Death Wears a Red Hat Page 33
After a moment, she added, “for now.”
“For now?”
“Yes, for now. Whoever that avenging angel is out there, he’s still out there. And it’s certain that bureaucracies and businesses will continue to grind up their subjects. What’s to stop him from starting again? As a matter of fact,” she laughed infectiously, “I’ve noticed myself treating my interviewees and sources more courteously.”
“To be perfectly frank,” Ankenazy admitted, “so have I.”
They laughed.
“Well,” Ankenazy stood, “I just stopped by to compliment you on a job well done. I can’t remember anyone with as good a debut as you’ve had with the News.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
She watched him walk away. A genuinely nice man who’d gone to bat for her from the start, with no strings attached. A guy who could work closely with a pretty woman without making even the hint of a pass.
Oh, yes. She was definitely going to have to tell Joe Cox about Bob Ankenazy.
“It’s not just me, Walt,” said Harris. “These dead-end unsolved cases are bad for the morale of the squad. They’ve worked damn hard on this investigation and they’re going to feel rotten if I have to give them the official word that it’s over.”
Harris and Koznicki were once more squeezed into the latter’s office.
“And it’s you too,” reminded Koznicki. “You still want to get somebody for something.”
“Damn right!”
“I don’t blame you, Ned. I’ve been in your position, Lord, I don’t know how many times. We’ve got to face the fact that not all murders are solved. And not all the ones that are solved are brought to trial. Especially when you have a series this cleverly and carefully planned ...” Koznicki allowed the sentence to drift off.
“There’s somebody out there,” Harris was quietly but obviously chagrinned, “smiling smugly because he beat the police.”
“And you think it’s Toussaint.”
“I do.”
“Have you any proof?”
“No!”
“Take a realistic look at the odds, Ned. We have a medical examiner, acknowledged expert in his field, who tells us we have no medical evidence to sustain a homicide charge. And a prosecutor who does not want to go to court with a desecration charge. In a game like this, I think all we need is two strikes like these to be out.”
“Maybe we could locate another body. Or maybe the news media would put on enough pressure to force a trial.”
“Maybe,” Koznicki allowed. “But while we are pursuing your maybes, we will expend thousands of man hours, hundreds of thousands of dollars—while homicides that could be solved rest on the back burner. Meanwhile, we will have one of our best specially trained squads out looking for a body that may not even exist anymore.
“Or we’ll wait for the media to push for the prosecution of an unidentified somebody the public would like to congratulate.”
Koznicki fell silent. He hoped he had convinced the tenacious Harris of the futility of continuing this investigation.
“As far as we know,” he said, “we have only one person who even recalls seeing him—the night attendant at the morgue—and she can’t even describe him.”
“It’s as Moellmann says, we all look alike.”
“Ned, you’re bitter. And I don’t blame you. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
Harris bit his lip and stared at the ceiling. Finally, he brought his gaze back to Koznicki.
“No, Walt, that won’t be necessary. I’m O.K. Guess I just had to talk it out.”
He squeezed out of the office.
The Inspector was certain Harris would shortly be himself again. Not only was he one of Koznicki’s closest friends, he was one of his best officers. And Koznicki empathized with him on both counts.
“Personally, “ said Joe Cox, “I’ll be glad if the cops are right and The Red Hat Murders are history. This story has handcuffed me from the beginning.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Joe,” said Nelson Kane. “You didn’t do all that badly. The stuff you wrote was good. I guess we’ll all just agree that the kudos for this story belongs to Pat Lennon. But this is not the last story we’ll ever cover.”
The two sat on either side of Kane’s desk.
“Besides,” Kane continued, “this story isn’t over yet.”
“What do you mean?” Cox was surprised. He’d already turned in his article stating the police believed this series of murders was over, finished, completed—while warning it could begin again.
“We’re getting reports from all over town on how incredibly nice people are being.”
“Oh? We always get Good Samaritan stuff.”
“Not like these!” Kane began to rifle through the notes on his desk. “Here’s one where an insurance agent declined to sell an old couple a policy. He proved to them they were already overinsured.
“Here’s another one about a restaurant owner on Jefferson. He was taking a percentage of his waitresses’ tips. Now he’s not only going to let them keep all their tips, but he’s raised their wages.
“Here’s one where a kid was yelling obscenities at an old lady. A gang of his own buddies ran him off.
“And here’s one about the owner of that factory that’s been polluting the Rouge. He’s volunteered to pay for a cleanup of that whole stretch of the river.
“I could go on and on. But you get the idea.”
“Wow!” Cox was impressed.
“In all my years in this business, “ said Kane, “I’ve never seen anything to equal this rash of ‘good news’ stories.”
“Maybe not for the best of reasons,” said Cox. “But, as the Bible says,” he smiled condescendingly, “‘The beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord.’”
“Proverbs, Chapter Nine, Verse Ten.”
Cox’s mouth hung open.
“Every once in a while I can surprise you, can’t I, kid?”
He was surprised by the question.
Father Koesler had expected to be queried about his knowledge of The Red Hat Murders or at least about his presence at St. John’s Seminary that morning.
Instead, Inspector Koznicki has asked his opinion of the motive for the placement of Elmer Dessalen’s head on Edward Mooney’s tomb.
Koesler cautiously explained what he now knew to be a fact, not a theory, about the heads, the hat, and the tomb.
Koznicki then explained the latest developments in the case, and informed him that the police, reluctantly, were terminating the investigation.
Koesler was amazed. Toussaint had been correct.
As Koznicki continued his explanation, in great detail, Koesler’s mind was restless. What was he to do with all the information Toussaint had given him? Was he obliged to reveal it to the police?
What good would it do to even indict Toussaint? The series of executions was finished. Bringing Toussaint to trial would not bring back any of the dead men.
More compellingly, he strongly doubted Toussaint would have so completely bared his soul if Koesler had not been a priest. Toussaint had spoken not just to a friend, but to a friend who not inconsequentially was a priest. This placed the knowledge solidly in the professional secret category, he concluded.
Professional secrets could not be revealed unless the public good demanded it or unless, without the revelation, someone would greatly suffer. For example, if an innocent person were facing trial in Toussaint’s stead.
Koesler honestly could find no legitimate reason to violate this professional confidence. His resolution became firm at about the same time Koznicki finished his explanation.
“… and so, Father,” Koznicki concluded, “it seems this case is closed, at least for the present.”
“For the present?”
“One never knows. A body might be found without its head …”
Koesler was privately positive that particular eventuality would not occur.
“By the way, Father,�
�� Koznicki said, deliberately changing the subject, “Wanda and I were thinking of attending Mass at St. Anselm’s this Sunday. What time are you offering Mass?”
“What? Oh, ten and twelve.”
“Why don’t we plan on attending the noon Mass and then perhaps you would join us for lunch.”
“Yes, of course. That will be fine.”
Lieutenant Harris stepped out of the squad room just as Koesler was passing by on his way out of the building.
“Father.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Your prayers didn’t help all that much after all.”
“Pardon?”
“The case didn’t get solved; it got closed.”
“Oh … oh, yes, that’s right.”
“By the way, how’s your friend, Deacon Toussaint?”
“Oh, he’s fine. As a matter of fact, he’s accepted an assignment in San Francisco. He and his wife will be leaving soon.”
“I guess that’s best for everyone. I’ll be interested in how he makes out in San Francisco. You might tell him that.”
Koesler wondered what he meant by that. But he wasn’t going to ask. He’d just gotten that can of worms closed.
8
Déjà Vudoo
“There it is again, dear.” Emerenciana Toussaint fussed as she pointed to a paragraph in Sunday’s News.
She and her husband were seated on one of the oversize wooden benches in the mammoth vaulted old Michigan Central Depot. They were waiting for the Amtrak train that would take them on the first leg of their journey to California.
“There’s what again, ’Ciane?” Toussaint responded, leaning near to read the section at which she was pointing.
“It says here that Mr. McCluskey’s body bore a trace of snake venom. What does that mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Toussaint removed his hat and scratched his head. “Maybe the doctor made a mistake. Maybe the newspaper made a mistake. Or maybe it was the death conjure. You know there is no telling what side effects that can have.”
“That’s true. But it’s very strange.”
Toussaint wore a dark suit but not his clerical collar. Looking like a priest while traveling with a woman without the simple justification of being Episcopalian might mean answering questions all the way to the coast.
Emerenciana was dressed in her Sunday finest. She looked smashing.
Toussaint excused himself and walked to the drinking fountain at the far wall. As he did so, he looked about.
This must have been really impressive back in the days when rail travel was popular, he thought. Now, with its extraordinary size and dearth of customers, it was almost the personification of a white elephant.
As he sipped the water, out of the corner of his eye he noticed black shoes and black trousers. He followed the black motif upward to the smiling face of Father Koesler.
“Going somewhere?” asked Koesler.
“Not your way, unfortunately,” said Toussaint. “I did not expect you to be here,” he added.
Koesler became serious. “I wasn’t sure I would come.”
The knowledge that two of his dearest friends were capable of murder had shaken Koesler to the core. He could look at Toussaint’s dark impenetrable eyes and see a mass murderer. He could blink, look again, and see one of the most dedicated, selfless, gentle men he had ever known.
Koesler had tried to view what his friends had done through their eyes.
Justice immediately satisfied.
Old Testament-style retribution.
Crime and punishment joined.
A form of justifiable homicide.
But he had been unable to carry it off.
Middle-class morality?
Whatever. He did know that such action, carried to its extreme, would find people all over the world doing away with their auto mechanics, butchers, candlestick makers. A solution, he supposed, to the population explosion, but untenable as a means of righting wrongs.
Besides, there was that Old Testament precept that God desires not the death of a sinner but that he be converted and live.
Several times, Koesler had been on the verge of calling his friend Koznicki and unburdening himself of his secret knowledge.
Only the awareness that with the evidence available to them, the police, even if they knew the culprit’s identity, still would not have a court case, convinced Koesler that nothing but further evil could come from his revelations.
That, plus his awareness that this barbarous revenge was concluded and that the Toussaints were headed for a new and peaceful ministry in San Francisco, had made him resolve to keep his knowledge to himself.
And, characteristically, once he determined to maintain silence on the matter, Koesler had put it out of his mind.
Today he had but one purpose: to bid farewell to two dear friends. It was his considered opinion that, in his shoes, Jesus would have done the same.
The two men shook hands warmly, then walked toward the bench where Emerenciana sat absorbed in her newspaper.
“Do not mention anything to ’Ciane,” warned Toussaint. “She does not know I told you.”
“Of course.”
“Look who is here,” Toussaint called to his wife.
“Bob!” she exclaimed, welcoming him.
Koesler sat next to her. They kissed lightly.
“I would have come sooner, but I went to lunch with the Koznickis.”
“We got here only a little while ago ourselves.” said Emerenciana. “We stopped at the kiosk downtown. See, Ramon bought a Sunday News and a San Francisco Chronicle. I’m reading of my two homes, the one we are leaving and the one we are headed for.”
She seemed very pleased.
“We’re going to miss you,” Koesler said to both.
“And we will miss you and all our Detroit friends,” Toussaint said sincerely, “But we can write, and it is not so big a country. We can visit. It is a good mission, Bob. A very poor Mexican parish. We will be needed and wanted.”
“And you will give of yourselves selflessly, as you always do,” said Koesler.
The three sat in silence, holding hands.
The trackman appeared at the central door to announce the train departure.
The thirty to forty passengers gathered their luggage and packages and started down the ramp.
“Goodbyes are difficult at trainside,” said Toussaint, “let’s say them now.” He extended his hand to Koesler. “Friends?”
Koesler embraced him. “Always!”
Emerenciana embraced Koesler.
All three embraced. Tears flowed.
Toussaint gathered their few bags. He and his wife walked swiftly down the ramp. They climbed a flight of steps and disappeared from Koesler’s view.
The tall black couple walked along the platform, located their coach, climbed aboard, and settled into their seats.
Emerenciana paged rapidly through the Chronicle, her smile broadening until she was beaming.
“Would you just look at these prices in San Francisco, Ramon!”
He leaned over her arm to scan the list.
“Look at the price for candles. And they have large black ones, too! And see this for live chickens! And,” she turned several pages, “look at the incense!”
“Very reasonable, dear.” Toussaint smiled broadly and settled back into his seat. “Very reasonable indeed.”
Gratitude for technical advice to: Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University; Margaret Cronyn, editor, The Michigan Catholic; Jim Grace, detective with the Kalamazoo Police Department; Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Pastoral Care Department, St. Joseph’s Mercy Hospital, Detroit; Sister Mary Clodovia Lockett, S.S.N.D., Biology Chairman, University of Dallas; William Lowry, Ph.D., Chief, Regulated Substances Laboratory, Institute of Forensic Sciences, Dallas; John Malone, M.D., Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital, Detroit; Sergeant Donald Nash, Detroit Police Department; Noreen Rooney, TV Department, Detroit Free Press; Werner Spitz, M.D.,
Wayne County Medical Examiner, Detroit; Art Zienert, Auto Engineering Consultant. Any technical error is the author’s.
For Fiona, sine qua non iterum.
Death Wears a Red Hat Copyright © 1980, 2012 by William X. Kienzle. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
ISBN 978-1-4494-2480-0
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.
The Father Koesler Mysteries
1. The Rosary Murders
2. Death Wears a Red Hat
3. Mind Over Murder
4. Assault with Intent
5. Shadow of Death
6. Kill and Tell
7. Sudden Death
8. Deathbed
9. Deadline for a Critic
10. Marked for Murder
11. Eminence
12. Masquerade
13. Chameleon
14. Body Count
15. Dead Wrong
16. Bishop as Pawn
17. Call No Man Father
18. Requiem for Moses
19. The Man Who Loved God
20. The Greatest Evil
21. No Greater Love
22. Till Death
23. The Sacrifice
24. The Gathering
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