Chameleon fk-13 Read online

  “Um.”

  “Well, they’ve got it out of their system, I hope. Maybe now they’ll stick to the big guns.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She couldn’t see his face behind the paper. From the sounds he was making, she knew that he was awake and probably not paying attention. There were ways of finding out whether his mind was here or elsewhere. “Did you come across the item in the paper yet about how Mayor Cobb is going to move all the bodies out of Gethsemane Cemetery so he can enlarge City Airport?” She’d invented that.

  “Uh.”

  “Yes. He’s going to replant them in the salt mines under the city and create our own version of the Roman catacombs.”

  No response.

  “In time he thinks it will increase tourism.”

  Still no sound.

  She tried another tack. “Peter”-their eldest son now happily married and living in upstate New York-”called today. He’s getting a divorce and coming back home to live.”

  Slowly the paper was lowered. He looked at her quizzically. She was smiling. He smiled. “Was I that far away?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Was the News that absorbing?”

  He crumpled the paper in his lap. “Not really. Well … I shouldn’t say one way or the other. I haven’t been reading it.”

  “You certainly gave a good imitation.”

  “One of those times when you find yourself reading the same item over and over with no comprehension.”

  “Anything wrong?” She became slightly apprehensive. After many satisfying years of living with each other they had grown finely tuned to the smallest signs. There was, for instance, nothing particularly noteworthy in his not paying attention to what he was reading. It happened often enough to nearly everybody. One becomes distracted and preoccupied with something-anything-and cannot concentrate on whatever is going on at the moment.

  But there was something different tonight.

  Georgie had been merely playful, toying with him by making up outrageous items to see what it would take to get his attention, to draw him back to reality.

  But even after he shook off his reverie something was still not quite right. It was nothing anyone else would catch. But, sensitive to his every mood, she knew something was troubling him.

  He hadn’t answered her question. She repeated it a fraction more urgently. “Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing of any importance.” He paused, then realized the futility of trying to hide anything from this beloved woman. “Well, there was that meeting this morning.…”

  “The staff meeting?”

  “Yes. The special topic for discussion was the parochial school system.”

  “Oh?” They had discussed the topic before, more frequently recently as he and his department were drawn into bandaging this hollow giant in terminal condition.

  “So many of them-the staff members-want to hold on to the schools-even more the parishes. I think perhaps a majority agree on saving the system.”

  “But it’s impossible,” she said. “We’ve talked about this before. How about Cardinal Boyle?”

  The furrows in his forehead deepened. “I can’t read him on this one. Ordinarily I’m pretty good at figuring out which way the wind is blowing. But not on this issue,”

  “And that’s critical, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. It’s not that the department heads are window dressing, as they are in so many other dioceses. The Cardinal really listens to us and weighs the evidence we bring him. But in the end, he is the Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit. By law he runs everything. We go with his decision. That’s all there is to it.”

  Georgie thought a few moments. “If the staff is divided and you can’t read the Cardinal, this thing really is up in the air.” She now understood in more depth what was troubling him.

  “If my figures are accurate, it won’t be up in the air forever. The schools will close-if not now, eventually. I can see the argument that it is somewhat less painful if they go slowly, one by one. But at the same time, they’re depleting chunks of money just struggling to survive.

  “Some of the public schools are in almost as much trouble as we are. But they can turn to the taxpayers, and if they make a good case for their need they may get a millage increase. We have no chance there. We depend on tuition, fundraising, and parish subsidies.

  “Our utility bills are high and we’ve got oil burners in our older buildings that have to be replaced. We’ve got leaky roofs and problems with asbestos.” He seemed to be mentally tabulating an unending series of expenses while being too tired to continue enumerating them audibly.

  After a few minutes of silence, Georgie spoke again. “Dear, I think your problem is that you’re second-guessing yourself. And that’s not like you.”

  He reflected a moment. “You may be right. But there really is another side to this coin. We’re talking about an institution-Catholic education-that began in this country in 1606. Almost four hundred years ago! And I’m recommending ending that institution.” He smiled in spite of his depressed state. “Sort of like killing off the last dinosaur.”

  Georgie searched her mind to find facts that would support her husband’s basic belief in himself and his oft-proven financial acumen. “Remember, dear, we talked just last week about the one incontrovertible reality that sealed the fate of our schools?”

  “The nuns.”

  “Yes, the nuns. Or rather the absence of them. Whereas once nuns and teaching brothers accounted for almost a hundred percent of the staff of the parochial schools, now the figure is down to just above ten percent. And on top of that, according to what you told me last week, our lay teachers are getting about nine thousand dollars a year less than their counterparts in public schools. How can anyone hope to continue attracting quality teachers with that kind of inequity? The lay teachers we’ve got now are practically donating their services compared with what they could be earning in public schools. Pretty soon we won’t have even the lay men and women teaching in our schools. I think it’s been said best: Without the teaching Sisters no one would have given a serious thought to starting parochial schools. And without them now, there’s no way for the system to survive.”

  His was a wry smile. “You’re giving me back the figures and reasoning I gave you.”

  She returned his smile. “You convinced me of the rightness of your position. I diought if you heard your reasoning coming from someone else, that you’d be convinced all over again. Like I said, the trouble is you’re second-guessing yourself.”

  He nodded. “You’re right, of course. But I didn’t realize it until just now. And there’s something else, something that wasn’t clear to me until just now.”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “The reason why I’ve been second-guessing myself. I don’t know if! can put it into words.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “This is it. I think. I’m an economist-”

  “And one of the best,” she interjected.

  “Thanks. I can put me dollars and cents together and come up with answers, answers I’m sure of. I can rely on the bottom line. Always have. But there’s something different here. I caught it this morning at the meeting. I wasn’t sure what it was. Just an added ingredient that emerged from some of the staff …” He drifted off in thought.

  After a few seconds, she asked, “What is it? What possibly could make you doubt yourself?”

  He smiled. “Faim-ironically, faith.”

  “Faith!”

  “Yeah. The deacon, Quent Jeffrey, voiced the idea that money tends to stretch. It’s an adman or PR approach. In reality, money doesn’t stretch. If you’re a bum and you’ve got sixty cents, you can get a cup of coffee. But no matter how much you want a steak dinner, you aren’t going to get it with sixty cents. Jeffrey had to be talking about priorities.

  “Suppose you and I wanted to add on to this house. Suppose we figured that we couldn’t afford it-that we didn’t have enough mon
ey to do it. But then we keep thinking and talking about it until … we do it. Seemingly, we’ve stretched our budget, we’ve stretched our money. In reality, the money was there, somewhere, all the while. You can’t spend what you haven’t got. We didn’t stretch money; we changed our priorities.

  “Jeffrey’s suggestion might work if it were properly implemented-which, by the way, I don’t think our communications office could do. But it wouldn’t work forever. Sooner or later, everyone would discover we were pouring money down a bottomless pit.”

  “I don’t understand,” Georgie said. “What does this have to dowith faith?”

  “Just that I considered Deacon Jeffrey’s solution iffy, ‘If this happens’ and ‘If that happens,’ men the system will be saved, or at least prolonged.

  “That got me thinking about what some of the staff were saying during the argument that followed my suggestion to start thinking seriously about shutting the system down altogether.

  “They were talking about how this was not a business or an office or a company or any other secular enterprise we were considering. These were Catholic schools, This was the Christian education of children.

  “It got me thinking about when I was a kid in parochial school. There were tortuous moments. But then most kids can expect that as part of any schooling-part of growing up. And we learned a lot of things that had to be unlearned. But the formation, the discipline, the good habits, the respect for authority, the early exposure to prayer-well, I don’t think I could have gotten that whole range anywhere expect in my parochial school.”

  “That’s right, honey,” Georgie said. “I can relate to that same experience in my own parochial training. But what about the money necessary to run the system?”

  “That’s just it, Georgie. As I listened to some of the staff-that sweet old man, Archbishop Foley-they seemed to be pleading with us to wait for … a miracle.”

  “A miracle!”

  “Yes, a miracle. A miracle! This was God’s work. Catholic education is God’s work.”

  “‘God will provide’?”

  “Exactly! If we can just hold on, not close any schools or parishes, subsidize them until … until God solves our little problem. Georgie, I’m out of my element. I deal with currency. You can count it, bank it, know when it’s turning a profit or when it’s running out. I’ve worked at this all my life.

  “But what if they’re right? Money is my field. Miracles are their specialty. What if there’s a miracle coming around and it doesn’t get here until after I succeed in having the schools closed. I can’t tell if they’re right or not. What if they’re right?”

  Georgie could tell that he was agonizing over the problem. She was unsure of how to help him. She sent up a quick prayer for guidance. “Wasn’t it someone in the Bible-was it Saint Paul in one of the Epistles? — who said something about each of us having special gifts, special talents that are complementary? Yes, I think it was Saint Paul: something about those who spoke in tongues and those who interpreted the strange words.”

  “So?”

  “It’s just as you said, dear: Miracles aren’t your sphere of expertise. You’re a financial whiz. And that’s all your responsebility is: You give your boss, the Cardinal, your best effort to aid him in understanding what the financial situation is in the diocese. In this case, you tell him what’s going on with his schools. Based on all you know-and that’s why he hired you: to get the benefit of your financial advice-based on all you know, the parochial school system is in so much trouble it may well not survive. The Cardinal selected you and trusts you to give him this information.

  “If someone else thinks there’s reason to expect a miracle, that’s their business. If you want to feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for the Cardinal. His is the ultimate decision. He has to take all these facts, opinions, and hopes and decide what to do. Your job is to do your job.” She sat back with a self-satisfied grin.

  He considered what she’d said. “Sounds pretty good to me, Georgie, But … I don’t know. I’m going to have to think it over.”

  Her worried expression returned.

  He chuckled. “Now, don’t look that way. You know you said just the right thing. You also know it takes me a while to absorb new ideas. That’s the way it is. That’s the way we are. Just give me a little while … to agree with you.”

  They both laughed. She looked at her watch, “Just eleven o’clock.”

  “Time to take Truffles out, eh?” It was a day-ending ritual. He always took the little dog out for the final opportunity to get comfortable for the night.

  “Be careful now,” she warned. “There’s ice out there. Some of the walks haven’t been that well cleared. When you come in we’ll have some cocoa. And I’ll treat you to a back rub.”

  “Well, now, you said the magic word. I was thinking of taking the beast out and never returning. But if you throw a back rub into the bargain, well, that certainly tips the scales.”

  She smiled invitingly and affected a Southern accent. “Y’all hurry back … hear?”

  He donned hat, coat, and scarf, attached the lead to Truffles’ collar, and went out. Heeding his wife’s advice, he negotiated the sidewalk with extra care.

  She was right. As usual, she was right. But it would take a little time before he would be able to shake these guilt feelings. Similar scenarios had been played out in the past. It took him time to absorb her native wisdom. She was such ahelp in so many ways.

  As he walked and the dog trotted, his thoughts turned to the priests who had attended this morning’s meeting. From all that was said-and shouted-they were every bit as much agitated as he, if not more. But they had no loving wives in whom to confide, get it off their chests. They had no Georgie who not only could listen with love but had the wisdom to suggest the appropriate solution.

  In all probability, they might be doubting themselves as much ashe had second-guessed himself. What if no miracles were forthcoming? Would they accept the responsibility for wasting tons of precious resources over a dream? A dream that would never come true? They had no Georgie to tell them to cool it. Their job was to express their convictions on the matter-and they had.

  In this, as in so many diocesan matters, the buck stopped at the Cardinal’s desk. And, come to think of it, he too had no mate in whom to confide. Of all who most could use the companionship and wisdom of a good and loving mate, the archbishop was, perhaps, most in need.

  He smiled as he contemplated Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. The very name, Mrs. Mark Boyle, sounded alien, even incongruous.

  While these thoughts engaged him, Truffles had done his duty. They turned and retraced their steps.

  As he looked up the street toward his house, there seemed to be someone on the sidewalk. From a distance, the figure appeared to be standing just in front of his house.

  That was strange. Was it someone waiting for him? Who? For what purpose?

  It was always possible this could be a mugging. Suddenly, he wished the little dog were twenty times its size.

  But it wasn’t quite right for a mugging. Whoever it was, judging from the silhouette, seemed to be wearing an overcoat and a hat. Muggers don’t get dressed up for an assault-at least no muggers he’d ever heard of.

  If only the light were better. But the street lamp was situated several houses down from his and behind the man. What did they call that-backlighting? He approached cautiously, eyes straining to identify the figure.

  Finally, when he was a step or two away, he could discern the man’s features. “Well,” Hoffer said, “I’ll be … what are you doing here?”

  The man said nothing. In the shadows, Hoffer could not see his right hand slowly moving upward until suddenly the gun was pointed at the underside of Hoffer’s chin, only inches from his face.

  There was an explosive sound as the gun was fired. Hoffer tumbled backward as if tugged by a chain. In seconds he was dead.

  Truffles, frightened, began to yap. One quick blow with the gun’s stock knocked th
e dog unconscious.

  The man pocketed the gun and disappeared into the darkness.

  Georgie heard the report, of course, as did her neighbors. Her first tendency was to assume it might have been a car backfiring. But if one lives in the city long enough, that innocent supposition quickly gives way to the reality of ever-present guns. In the probability that it was indeed a gun, most Detroiters had learned to duck behind something-anything. Which is what Georgie’s neighbors did.

  But Georgie knew Larry was out there. There was no hiding for her when her dear husband was out there unprotected.

  She went to the front window, parted the curtain, and looked out, hoping not to see what she half expected to see.

  Two bodies lay on the ground. She gasped, then screamed as she burst through the door, raced down the steps, and knelt to cradle the head of her dead husband.

  Her neighbors heard her keening. One by one, two by two, they came to her.

  The dog recovered. But he was of little use, an eyewitness who could tell the police nothing.

  12

  Eight o’clock in the morning. Not particularly early. But zoo Tully had awakened much earlier.

  He had awakened at 5:30. He’d tried to get back to sleep. It didn’t work, and, as usual, the harder he tried the more sleep eluded him.

  Shortly after 6:30 A.M. he gave up the struggle and slipped out of bed, careful not to waken Al. He managed not to rouse her through a shower, shave, and a hurried breakfast.

  He was, of course, the first detective on his shift to arrive. There wasn’t much to do. Things would not slip into gear until about 9:00 when the others on this shift arrived. So he had an hour, an hour to figure out what was troubling him.

  He checked the list he’d run by his consciousness earlier while lying in bed in the darkness.

  His relationship with Al? No, that wasn’t it. In fact, seldom had they been happier together. Before Al, he’d been married to a very good woman. They’d had five kids. They would still be together if she hadn’t been jealous of his job.

  He didn’t blame her. He recognized clearly that he was much more married to his job as a homicide cop than he ever could be to any woman. So his ex, now remarried and living in Chicago, was happier without him.