Death Wears a Red Hat Page 11

  He had always imagined murderers, at least the type who methodically and cleverly carried out a series of meticulously planned crimes such as The Rosary Murders or, now, The Red Hat Murders, as having fascinating if not unique backgrounds. At least this was true in the mystery novels he was forever reading.

  Koesler considered his own history to be ordinary to the point of dullness. He’d had an unexceptional career in the seminary. He had been given a series of ordinary appointments as assistant pastor at several Detroit parishes. His one out-of-the-ordinary assignment had been as editor-in-chief of the Detroit Catholic, a position he had held for twelve years. It was during this time that the Second Vatican Council had taken place. Vatican II, for the first time in many centuries, had openly invited Catholic clergy and laity alike to ask questions regarding their faith.

  For Koesler, this had been a mind-opening event. He found there were few legitimate answers to the legitimate questions theologians were asking of canon law that had been codified some sixty years before. Even the Church acknowledged the dated quality of its law, and Pope Paul VI had established a committee to reform that very law. To date, almost twenty years after its establishment, that committee had come up with nothing more than equally unacceptable law.

  That this acknowledgedly antediluvian law was still on the books with the ecclesial presumption that it be enforced, disturbed Koesler. He was grateful he was no longer at the Detroit Catholic. He no longer had the duty of expressing his opinions publicly for all to read. It had been a duty that had gotten him into trouble many times.

  He enjoyed being pastor at St. Anselm’s. The tall, slender, blond, soft-spoken, bifocaled priest loved to mingle with the everpresent parochial school children and offer friendship, advice, encouragement, and consolation to the adults. From time to time, he experienced a strong spiritual call to inner-city ministry. At such times, Archbishop Boyle would assure him that his place was at St. Anselm’s. That reassurance was sufficient for Koesler. He admired and respected Boyle. Now, Koesler and St. Anselm’s parish were preparing to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversaries, which, coincidentally, fell within the same month.

  But celebration was far from his mind now. He was busily pursuing the possibilities presented by masticated toothpicks at the scene of a probable murder.

  He was, of course, certainly not the only person who chewed toothpicks. His mind filtered through a montage of restaurants, rectory dinners, picnics, all the eating experiences he could evoke. Toothpicks were, indeed, a common implement.

  But away from the table, long after the meal was finished? Now it was more difficult to recall anyone’s using a toothpick. Surely some people must. However, he could not, at this moment, think of anyone but himself. A stupid habit, he reflected. Only slightly less stupid than the cigarette smoking his toothpick-chewing had replaced.

  He suddenly became aware of the presence of Mary O’Connor at the archway of the living room. He had no idea how long shed been standing there.

  “Yes, Mary?” He stood and faced her. He was easily a foot taller than she.

  “I’m going now, Father.” Her voice carried the usual sense of hesitation as though she was never certain that what she was doing or saying was quite correct. But she was a gem. Koesler knew that if canon law had permitted, Mary could run this parish well with no help from him.

  “The printer was here earlier and collected this week’s copy for the Anselmeter. Evelyn called. Her car won’t start, so she can’t be here to get supper. Do you want me to get something for you to eat before I leave?”

  “No, Mary. Thanks a lot. I’ll try some original potluck. I think there’s some food in the freezer. I’ll get along fine. You go on home.”

  “Thank you, Father. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Koesler heard the front door close behind her.

  He found a package of frozen chicken and a plastic bag of mixed vegetables. He put the vegetables in to boil and the chicken in the oven.

  In many of the mystery novels he had read, he thought, it was a common stratagem on the part of the murderer to try to throw the police off the track by tossing a red herring or two into the picture. What if the murderer had deliberately planted those toothpicks at the scene of the crime? According to that detective, there were few other clues. Which probably meant no fingerprints. Why would a murderer leave no clue, not even a fingerprint, and yet leave chewed toothpicks?

  If the toothpicks were planted, if someone were trying to implicate him, it would have to be someone who knew of his recent surrogated habit. Who knew? Just about everyone who was familiar with him. The parishioners. The entire staff of the Detroit Catholic. Many of the Detroit police. All his clerical and religious friends.

  If there were any truth to this unlikely supposition, it meant that Koesler would actually have met the killer. His mind was now racing, going through the hundreds of people he knew, discarding one after another as being incapable of such crimes.

  He smelled smoke. He opened the oven door. He had forgotten to remove the box when he put the chicken in to bake.

  With his finger, Father Ted Neighbors thoughtfully stirred the ice in his martini. He sat upright in a reclining chair in the living room of the rectory of St. Frances Cabrini. Opposite him, on a tan sofabed, sat Father William Moloney, director of the Office of Education for the Archdiocese of Detroit, and resident of Cabrini’s rectory. Moloney’s office was in the Chancery Building downtown. His principle responsibility was the supervision of all Catholic education and educational institutions within the archdiocese. In return for his room and board, he helped Neighbors with confessions, as well as weekday and weekend Masses.

  Moloney was drinking a light but rare Chablis. He studied his Waterford wineglass with interest, took another small sip, and rolled the liquid gently over his gums. “Pleasantly disturbing, appealingly provocative, yet assuming little.”

  “What?” Neighbors’ mind had been lost in plotting this evening’s parish council meeting, while his index finger was lost in a glass of gin over which had been pronounced the word Vermouth.

  “The Chablis. Very interesting. What year?”

  “Uhmmm …’73.”

  Moloney, pausing to recall, “A good year!”

  “Ah …a good year …yes, a good year.”

  Smiling, Moloney placed his glass carefully on a coaster on the end table. “What is it, Thomas Aquinas? Are you puzzling out the ultimate response to the Albigensian heresy?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve spent our entire preprandial period lost in thought. You’ve even passed lightly over my sincerely expressed compliment to your excellent wine. And your index finger must be cryogenically wed to that martini.”

  “The parish council,” Neighbors explained.

  “The parish council?”

  “Yes, they’re meeting tonight. It’s their first meeting since the solemn installation of St. Frances Cabrini’s statue.”

  “The $50,000 wonder of the world! And,” Moloney continued, “they’ve never even had an opportunity to express their opinion on the outlay of parochial funds for that enterprise.”

  “Listen,” Neighbors spoke, head thrown back, square jaw jutting, “when Pope Julius—”

  “I know, I know; when the Pope made Michelangelo an interior designer, he did not conduct a plebiscite.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Well, my dear Teddie, I think you are going to learn tonight that you are not Pope Buster the First and that Pope Julius never had to face a parish council.”

  Neighbors slumped slightly and took a long gulp of his drink. “What makes it worse is we have five excused absences. All five generally back me blindly. That leaves us with seven—unfortunately, a quorum—and all but one are troublemakers.”

  “Looks bad for the home team.” Moloney resumed sipping his wine.

  “I’ll make them see!” Neighbors vowed. “By damn, I’ll make them believers in true art!”

  “We’ll see. Numerica
lly, they’ve got you.”

  “Quality will out.” Neighbors finished his martini with a flourishing bottoms-up.

  At that, a shy Mrs. Bovey, the housekeeper, lightly touched the bell at the dining table. “Dinner is ready, Fathers,” she softly announced.

  The two rose and started toward the dining room.

  “And what will the condemned man have for his final meal?” Moloney asked.

  Neighbors beamed. “Truite au Bleu!” He shivered in gastronomic anticipation.

  Moloney raised his partially empty glass of Chablis. “Speaking for the faithful seven who will confront you this night, morituri te salutamus!”

  Harris and Koznicki were once again tucking in a workday sitting near the bar on the second level of the nearly empty Code 30.

  Much of the time they were reflectively silent. Koznicki toyed with a small glass of port. In his huge hands, the glass resembled a miniature. Harris had ordered a gin and tonic, an unusually light drink for him.

  “I meant to talk to you yesterday,” Koznicki said. “You really should have taken at least a couple of days off.”

  “Can’t, Walt.” Harris swirled his drink. “I’ve got to stay with this Red Hat crime wave. The killer shows no signs of letting up. Neither can we.”

  There was a pause.

  “That was your first, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Harris replied, “it was my first. Been on the force all these years and never killed anyone until the other night. I don’t mind telling you, I was shaking pretty bad and for a long time.”

  “I know. I’ve had three. It’s always them or us. But I don’t think you ever get over taking a human life, no matter how low the guy may be. Killers, especially the pros, come to look at it as just a day’s work. Something like circus performers where there’s a certain amount of danger but they just don’t think of the risk after a while.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m over it now.” Harris was nearly finished with his drink. “What makes it a little easier to live with is that if that kid hadn’t been nearly freaked out on drug withdrawal, he’d have got me for sure. Even with trembling hands, he missed me by only inches. If he’d been able to squeeze one more off, you’d be playing solitaire this evening.”

  There was another lengthy pause. Harris ordered a second gin and tonic. He began to fold the paper napkin into odd shapes.

  “Somehow, Walt, I feel as if I should apologize for checking out Koesler. After all, he is your friend.”

  Koznicki didn’t raise his eyes from his diminishing port. “Not at all. You and I both know the man has taken to chewing toothpicks. I have no idea how many people chew toothpicks, but there can’t be that many who practically destroy the toothpicks they chew.”

  Koznicki smiled briefly at the memory of his friend’s odd choice of a surrogate oral satisfaction. “I can tell you this, though: very few things in life surprise me, especially after all these years on the force. But if Father Koesler had been in any way involved in murder, I would have been genuinely surprised. Flabbergasted!”

  Bernhard had turned the toothpicks collected from Father Koesler’s ashtray over to a forensic odontologist. That meticulous specialist had compared them with those found in the ashtray next to Dutch Strauss’ bed. The teethmarks had not matched.

  There was another period of silence. Harris ordered another small glass of port for Koznicki. The Inspector did not object. His oversize metabolism could absorb, without adverse effect, even more than Harris’—if pressed.

  “However,” Harris’ tone of voice gave every indication this would be, for him, a delicate turn of conversation, “the investigation into Koesler’s alibi led me to a related train of thought.”

  “Yes?”

  “So far, we’ve been operating under the assumption that these top crime figures are being wasted if not by rival hoods, at least at their order, maybe by outside talent.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, after giving the order to have Koesler checked out, it dawned on me. I mean, before I saw those chewed-up toothpicks it wouldn’t have occurred to me in a thousand years to suspect a priest of cold-blooded murder. But now, all of a sudden, the impossible becomes possible.”

  “Yes?”

  “See, once you open up the possibility that a priest could conceivably waste somebody,” Harris, becoming animated, emphasized his words with expansive gestures, “maybe in this case, for what a priest might regard as the best of motives—I mean, getting rid of the worst criminals in the community—it begins to make sense. Doesn’t it?”

  “Go on.”

  “The ‘inside job’ factor. These guys’ heads—we’ve been finding them exclusively in Catholic churches. One in the cathedral, where the guy who tucked it into the Cardinal’s hat had to know how to lower and raise the hat. Information that, allegedly, few people had.

  “The next is found in a church that, because it’s in a high-crime section, is pretty securely locked.

  “Finally, a head is found in a downtown church that is not only particularly well secured but, during daytime hours when it is open, is pretty well filled all day.”

  “So?”

  “So who would have easier access to these secured places than a priest, who could pretty well come and go without attracting special attention? I mean,” Harris was almost pleading, “it’s possible, isn’t it?”

  Koznicki tossed down the remainder of his port. “If I were you, Ned,” he smiled, gathered his hat from the empty chair next to him and rose to leave, “I’d pursue that.”

  Six of the seven St. Frances Cabrini parish council members present for the September meeting seemed intent on returning at least their parish, if not the Church, to the Thirteenth, what they considered the Greatest of Centuries. The seventh, Mrs. June McAvoy, was of the dual opinion that “Father knows best,” and “Nothing is too good for Father.”

  Basically, Father Ted Neighbors was in agreement with Mrs. McAvoy. He would have been more comfortable in the nineteenth or early twentieth century. A time during which pastors grabbed for and secured more and more parochial power. A time during which a pastor, outside his parish, was a figurehead worthy of sometimes obsequious honor, while within his parish he was the macho honcho of all he surveyed.

  Unfortunately, everyone now seated at the large round table in Cabrini’s rectory basement was on the verge of the twenty-first century. And none of them was ready.

  “The September meeting of the parish council of St. Frances Cabrini will come to order,” Steve Dowd, council president, intoned. “Father Neighbors will open the meeting with a prayer.”

  All heads bowed.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gift …uhh …” Neighbors, for no apparent reason, had inadvertently begun the traditional befoŕe-meal grace. “Uhh …Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

  “Holy Mary,” came the chorus, “Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  “St. Frances Cabrini ...”

  “Pray for us.”

  There was a general and self-conscious adjusting of chairs and shuffling of papers.

  “Correspondence?” Dowd asked.

  Mrs. Nowicki fumbled through her folder, found and read the thank-you note sent by the missioner who had preached at all the Masses one weekend the previous month and who had received a special collection for his missionary order.

  “I move,” moved Charlie Korman, a wispy fellow who always seemed to be looking for a bone to gnaw, “that Father’s letter be published in our parish bulletin.”

  “I second the motion,” moved the trim, attractive, agreeable Mrs. McAvoy.

  “All in favor?” asked Dowd.

  Grunts, groans and ayes.

  “All opposed?”

  Silence.

  Mrs. Nowicki recorded the vote.

  “Old business?” Dowd asked.

  “I’d like to bring up that Folk Mass
for the parochial school children that opened the school year,” offered Mrs. Ann Kurlick, a strikingly handsome woman gracefully approaching middle age.

  “What about it?” asked Dowd.

  “It was a disgrace! I may be old-fashioned,” Mrs. Kurlick began nearly all her conservative statements with those words, “but I don’t think there is any place for guitar playing when we have a perfectly good organ.”

  “They played guitars?” Korman inched forward.

  “Yes,” Kurlick continued, “and the closing hymn …well!”

  “What was it? What was it?” In his eagerness, Korman almost fell off his chair.

  “‘Blowin’ in the Wind!” Kurlick identified triumphantly.

  “‘Blowin’ in the Wind’! ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’!” Korman needlessly repeated. “That’s no hymn! That’s no hymn! That’s a barroom song!”

  “It’s not a barroom song,” Neighbors interjected as quietly as possible. “It’s a very legitimate song that the children find relevant.”

  “I think Father should be able to schedule any song he thinks appropriate,” said Mrs. McAvoy supportively.

  “If you have any further questions,” Neighbors said firmly, “you may refer them to the liturgy department of the archdiocese.”

  That seemed to end the “Blowin’ in the Wind” controversy. Tempers seethed perceptibly, but there were no further words on the subject.

  “New business?” Dowd’s smile was conspiratorial.

  “The statue! The statue!” Korman loudly observed.

  “Which statue?” Dowd well knew which statue.

  “St. Frances Cabrini!” whooped Korman. “I understand that you, Father, paid somebody $25,000 to build that statue!”

  “Fifty-thousand,” Neighbors corrected. “And the artist didn’t build it; he sculpted it.”

  There was an audible gasp.

  “Fifty-thousand dollars!” Dowd exclaimed. “You have no authority to spend that kind of money without the advice and consent of the parish council!”

  “When Pope Julius commissioned Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel, he did not conduct a plebiscite!” Neighbors’ delivery was improving with each repetition.