Assault with Intent Read online

  “We’re in luck,” said Blackford, “here’s the exit just above the clavicle. But there’s been a bit of exsanguination. Better get a tube in there.”

  “Exsanguination, Tony,” Budreau explained, “that means bleeding.”

  “He can’t hear you,” said Blackford with some asperity, “he’s in shock. Can you hurry it up, please!”

  “Oh, certainly. Sorry.” Budreau rapidly finished the anointing: “... atque Ecclesiae tuae sanctae, cum omni desiderata prosperitate restituas. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

  Budreau left the trauma room. Several minutes later, Dr. Blackford emerged. It was his turn to be surprised. He had not expected to find a crowd waiting for word on his patient’s condition. He recognized Inspector Koznicki, Sergeants Morris and Patrick, and Pat Lennon and Joe Cox. He noted Budreau, but did not know his name. And there was something vaguely familiar about the tall priest. Hadn’t his picture been in the papers some time ago?

  “How is he?” asked Koznicki.

  “Right now,” said Blackford, “not bad, for having been shot.”

  “Thank God,” said the tall priest, whom Blackford would later discover was Father Robert Koesler.

  “He was exsanguinating,” Budreau volunteered.

  Blackford sighed. A little learning could be boresome.

  “Was he actually shot?” Cox asked. “How many times?”

  “One bullet entered his back just below the neck to the right of center. The exit was through the front of the right shoulder.”

  “How much trauma?” asked Lennon.

  “One lung was collapsed. There was bleeding in the chest cavity. I’d say he lost about 600 ccs. But his respiration and blood pressure now are near normal.”

  “What’s the treatment?” Lennon asked.

  “We’ve inflated the lung and drained the blood. We’ve dressed the wounds. We’re treating him for shock.”

  “What’s the prognosis?” asked Cox.

  “He’ll be in ICU for at least the next couple of days. We’ll be watching for pneumonia.

  “All in all, he is a very fortunate man. Just about everything that might have gone wrong didn’t.”

  “Murphy must have been asleep at the switch,” murmured the tall priest.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When can he be released?” asked Budreau.

  “If there are no complications, I’d say in the next seven to nine days.”

  “You mean you won’t have to operate?” Budreau enthused. “You mean his system will repair all that internal damage?”

  “Remarkable instrument, the body, isn’t it?” Blackford began edging away. Experience told him he had answered all the relevant questions.

  “Inspector,” Lennon turned her attention to Koznicki, “is this another in the series of assaults against seminary faculty members?”

  “It is too early to say, Miss Lennon. But, for the time being, we are assuming it is.”

  “Any leads?” asked Cox. Both reporters had been writing assiduously in their notepads.

  “Yes,” said Koznicki, “several. I am not at liberty to discuss them.”

  “Any suspects?” asked Lennon.

  “No. Not as yet. But,” Koznicki saw a tall black officer advancing down the hall, “here is Lieutenant Harris. I believe he has just come from the scene of the crime.”

  “How’s the priest?” Harris asked as he joined the group.

  “He exsanguinated,” Budreau noted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He is one of our more fortunate gunshot victims, it seems,” clarified Koznicki. “He should recover quite nicely.”

  “That’s good. How many slugs did he take?”

  “One.”

  “One? One! That courtyard back at the seminary looks like a shooting gallery. We found five slugs. We would have found only four, but then we spotted the floating fish.”

  “Floating fish?” Sergeant Patrick wondered aloud.

  “Yeah … one of the bullets got a goldfish. Whoever did this must’ve squeezed off five fast ones and didn’t much care what he hit as long as one of them got the priest.”

  “What caliber?” asked Lennon.

  “.22. They’re off at Ballistics now.

  “Come on,” Harris gestured to Patrick and Morris, “let’s get back to the seminary and ask some more questions.”

  “Were there any eyewitnesses?” Koznicki asked as Harris turned to leave.

  “Negative. It’s a peculiar place … I’ll have to talk to you about that later.” Harris loped off to catch up with the other two detectives.

  Cox and Lennon closed their notebooks. They too, would go to the scene of the crime, continuing to cover the story for their competing newspapers.

  “Remarkable, that the human body can heal itself so well,” Budreau mumbled as he departed.

  Koznicki and Koesler were the only ones remaining.

  “I think I know what Lieutenant Harris is going to tell you,” said Koesler. “The problem that Sacred Heart Seminary presents is that crime is so rampant in that neighborhood that the attacks at the seminary simply fit in the general picture.

  “Now, St. Joseph’s Seminary is not located in a high crime neighborhood. But Sacred Heart has comparatively few students around, whereas St. Joseph’s has about a hundred more students … though more than half are not studying for the priesthood. And they come in all sizes and shapes. Men, women, young, and old. It would be very easy for an intruder to blend into that potpourri.”

  “And you, Father, could you blend into that potpourri?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. It seems that, for whatever reason, our assailant has moved his base of operations from Sacred Heart to St. Joseph’s. It also seems that his pattern is such that none of the previous targets will be attacked again. If we are correct in our assessment, this affords you a sort of immunity. Is it possible for you to join the faculty at St. Joseph’s Seminary and continue to be our special representative?”

  Koesler pondered.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Father Feeny had asked me to teach a course in communications. I’ve been reluctant because of parish duties, and the course I teach at Sacred Heart uses up just about all my remaining time.”

  “As a special favor, could you stretch yourself a tad thinner?”

  Koesler pondered a few more moments, then broke into a smile. “How could I resist your charm, Inspector?”

  “How, indeed?” Koznicki’s smile ran from ear to ear.

  “You never stop plotting, do you, Inspector?”

  “The Polish mind never rests.”

  Father Koesler was running behind. That sudden call earlier from Inspector Koznicki to meet at Mt. Carmel’s emergency room had thrown a monkeywrench into his day. The time spent at the hospital had mangled his schedule. And Koesler was a scheduled man.

  To cap the climax, he had just finished counseling a recently divorced parishioner. She had dropped in without an appointment, but he hadn’t the heart to turn her away even though he was running so far behind.

  She was an attractive blonde in her late thirties whose world had collapsed. She had been married nineteen years. Her husband, whose law career was climbing nicely, had fallen in love with a younger woman. Her image of her self-worth had disintegrated. She felt undesirable, unattractive, and worthless. Now, fifteen years out of the work force, she would have to find employment. The alimony would not cover her living expenses. Her fractured self-image was no help as she sought employment.

  Koesler promised he would try to help her find a job. He tried to reassure her of her value as a still attractive and talented woman with much of her life still ahead.

  It was one of those times when he hoped he had performed a service simply by listening sympathetically. Sometimes it helped when a troubled person was able to get it off his or her chest.

  He put the leftover stew on the stove to heat while he showered and shaved pr
eliminary to tonight’s parish council meeting. Terminating this day’s events with a parish council meeting insured that this would not be among his better evenings.

  He ladled some stew onto a plate, turned on the TV, and sat down to try to enjoy a hurried dinner.

  It was too late for the local news; only about fifteen minutes of the national remained.

  Russia was still being cavalier with her satellites. Much of Asia and Africa went underfed. And many industries throughout the U.S. were still polluting the air, water, and earth.

  Nothing had changed.

  He wondered if the special talent needed for telenews reporting might be the ability to write approximately the same thing day after day using only slightly different words.

  Koesler’s fork stopped midway between plate and mouth as his attention was grabbed by a familiar dateline.

  “And in Detroit,” Max Robinson, the network anchorman, was saying, “an all-too-common story—attempted murder. But an unlikely victim: A Catholic priest, a professor in a Catholic seminary. And, to make things worse, today’s victim is only another in a series of priests as targets. In Detroit, WXYZ-TV’s Ven Marshall has the story.”

  The serious, handsome face of Ven Marshall appeared onscreen.

  “Four, perhaps five Detroit priests share a common and undesired distinction,” the Ed Murrow sound-alike intoned, “each has been the target of what police describe as a bizarre murder plot.

  “Until now, the attacks have been foiled by a series of odd circumstances. But today, the assailant’s luck changed—at least slightly. Father Anthony Gennardo, professor of theology at Detroit’s St. Joseph Seminary, was shot while praying in this inner courtyard.”

  The camera panned, showing viewers the courtyard, then returned to Marshall.

  “Here with me now is the priest who discovered Father Gennardo’s body, Father Albert Budreau.”

  The camera switched to an obviously perturbed Budreau.

  “How did you happen to find the body, Father?”

  “Well, when Tony—Father Gennardo—didn’t show up for lunch—there are a group of us who ordinarily sit together—sort of charter members of the faculty of the major seminary—well, when he didn’t show up, I got worried.”

  “But how did you happen to find the body?”

  “Well, Father Gennardo has a habit of meditating in this courtyard for half an hour precisely—from 11:30 until noon. I was sure he would be here. But I had no notion what had happened to him.”

  “We should say, at this point, that Father Gennardo escaped serious permanent injury.”

  “Miraculously.”

  “Eh? Oh … yes. Doctors at Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital report that Father Gennardo’s condition is good. That he is improving and should be released within two weeks.

  “How was he when you found him, Father?”

  “Exsanguinating.”

  “What? I mean, was he conscious?”

  “No, no. Unconscious.”

  “But is it your understanding that he has regained consciousness?”

  “Oh, yes. But he said he didn’t see his assailant.”

  The camera returned to Marshall, who looked as if Budreau had told him more than he wanted to know.

  “Police state,” Marshall concluded, “that they are following several leads in this series of attempts on the lives of priests in Detroit. However, they have no likely suspects as yet.

  “This is Ven Marshall, Channel 7 Action News, in Detroit.”

  Koesler finished his stew, turned off the TV, and headed for his meeting.

  Poor Detroit, he thought; so many good, hopeful things going on, but only our dirty linen makes the national news. It was always thus: no one cares about the millions of cats that do not get stuck in trees.

  The shades had been lowered, making the small room nearly dark.

  “The good news, I suppose, is that you hit him,” said the First Man. “But did you have to shoot five times? It makes us look ridiculous.”

  “I was nervous,” the Second Man mumbled.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said the Third Man, menacingly, “there is no good news. Not only did you not kill him, you didn’t even wound him seriously. Better he should have pulled the trigger and you should be slowly recovering.”

  “Now, now,” said the Fourth Man soothingly, “let’s not be too harsh. After all, for the first time we’ve drawn blood.”

  “That’s just it,” said the Second.

  “What’s it?” asked the Fourth.

  “The blood,” said the Second, “I don’t know. It’s … when I saw it …I mean, all the time we were planning this, and even in the first phase of our plan, everything seemed so—what?—clinical. So cut-and-dried. So removed from reality. I guess I just thought we would never actually harm anyone. You know how it is with us.”

  The other three shifted uncomfortably.

  “But today,” the Second continued, “when Father Gennardo fell and then I saw his blood flowing out of him, it dawned on me what we were doing. I’m still convinced we’re justified. But I can’t play the role of executioner anymore. I can’t, I just can’t pull another trigger.”

  “But you’re still with us?” asked the Fourth Man.

  “Yes, yes, of course I’m still with you.”

  “The question then,” the Fourth said, “is who among us will carry on?”

  “I will,” said the First and Third Men simultaneously.

  “That’s good lads.” The Fourth Man smiled. “But we can’t have two. We’ll have to draw lots.” He nodded at the Second Man, who rose from his chair and walked to the closet, tripping over the floor lamp en route.

  He returned with two broomstraws held in his right fist. The First Man, followed by the Third, pulled a straw. They compared straws. All sighed.

  “They’re the same size!” said the First Man disgustedly.

  “Can’t you do anything right?” asked the Third, rhetorically.

  “They looked different when I pulled them from the broom.” The Second Man sounded close to tears.

  “That’s all right … we’ll draw cards.” The Fourth Man reached for a deck of cards on a nearby end table. As he started to pick them up, the cards scattered to the floor. The First and Third Men hurried to retrieve them, bumping heads in the process.

  “Why don’t you look where you’re going!” said the Third Man.

  “I was here first,” the First protested.

  “That’s all right,” said the Fourth, “just give them to me.”

  The First and Third Men laid their separate piles on the table before the Fourth.

  The Fourth shuffled the cards again and again, occasionally fumbling them, then scooping them up. Finally, he spread the cards face down on the table.

  The First Man turned over a card. “The Ace of Spades.” He smiled. “The Death Card.”

  With an air of desperation, the Third Man fingered another card and flipped it over. “The Ace of Spades,” he said wonderingly.

  There was silence.

  “A pinochle deck!” the Second Man finally observed disgustedly.

  “Damn!” commented the First.

  “Draw again,” the Fourth suggested.

  The First Man drew. “The Queen of Hearts.”

  The Third Man drew. “The King of Clubs.”

  “Then it’s done,” said the Fourth. “But it must be clear that we are in this together. How say you?”

  “Together,” affirmed the First.

  “Yes,” said the Second.

  “Of course: together,” said the Third.

  “Good,” said the Fourth. “We may just need total collaboration to carry out our plan. It is very possible that the reason we have not yet been totally successful is because we have sent only one of our number into the field of battle.”

  “Wait,” protested the Third Man, “I don’t need any help. I can carry this out by myself.”

  “We know how you feel.” The Fourth Man waved his
hand. In doing so, he knocked over a glass. Fortunately, it was empty, yet the others momentarily recoiled as if to avoid the nonexistent liquid. In doing so, the Second Man’s chair tipped, spilling him to the floor. He quickly righted the chair and seated himself again.

  “But,” the Fourth Man continued, “you must remember that humility is truth—and the truth is that we very often need help. I think we should make this a group effort even if one of our members must play the main role. How say you?”

  “I agree,” said the First Man.

  “Yes, a group effort,” said the Second.

  “Oh, all right,” said the Third.

  “And,” continued the Fourth, “while we are on the topic of doing things together, there is a meeting of the Tridentine Society next week. Will we all be there?” He gazed pointedly at the Second Man.

  “I’m planning on it,” said the First.

  “So soon? I didn’t know. But, yes, I’ll be there,” said the Third.

  The Second Man was silent.

  “Well?” asked the Fourth.

  “I’m afraid not, if you don’t mind,” the Second said apologetically.

  “Same old reason?”

  “I just don’t agree with the Society. Don’t get me wrong: I believe in our cause. But the Tridentines sometimes oppose the Second Vatican Council.”

  “And well they should!” the Third Man snarled. “It was the work of the devil!”

  “The work of the devil?” The Second Man verged on forcefulness. “It was called by a holy Pope of God!”

  “John XXIII!” the Third exclaimed, “he should have been strangled in his crib!”

  “You shouldn’t say that about a holy Pope of God!”

  “Now, now,” the Fourth conciliated, “we do not have to agree in all things. Although,” he nodded toward the Second Man, “we do hope you will join us in the Tridentine Society soon.” He paused.

  “I think this is a special moment. One that should be marked by our special ceremony. After all, we are about to collaborate in a more complete way than ever. Let us commingle our blood here in this sacred chalice we will never be able to use.”

  “Do you think it wise?” asked the Second Man. “The last time it was such a mess.”

  The Fourth Man smiled, then nodded.