Koesler did not need to look up the phone number for the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department. Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of Homicide, over the years had become a close friend. The two had occasion to phone each other from time to time. Thus Koesler’s familiarity with the number.
Koesler had no expectation of finding Koznicki at headquarters. At this hour, especially on a Sunday evening, he very probably would be at home with Wanda, his wife, listening to classical music or reading. But there were a few officers with whom Koesler was familiar through previous dealings with Detroit’s Homicide Division. Koesler breathed a quick prayer that somebody who knew him would be on duty.
On the third ring, a voice said, “Homicide, Sergeant Mangiapane.”
The name rang a bell. Koesler knew the name; he tried to place Mangiapane, to recall which of the seven Homicide squads he was with. He had to decide quickly. He was aware that Homicide particularly did not suffer fools gladly. With one more quick prayer, he asked, “Is Lieutenant Tully available?”
“Just a minute.”
Koesler was put on hold. That was progress of sorts. At least he wasn’t informed that Tully was not in, or was “on the street.” Such information could conceivably still be forthcoming. But so far-
“Lieutenant Tully,” said a quiet, world-weary voice.
Koesler’s hopes soared. Luck or Providence, it didn’t matter; he’d reached someone with whom he was acquainted. “This is Father Koesler.”
“Who?”
“Father Koesler.”
Silence. Then, “Oh, yeah; Father Koesler. So, what’s happenin’?”
Koesler could almost feel Tully’s fatigue. He should be home in bed, Koesler thought. But he’s not. My good fortune he’s at work. “Lieutenant, there’s been a murder.”
“What?”
“A murder.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you ever dabble in something simple like auto theft or bank robbery or check forgery?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Tully checked himself. This was no time for frivolity. Exhausted as he was, Tully found it funny-odd, at least-that this parish priest should with some regularity be involved in homicide matters. Given a few minutes to look it up, Tully could have come up with exact dates. It seemed barely a year ago that Koesler had been actively involved in an investigation.
“Forget it,” Tully said. “Give me the details.”
Koesler, relieved, gave him the basic information on what had happened at the college, leaving out the mutual interrogation carried on by the amateur sleuths.
Tully would be at the college in a few minutes. Koesler would wait for him at the front door of Madame Cadillac Hall.
8
Tully parked-rather precisely, Koesler thought, for the sense of urgency he felt-in front of Madame Cadillac Hall in the space formerly occupied by Krieg’s white stretch-limo.
Koesler had been pondering that parking space while waiting for Tully. Strangely, he hadn’t adverted to the limousine or its absence, until Tully pulled into the vacated “no parking” zone. Vaguely, Koesler wondered how Guido Taliafero would react to his employer’s death. Poor Guido, to beg he probably would be ashamed and to resume a professional football career he would undoubtedly be unable.
Tully and Maniapane took the steps two at a time. Amazing, Koesler thought, what the stimulus of a murder investigation can do to regenerate dead-tired bodies and spirits.
Alonzo (“Zoo”) Tully had been with the force more than twenty years. Black, of average build, with short-cropped graying hair, Tully to the casual observer, was unprepossessing. On the other hand, the perceptive person noted Tully’s eyes: While betraying a delightful sense of humor, they could be all business; active and intelligent, they were as magnetic as a black hole.
The bad guys had a habit of underestimating Tully. They also had a habit of getting arrested by him and convicted by the evidence he brought to court. Unlike Rodney Dangerfield, Tully had respect, the respect of his fellow officers as well as the grudging respect of the more discerning criminal element. For Tully, homicide was little more than a murder mystery, a puzzle that could and must be solved by sorting clues after culling red herrings and false leads. His record at solving these puzzles was enviable.
In Phil Mangiapane, Tully perceived a gifted sleuth in the rough. With Homicide only a few years, Mangiapane had made his share and more of mistakes. But in him Tully found the natural inquisitiveness and patience that with care and nurturing would produce a top-notch detective.
Mangiapane belonged to Tully’s squad. As often as possible Tully saw to it that they worked together. The arrangement was perfect as far as Mangiapane was concerned. Not only did he realize he could learn as yet unwritten knowledge from Tully; Mangiapane was genuinely fond of the senior officer.
Since he knew both men, Koesler was prepared for a somewhat effusive greeting. So too was Mangiapane, a faithful Sunday Mass Catholic.
Both were brought up sharply by Tully’s unpreambled, “Where’s the body?”
“In the dining room,” Koesler responded. Then he clarified, “Actually, it’s not the main dining room or even the cafeteria. It’s a smaller, seldom used dining area. They’re using it because there are so few of us here for this workshop.”
Without bothering to mask his impatience, Tully said, “Lead the way.”
“Certainly.” Koesler led the way down the main corridor. He was silently angry at himself for being so garrulous. Of course they wanted to get to the scene of the crime. Whether it was a larger or smaller room made no difference. Not, at any rate, at this moment.
As they walked rapidly down the hallway, the three fell into a configurated procession. Koesler and Mangiapane were roughly the same height, though the sergeant was much more mesomorphic. They flanked Tully like matched acolytes accompanying a priest-though in actuality, Tully hardly a priest, wavered between agnosticism and atheism.
“The dead guy,” Tully said, as they advanced, “his name’s Klaus Krieg-the TV preacher?”
“Yes,” Koesler answered. “He’s also a publisher, which is what he was doing at this workshop. It’s a writers’ conference. Krieg wasn’t a writer, but he published writers.”
“But he was certainly more famous as a preacher, wasn’t he?” Mangiapane asked.
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Koesler replied. “For one thing, anybody on television is bound to be more well known than anyone in the publishing business. But more than that, Krieg didn’t publish mainline books; he worked exclusively with books of a religious theme.”
“Oh?” Mangiapane said, “I don’t think I ever heard of any of his books.”
Tully spoke without looking at him. “When was the last time you read a book?”
Mangiapane grinned. “I look ’em over sometimes when we’re in the supermarket.”
Koesler nodded. “You’d know Krieg’s by their racy covers.”
“You mean the ‘Romance’ books?” Mangiapane said. “I thought you said they were religious.”
“It turns out they’re almost one and the same in Krieg’s hands,” Koesler said. “Actually, I think Krieg’s books are racier than most of the ‘Romances’-here we are.” They had reached the dining room so quickly, their gait had been so fast that now that they’d arrived he was nearly out of breath.
The three entered the dining room.
“Over-” Koesler stopped abruptly. He was gesturing to the spot on the floor where Krieg’s body had fallen. But there was no body. “I don’t understand,” he said. “It was right here. I don’t know what happened to it.” He turned almost imploringly to the two officers. “Honest.”
The three approached the spot where, Koesler assured them, there had been a body. But there was no body, no blood, just a clean floor.
“There was a body,” Koesler insisted.