“Barbara, this is Marilyn … Marilyn Fradet.”
For a second, it didn’t register. “Oh … yes, Marilyn. What is it?”
“Did you hear the news? Do you have your radio or TV on?”
“No. What news?”
“They got Al’s killer!”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Turn on your TV. Channel Four. No, wait; it was a bulletin. It’s over now.”
“I can’t focus, Marilyn. What is this all about?”
Marilyn forced herself to speak calmly. “Babs, evidently the police got some leads and followed them. They led to a young man-I didn’t get the name-I was so surprised.
“Anyway, he was barricaded in a house on the east side. I guess he decided to shoot it out. It was more like suicide. The police had their sharpshooters there. They killed him. They think he must’ve been on drugs.”
Barbara made not a sound.
After a few moments of silence, Marilyn said, “I’m sorry if I bothered you with this call. I just thought you’d want to-that you ought to-know.”
Slowly, Barbara comprehended what Marilyn had said. The facts settled in her consciousness. “No. No, I’m not putting reality together very well just now. Was there anything else? I mean, was anyone else involved? Just one kid? No idea that he might’ve been hired to kill Al?”
The question puzzled Marilyn. “No, Babs … not that I heard. And I think I caught the entire bulletin.”
“Can you remember anything else at all? Anything more than you’ve told me?”
A hesitation. “Well … the pictures. They had film showing the guy charging out of this house. He looked crazy … wild. He had guns in both hands. He was firing, firing. And then he was shot, killed-dead. It was godawful. They shouldn’t show things like that. It was more violent than some of the movies. You’d think-”
“That was it? Nothing more?”
“Well, um … the news reporter-Mike Wendlahd, I think-was interviewing a policeman. The name was familiar. I couldn’t place ever meeting him. But he was the only one I saw being interviewed. He seemed to know everything that had gone on.”
“You can’t remember his name?”
“He was a lieutenant. A homicide detective. He was black. His name … his name was … Tully, I think. Yes, I’m sure that was it: Lieutenant Tully.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I can think of, Babs. I’m sure they’ll repeat the news at eleven.”
“Yes. Well, thanks, Marilyn. It was good of you to call. I really appreciate it.”
“You sound so tired, dear. I think you ought to unplug the phone. Everybody and his brother will be calling you.”
“Good idea.”
As soon as they hung up, Barbara followed Marilyn’s advice and pulled the plug.
But she did not rest.
This was not playing out the way she had expected. Her version of Al’s death was that one of the VPs had contracted for the killing to keep Al from replacing him in the bank’s hierarchy. The only question was which VP.
The information that Marilyn had reported simply made no sense. Some punk kid? Acting on his own? Stoned senseless? That was what had ended Al’s life? A bank robbery that had no hope of success? One shot at point-blank range?
That was not the way anyone, especially Al, should exit this life.
She had to have more information! But where could it come from? Not from the police. They would be polite once they knew they were talking to the widow, but they wouldn’t open up. And you couldn’t trust the media; they would have little more than she herself could glean.
That name … the one that Marilyn had finally remembered. Lieutenant Tully. It had a familiar ring. Why? Why would the name be familiar?
Tully. Tully. Tull-of course! The priest she’d met at the award dinner. The one who Fred Margan had told her would be presiding at Al’s wake.
Yes, that was it: Father Tully!
Was this a coincidence? Could they be related? In either case, definitely a coincidence.
She plugged the phone back in. A few calls, several blind alleys, and then bull’s-eye. St. Joseph’s parish, downtown. Taking some other priest’s place for a week or two. Lots of other interesting things to tell, but no time. She had to place another call immediately.
Father Tully was in the final phase of developing an idea for his homily. For a moment, he considered letting the answering device take the call.
Then he asked himself, “Would good old Father Koesler answer his phone?” Tully didn’t even know Father Koesler well enough to give an educated guess at the answer. But from the brief time they’d spent together, plus all that he’d heard, he knew what his absentee pastor would do. Slowly he lifted the receiver. “St. Joseph’s.”
“I want to speak with a Father Tully.” There was eagerness in Barbara’s voice. “Is he in?”
“This is he.” Tully was taken aback. Outside of his local relatives and the occasional connection from Koesler hardly anyone had called for him.
“This is Barbara Ulrich. We met the other evening … you know, when you presented that award to Tom Adams. Do you remember me?
Did he ever!
“Yes, I remember,” he said, instantly collected. “Please accept my sincere condolences.”
Why would the widow call him? Well, Adams, through a spokesman, had asked him to say a few words at the funeral. Probably Adams had mentioned it to the widow and …
“Thanks,” she replied dispassionately. “What I’m calling about, Father, is what happened, I guess sometime this afternoon. The police caught-and killed-the kid who shot my husband. I know this is a long way from firsthand knowledge. But a friend called me a little while ago and said she’d seen a bulletin on TV. She said the person being interviewed was named Tully-Lieutenant Tully. Any relation?”
He smiled. He was so pleased to claim that relationship. “Yes. That was my brother.”
So far so good, thought Barbara. “By any chance did you talk to him about what happened?”
“Better than that. I was there.”
She felt that she’d hit the jackpot-or, more to the point, that she held all but one number to win the lottery. “Can you talk to me about it?” She hesitated, but her voice gave every indication that she intended to continue. “What I mean, Father, is that my husband left home this morning headed on a new direction in his life. And then-just to become another statistic. I’m finding it so hard to adjust to it all. Tell me I’m wrong in thinking there must be more to it than this.”
Father Tully didn’t quite know what to make of it. Every indication, everything he heard, all that he’d observed about the relationship between Al and Barbara Ulrich contradicted the concern she suddenly showed toward a husband with whom she had not gotten along-to say the very least.
Was it idle speculation? Genuine concern?
He felt uneasy. Shouldn’t she be calling the police? Shouldn’t she be talking to his brother? By her questions and her statements, she seemed to indicate she was not satisfied with the “official” findings in the case. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that one young crook could have caused all that damage. Well, in truth, he didn’t believe it either. And, bottom line, she was the widow, and thus deserving of special treatment.
In any case, she’d asked a direct question and, he thought, deserved an honest answer. “Mrs. Ulrich, I don’t know exactly what to tell you.” He pushed the books and notepad off his lap, stood and, holding the phone in one hand, began to pace. He frequently did that during lengthy and/or demanding phone conversations.
“I happened to be with Inspector Koznicki at police headquarters when he got notice that a man, who was suspected of being your husband’s killer, had barricaded himself in a house with a hostage.
“I went with the inspector-he’s the head of homicide-to the scene. There was indeed a young man holed up there. He had a woman hostage. The police negotiated as long as the young man let them. Then he came out shooting. The police had no choice.”