It continued in the same vein. Koesler shook his head. He wondered how Dave would feel if the media got hold of his letter. Undoubtedly he had never thought of that when he sent it. Koesler went on.
Carroll Mitchelclass="underline"
. . . It seems to me that your function is to be the constant judge of competition. Actors competing with each other, competing with actors of the past. Playwrights in competition with each other. Which is the best play on Broadway; which is the worst? Constant competition. And you are the judge, the acknowledged chief judge. The judge of all this competition.
You have judged my work over all these years and always found me sadly wanting. You have been a harsh and cruel judge of many other adequate to fine playwrights. You have been the supreme Judge for all these years. Yet, the only time you were in actual competition with me, you were so frightened by that competition that you committed the most heinous crime possible to any writer: You stole. You plagiarized!
The time has come for the public to know what sort of individual has been setting standards for America. Fortunately, you won that contest. Or rather, Emmet Lavery won it with his “The First Legion.” So your “winning” entry was published in The Gothic. I have had several copies made of that and will offer it as proof when I give this story to literary publications.
I hope you know, Rid, how dearly everyone out there wants to “get” you. Needless to say, they will have a field day with this story. Your credibility is all you have going for you. Say goodbye to it. In a little while, it will be gone. . . .
Koesler did not know in which order Groendal had read these letters, but he himself was beginning to experience the cumulative effect they must have had. He continued.
Charlie Hogan:
. . . Some people know you’re gay, others don’t. I’ve got to hand this much to you, you’ve been discreet. You’ve been living with this Peter Harison for years now. And yet you‘ve never come completely out of the closet. Nor has anyone made a publicized statement about your homosexuality. That seems to be the way with you gays. You either flaunt it or keep it decently quiet.
I don’t know why the hell you’ve bothered, but you evidently want to keep it private. Well the time has come to let people know what kind of a bastard you are. I think the public would relish knowing that not only are you gay, but that you were kicked out of the seminary not just for being gay but for a homosexual attack.
At this point, you probably think I can’t prove this, because, in return for your leaving quietly, Monsignor Cronyn allowed you to quit. What you didn’t know is that, so you could never go back on your decision, Cronyn made the notation in your permanent record, along with the reason for your dismissal.
I’m sure the gossip columnists—dung beetles that they are—will appreciate clearing up the mystery of your sexual preference along with that juicy tidbit from your younger days.
Further, no one could have been so vengeful against me all these years without slipping up himself. That much meanness can’t have been contained. So I pledge myself to finding and exposing every fault and failing of yours I can uncover. And I’m confident I can find plenty. . . .
Koesler had a quizzical look. There was something in these three letters that disquieted and at the same time intrigued him. At the moment, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Instead of going back to find the source of this feeling, he decided to complete the cycle.
Valerie Walsh:
I think I will never forgive or forget what you did to me. What baffled me was why you’d do it. You worked overtime keeping me off the stage. You were grossly unfair, cruel and rotten. I would never have discovered the reason if I had not confided in my mother. She clarified it all. Why would you sabotage my career when we had never met? To get even with my mother. Even with my mother! You certainly had reason to get even! You left her pregnant, homeless, and unemployed. She certainly treated you shabbily! She didn’t give you away, or take you to court for child support, but stayed out of your life.
Over the years, you’ve built a reputation of being above and beyond any sort of disgraceful affair. You’ve been welcomed into the homes and parties of the movers and shakers. You are above all criticism.
Well the time has come to burst your pretentious bubble. Mother is making an affidavit concerning your responsibility. Just imagine how titillating all your former friends will find the delicious gossip about you and your one-nighter. Yours is not the conduct of a noble critic. Yours is the behavior of a scoundrel and a fraud.
I know, from being on the New York scene, that people laugh behind your back at the combination of your gay lifestyle and your thin reputation of self-righteousness. Think of the fun they’re going to have with this new scandal. It will be a marvelous season for the critics of the critic. We’re going to enjoy it. We are all going to enjoy very much seeing the modern-day Grendel monster skewered. . . .
While Koesler had been reading the letters, Sergeants Charles Papkin and Ray Ewing, the investigating officers, had been speaking quietly with Inspector Koznicki. As Koesler completed his reading, the first of the five summoned people arrived. The others appeared within minutes. Lynn Mitchell and Red Walsh, who had accompanied their respective spouses, were asked to wait in an adjoining room.
There were more than enough chairs around the several tables in the squad room. After all were seated there was an awkward silence. No one seemed to know who should begin. The guests looked expectantly at the police, who, in turn, gazed at Father Koesler. Following the officers’ lead, the others began to stare at Koesler. It was he, after all, who had requested this gathering.
The first thought that crossed the priest’s mind was the bromide, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here?” He dismissed that. Instead, he said, “I may be wrong, but if a couple of hypotheses are correct, I think we may be able to clear up the matter of Ridley Groendal’s death.”
Sergeant Papkin failed to suppress a sardonic smile. He could recall a few times this priest had been wrong. He would not be at all surprised if Koesler were wrong again.
Sergeant Ewing, on the other hand, kept an open mind. Confident and self-assured, he was willing to take a chance on an amateur. He did not feel at all threatened by Koesler’s hypotheses.
“I’ll try,” Koesler proceeded, “to approach this logically, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s.” Not far from him on the table was a legal pad with a few unused sheets. He pulled it to him and began making notes. It would help keep him on track.
“The status of Ridley’s health, particularly over the past year, was no great secret,” Koesler continued. “Partly in the gossip columns and partly on the entertainment pages of the newspapers, we could read both rumors and facts about Ridley. So, anyone interested in knowing how he was doing—or, more pointedly, how badly off he was—could find out easily.
“All of us, for varying reasons, were linked to Rid. All of us, particularly you five, were affected by him. So, it is quite likely—probable?—certain?—that we all knew his health was delicate and deteriorating.
“We knew he was a diabetic, that he had high blood pressure, that he had suffered heart attacks and was prone to having more. We might even have known—or guessed—that he had contracted AIDS. There was a popular rumor to that effect.