather thoughtful of the Church-not charging the indigent.”
He smiled, smugly this time. “Really, gentlemen, I don’t understand your concern with this. I just said that with all this in mind that Father Jack went out of his way to keep my costs at a minimum. All things considered, I think that a rather touching example of how special that very special priest was-is.”
Koesler, Tully, and Mitchell merely looked at Dunstable.
Dunstable began to squirm a bit. Mitchell was beginning to get the point. Tully had no idea what was going on. But a sixth sense told him that something telling was happening and that this case had just taken a pivotal turn.
Without speaking, Koesler returned to the desk, alongside Tully. After a few moments, he said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Dunstable, but exactly how much was that charge for processing your case?”
“Well,” Dunstable sputtered, “I don’t see how that’s here or there …”
“Answer him.” Tully’s quiet voice was incisive, commanding.
Dunstable licked his lips several times. Finally, he decided he was not on trial. He had done nothing wrong. Simply paid a bill. If they were so goddam curious about the cost of his dispensation, well, hell, he’d tell them. “The total cost was a mere five thousand dollars. And with all that was involved, I considered it a bargain. And I know the value of money,” he added, as if daring anyone to argue the point.
Koesler gave the impression of being dumbstruck. Out of the corner of his eye, Tully glanced at him. “What is it?”
Without taking his eyes from Dunstable, Koesler said, “There is no charge for processing marriage cases. There hasn’t been for a good number of years. The diocese absorbs the cost. Been doing so for almost fifteen years-well before Mr. Dunstable’s case.”
Koesler slumped into the chair behind the desk. He massaged his forehead as he tried to make sense of this peculiar revelation. “Mr. Dunstable,” he said, “I assume you made this payment with a check.”
Dunstable nodded.
“Then,” Koesler continued, “who did you make the check out to?”
“Why … why …” Dunstable tried to recall. “I made it out to the parish, I believe. Yes …” He was more certain now. “… to St. Waldo’s.”
“Now that doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Koesler asked of no one in particular.
“No, it doesn’t.” Mitchell picked up on the question. “If Keating charged five grand for a no-charge item, you’d think he’d have had the check made out to him.”
“Now just a minute!” Dunstable objected. “There must be some explanation for this! You’re insinuating-”
“I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Dunstable,” Koesler said. “We’re trying to figure out what happened here. Any light you can she don it?”
Dunstable was confused. But then, so was everyone else. “No,” he said, “I have no idea. I told you just the way it happened. Just the way Father Keating helped. I don’t know …” His voice trailed off.
“Mr. Dunstable,” Tully said, “this seems like it would be a transaction with Rome. Why would you make out the check to this parish?”
“The question crossed my mind,” Dunstable admitted. “But Father Jack explained that since all the paperwork would be originating from the parish, the payment also would come from the parish. I was, in a sense, compensating the parish in advance for costs that would come from the archdiocese as well as from Rome.” He put on his contentious hat. “How can you even suggest that Father Jack would enrich himself from this transaction? If you knew him, you’d know that such a thought would never cross his mind. Besides, as Father Mitchell already said, if he were going to profit from this, why did he have me make the check out to the parish? Why didn’t he have me make it out to him?”
No one had an answer. There was a prolonged period of silence and thought.
“Wait a minute,” Koesler said suddenly. “I’m not sure of this, or how it fits, or if it fits, but … let’s take another look at those books.” He opened the current ledger. He ran his finger down the list of billings. “Something vaguely occurred to me earlier, when we were going through the books. Something … something … something … some of these accounts, some of these companies, some of these billings …”
“What?” Tully wanted to know.
“Well,” Koesler said, “some of these billings are from companies or institutions I’ve never heard of.”
“Is that odd?”
“In a sense, yes. See, I’ve been a pastor for twenty-two years. That’s twenty-two years of running up bills and paying bills or at least being accountable for paying bills. Some might find it surprising, I suppose, that the billings are not all that different from one parish to the next.
“But, for example, there’s a firm that sells and delivers Mass wine as well as, in some instances, table wine. The ad for that company has it that only Catholic Teamsters drive the trucks that deliver the wine.”
Tully smiled.
“Okay,” Koesler said, “it’s hokey, but apparently it works. You’d be surprised how many parishes get their wine from this company. Then there’s the matter of hosts.”
“Hosts?” Tully had the impression that this case was on the brink of coming to a conclusion. He didn’t want to risk being sidetracked by Catholic jargon.
“The altar breads that are used at Mass,” Koesler clarified, “Communion wafers.”
Tully nodded.
“Well, when it comes to providing hosts, there’s a local convent whose nuns have virtually cornered the market. They’re available almost anytime and they’ve always got a good supply. Say some Sunday the crowded late Masses are coming up, and you’re running low on hosts. It could be time to panic-except for the good Sisters. They are especially at hand for that sort of emergency.”
“And they deliver,” Mitchell interjected,
“Like Domino’s?” Tully asked.
“Not quite,” Koesler said, “but you’ll get the wafers as soon as the fastest cab driver can deliver them. And in a fix like that the priest will be happy to pay the cab fare. Besides, they are nuns.”
“So,” Tully said, “how about this parish? Does St. Waldo’s buy from the Catholic Teamsters and the handy nuns?”
“Yes,” Koesler looked again at the ledger, “they’re both on the billing list. So are a number of other firms, companies, and services that I’m familiar with.
“But there are others that I’ve never heard of. I could swear I’ve never gotten any literature from them. I’ve never heard any of the guys mention doing business with any of them.” He looked up from the books. “And we do talk about these things.
“As I said before,” Koesler continued to look in a baffled way around the room at the other men, “I don’t exactly know what this means. It’s just that in the light of Mr. Dunstable’s paying for a canonical process for which there is no charge, I thought that these completely unfamiliar billings were a bit peculiar. But I don’t know where we go from here, I’d sure like to find out something about these companies.”
“Well …” Dunstable stood, repossessed of his original aggressive manner.“… I know where we go from here.” He stepped around to join Koesler and Tully behind the large desk. He took the ledger from Koesler, who winced as Dunstable inadvertently brushed against the injured shoulder. “Which of these billings are you questioning?”
“Well …” Koesler squeezed the sore arm with his left hand as he swallowed the pain. “… there’s this one-Med Corp Roofing-and Murray Athletic Supplies, and GOPITS, INC.-and these three down at the bottom of the page.”
Dunstable shook his head. “I’ve seen these names any number of times when I went over the books with Father Jack. But I never suspected … not for an instant.” He looked around the room. “Any one have any objection if I follow through on Father Koesler’s hunch?”
Mitchell was intent only on maintaining an extremely low profile, Tully couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have check out businesses than Dunstable. And of course it was Koesler’s lead that Dunstable was following. No objection. Koesler made his way back to the couch.
Dunstable picked up the phone, whose cord seemed to be near infinite, dialed, and began to pace about as he ticked off orders a la Jimmy Cagney in “One, Two, Three.”
Koesler could imagine whoever Dunstable had called being up to his or her ears in work. Now that person would be expected to drop everything and respond to these new orders. In all probability, the poor soul would also be expected to finish the interrupted work by the end of the day.
Though Koesler was intensely interested in what Dunstable was saying, he could pick up only bits and snatches. Among these fragments were, “securities commission,” “articles of incorporation,” “names of directors and officers” and “copy of annual report.” Then followed the names of the companies Koesler had indicated. And a forceful instruction to get this information back yesterday. Dunstable gave his employee St. Waldo’s fax number and hung up.
There was nothing to do but wait.
Mitchell was resolved to stay in his corner and contemplate what possible future he had at this parish. It was a nice enough place, but he’d pretty well had enough of influential people who ran roughshod over others. Those who did this were only a small percentage of St. Waldo’s parishioners, but they certainly made their presence felt. Chief among these, of course, was Eric Dunstable.
Maybe, Mitchell thought, he’d apply for a different parish. He was not immediately aware of an attractive opening, but there had to be one someplace. Besides, it was a buyer’s market; he ought to be able to swing something worthwhile.
Dunstable continued to pace.
Inwardly, he was fuming. He would not explode. Not here. Not in the presence of Tully. The man had bested him once already; he would not give the lieutenant another opportunity. But someone in the near future would pay. That vice president had better come up with that information soon or he would be the victim du jour.
Dunstable well knew why some nameless serf would have to suffer. Because he could not get his hands on Father John Keating. Dunstable was now willing to admit that Keating was dead. And that was sad because it removed the opportunity of killing the priest himself.
He had been had. He, Eric Dunstable, grossly successful executive, had been taken. And by a parish priest!
It wasn’t the five thousand dollars. Hell, five grand to him was twenty dollars to the ordinary stiff. No, it wasn’t the money. It was that somebody-no, make that a nobody-had taken advantage of him. The shoe very definitely was on the wrong foot. Taking advantage of people was his game.
It was as if a youthful, inexperienced card player had dealt from the bottom of the deck to a riverboat gambler and gotten away with it.
The fire in his viscera burned when he recalled how touched he’d been when Keating had been so solicitous, had appeared to put himself out so that the petitioner had to do little more than sign his name to documents-and, of course, to that check.
Purgatory was too good for the bastard!
Sure, sure, sure, all the documents had to be translated, the Italian canonical lawyers had to eat, a little gratuity here and there with a well-positioned monsignor could help. Dunstable resolved he would have someone look into this and discover just how far his petition had had to travel before it was granted. Probably never even left the archdiocese of Detroit!
Somewhere in this there had to be an expense. Nothing that complicated could be complimentary. There was no such thing as a free undertaking in the Catholic Church. If the expense was swallowed by the Detroit archdiocese it had to be absorbed by the annual archdiocesan collection. Dunstable traditionally contributed most generously to that drive. In effect, then, he’d paid for his dispensation twice. Once in the annual drive, which, among other things, covered the costs incurred by the matrimonial court. And again to line the pockets of Keating’s top-of-the-line black silk suit.
But five grand? Why five grand? Risking a comfortable career and total security for a measly five thousand dollars? Why? Unless Koesler’s hunch gelled and there was something phony about those companies that were being checked out even as he paced.
Come to think of it, hell was too good for the bastard.
Dunstable, waiting for his answers, sat in Keating’s oversize chair, opened the top ledger, and began feeding figures into the computer, while giving free rein to imaginative next-world punishments for his deceased former friend.
Mitchell pondered possible parishes to which he might flee.
Tully crossed to the couch and sat alongside a brooding Father Koesler. The two sat in silence for several minutes.
Without looking at him, Koesler said, finally, “You know, Lieutenant, I’ve been thinking …”
Tully waited.
“What if,” Koesler spoke loudly enough for only Tully to hear, “what if it turns out that Father Keating was somehow profiting from one or more of these companies? I’ve been sitting here wondering, ‘what if.’ I’ve been trying to figure out why he’d do such a thing. But then, why would he have charged Dunstable five thousand dollars when he knew the whole thing was covered by the archdiocese? To help cover his gambling debts?
“It doesn’t make much sense unless … unless I’ve been missing the point all along. Unless I’ve been just plain wrong.”
Tully still said nothing. It was Koesler’s ball game. If he’d been wrong before, perhaps now he’d be on target. Whatever was happening was happening in the priest’s analytical mind. Tully wasn’t as interested in the process as in the product.
“When I was telling you about John Keating’s history, as well and as completely as I could,” Koesler said, “I didn’t tell you about how Jake once invested deeply in the stock market and lost a bundle. But it happened.”
Tully nodded without comment. He would go along with Koesler’s premises.
“From that I drew the conclusion that he was a poor gambler and that his tendency to gamble and lose eventually led to the gambling debts he built up recently. It was those debts, after all, that led to his murder at the hands of an assassin who had a contract to kill him.
“Well, maybe. But maybe not …
“I’m thinking now about that single instance when Jake in effect stole-dear God, I hate to even use that word-but, yes, stole five thousand dollars from Eric Dunstable. That was not a gamble. That was a sure thing. Well, what if Jake somehow profited from the use of these companies? Now we don’t know that he did; all we have to go on at the moment is that they’re unfamiliar to me.
“But what if he did profit from them? It wouldn’t have been gambling. It would have been a sure thing.”
Koesler fell silent again. He seemed to be weighing the conclusion he’d just reached.
“So,” Tully said finally, “where are you going with this?”
“Oh …” It was as if he’d wakened Koesler.”… just this: If what I just suggested turns out to be true, then I drew exactly the wrong conclusion about his stock market experience. The loss he suffered there wasn’t a symptom of an untreated disease he should have taken to Gamblers Anonymous. Rather it was a lesson he’d learned: Don’t gamble. You’re not good at it. Go for the sure thing.”
Tully’s brow was well knit. “But Vespa told you …”
“Yes, Vespa told me, in that pivotal confession … the confession that started all this. The confession that Vespa was paid to make.”
“Yes, but-”
Koesler continued as if Tully had not spoken. “This new line of thought seems to be opening my memory. I mean my memory of what happened at Eastern Market the night Guido Vespa and I were shot.”
“We’ve been over that.” Indeed they had, and Tully felt they had milked it for all it was worth.
“I think,” Koesler persisted, “I was so shocked that his confession had been faked that I lost the other things he said that night. The simulated confession seemed all that was important. Now, in the light of what I’m thinking, I can recall quite clearly what else he said. It wasn’t much. He had just begun to tell me what he really wanted to confess when we were shot.”
“Okay,” Tully said, “this is important. Try to get it all.”
“The first thing I told him was that I’d been at the church when they opened Clem Kern’s coffin that day. And Guido wanted to know how Father Kern had looked.”
Tully shook his head.
“I know it’s inconsequential. I just mention that to show that my memory of what happened and what he said is quite clear now.
“After his question as to Clem’s appearance, he told me about the confession having been a fake. That’s the point at which my memory has pulled up short until now. But there was more.
“When he told me the confession was a fraud, I got angry and questioned whether he even had any sort of contract. He swore he did.”
“Don’t you sort of wonder now,” Tully asked, “when Vespa was lying and when he was telling the truth?”
“No. Not then and not now. He seemed to know he was on borrowed time. He’d told whoever gave him this contract that he was going to make a clean breast of it to me. Lieutenant, what he said to me that night was as good as a deathbed confession.”
“Okay, good enough.”
“He charged himself with what his grandfather later complained of-getting too cute-in this case, by adding the fiction that he’d buried Keating’s body with Clem Kern.
“But the most important thing he said, as it turns out now, was the last thing-the last words he spoke in this life.” Koesler paused, either for effect or in an effort to get Vespa’s last words exactly.
Tully said nothing.
“Vespa’s last words to me were, ‘And that ain’t all-’ And then the shots rang out and he was dead.”
“‘And that ain’t all …’ So what’s it mean?” Tully asked.
“What was left?” Koesler answered with a question. “He had dissected everything he had originally told me in that bogus confession except one thing, the essence of the whole thing: the fact that he had actually killed Father Keating.”
“What?”
“Grant you now that this whole premise rests on what we discover about those companies that are being checked out. But the way things would stand depending on those companies would be that Guido Vespa got a contract that called for nothing but the deceiving confession. That’s it. No burial with another priest. And most of all-no murder.”
“No murder!” A novel concept to Tully. “It might make sense if Keating stood to make a bundle and then blew the scene. It all seems to depend on-”
The phone sounded once; paper began to feed out of the fax machine.
Dunstable immediately stood and began a silent reading of what was being sent from his office. As he continued reading, his expression intensified to half smile, half sneer. “Well, Father Koesler,” he said, “it seems your suspicions were right on target. Nothing, nothing, nothing: Each and every one of these companies you questioned never amounted to anything. Not only were they nothing when they were incorporated, but several years back they stopped sending in annual reports. As a result, their charters were canceled. They are now nonactive corporations.”
“What does that mean?” Koesler asked.
“Anyone can incorporate. It’s a legal process that sets up a company. The company doesn’t necessarily have to do or accomplish anything or provide any sort of service. It’s just a sort of legal fiction. They’re also referred to as ‘shells’… ” He looked at Koesler and Tully in turn. “… empty shells.”
Instantly, Tully and Koesler looked at each other. “Shells,” Tully repeated. “Just what Salden had in his computer: ‘shells! look into … trace down! could be key!’”
“Just so,” said Koesler. “And the ‘K’ at the bottom of that note: Keating. We’ll never know, since the poor man is gone, but probably that ‘K’ on the female Episcopal rector item did stand for the baseball designation of strikeout. But I’ll bet the ‘shells’ belonged to Keating.
“But,” Koesler looked at Dunstable, “did Father Keating profit from these shell companies?”
“Oh, I’d say so,” Dunstable replied. “While we were waiting, I just did a little computing of what the parish paid these companies over the years. In excess of two million dollars! And since we don’t really know how many more of these ‘shell’ companies there are on the parish books, it may go even higher. After all, we only checked the ones you questioned. There may be more.”
“But did Father Keating have access to them?” Koesler asked.
Dunstable snorted. “I’d say so. A John Keating is listed as president and vice president of each of these companies.”
“The only slight gamble he took,” Tully said, “was that somebody might get suspicious and check into these companies. But that, especially since he was a priest, was really no gamble at all.”
“That’s right,” Dunstable agreed. “And I can speak as the prime patsy. I don’t know how many times I and the parish council and the finance committee checked these billings. It never occurred to any of us that we were paying bills of nonexistent companies. And he knew the books wouldn’t be audited until he was transferred from this parish. They wouldn’t be audited even now, even though he was missing, if it hadn’t been for Father Koesler.”
“Something else comes to mind,” Koesler said. “I wonder if John would be content with nothing more than the money from these shell companies.”
“There’s more?” Tully asked.
“I was just thinking of the five thousand dollars he took from Mr. Dunstable. It seems to me his avarice was so insatiable, he would stop at nothing.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“The collections. This is an extremely wealthy parish. I would guess the weekly collections would average about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars.” He looked to Dunstable, who nodded and said, “That’s in the ballpark.”
“So,” Koesler continued, “there was lots and lots of money to play with. You kept all the money in the parish account at the local bank?”
Again Dunstable nodded.
“The chancery doesn’t like that,” Koesler said. “They’d rather we banked with the chancery. But with a parish like St. Waldo’s, they wouldn’t insist. My thought is that he would give you full credit for what you gave in the collections, but he’d spread the money out wherever he wished and still have plenty to pay legitimate bills. John, I believe, handled the weekly collection pretty much by himself?”
Mitchell nodded.
“So,” Koesler continued, “no one actually knew exactly how much money there was except John. He could write checks on accessing accounts without question.” He pointed to an account listed in the ledger. “This, for instance: ‘The Youth Apostolate Fund.’ I’ve never heard of anything like that. My suspicion is that this and/or other funds might have been tampered with. John could put lots and lots of money pretty well anywhere he wanted.”
Dunstable looked deflated. “He kept such good records. We professionals admired-admired-his financial professionalism. He was so good at using Treasury bills and commercial accounts. He was good, all right; he didn’t even a normal embezzler has.
“One thing seems certain, gentlemen: Father Keating is not lost, kidnapped, or harmed in any way. He is alive and well and very well off somewhere.”
Only Fathers Koesler and Dunn, Inspector Koznicki, and Lieutenant Tully knew of Guido Vespa’s “confession.” Thus, everyone else, including Dunstable, had never operated under the “knowledge” that Keating had been killed. Thus it was somewhat easier for Dunstable to conclude that Keating was alive. By now, there wasn’t much doubt in Koesler and Tully’s minds either.
“Then,” Koesler said, “the murders! Hal Salden and Guido Vespa! Keating?”
“Maybe.” Tully’s mind was now operating in leaps and bounds, “But that would be pretty tricky for him to pull off. There’s always the chance of recognition. He got his picture in the papers and on TV often enough. Then there’s the crime itself. Murder One is a long step from embezzlement. Maybe. But I’d like to find an accomplice. Somebody with as much to gain as Keating. But somebody who would go for the jugular.”
“Well,” Dunstable consulted the fax again, “here’s a nominee … although I haven’t the slightest idea who she is.” He handed the sheet to Tully, pointing out the recurring name on the shell companies.
“Sally Dean,” Tully read. “Each and every company lists as officers John Keating as president and vice president and Sally Dean as secretary and treasurer. Sally Dean,” He looked at the others, “Who the hell is Sally Dean?”
It was evident no one in the room knew. But suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Mitchell opened it and four men were startled to address four women: a cook, a secretary, and two reporters-Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee,