Tully glanced around the room. “Didn’t you say some others were here?”
“Yes,” Koesler said, though he was so dumbfounded by the absence of Krieg’s remains, he was beginning to feel as if he were in a dream. He knew none of the others would have moved the body; they would know better than to disturb the scene of a crime.
“Where are they-the others?”
“Upstairs. I left them in a room on the second floor. It’s a learning clinic that’s been converted to a classroom for this conference.” There he went again: talking too much, giving extraneous explanations.
“They saw the body too?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Would you find them and ask them to come down here?”
Koesler left almost at a run.
Tully turned to Mangiapane. “Crazy! Why don’t you look around, Mangiapane? See if you can find somebody. Must be a kitchen around here someplace.”
“Right.” Mangiapane began his search.
Left alone, Tully yawned elaborately. His bone-weariness was intensified by not finding the body where it was supposed to be. It had been a sluggish Sunday shift until Koesler’s call-although Sunday or not, it was a rare day or night when Detroit let its Homicide Division off the hook by not killing any of its citizens.
Tully had been grateful. Business had been brisk lately and he was exhausted. But Koesler’s call had started the juices boiling. Now wide-awake, alert and sharp, he had sped to Marygrove expecting to find a body and begin the investigation. He’d been prepared to meet the scene of the crime head-on and discover all the mysteries it held and its answers to questions as yet unasked. Now, no body. The fatigue returned.
Koesler returned, with the others in his wake. He was not quite as sheepish as he had been. If he were losing his marbles, at least he was not alone: The others had seemed as confused as he when he told them what hadn’t been found in the dining room. As they entered the dining area they looked at the same empty spot on the floor. Each registered total amazement.
Mangiapane entered, the kitchen crew in tow. With the kitchen supervisor, cooks, assistants, waitresses, and KPs, along with the workshop faculty, there was a fair-sized crowd assembled.
No one risked being the first to speak.
“There was a body here,” Tully said.
No one responded to the statement. But there seemed a general sense of affirmation.
“Where did it go?”
To Tully that seemed the logical next step.
Silence. They looked at one another.
Tully sighed. He dug out his badge from a back pocket, held it at arm’s length so all could see it. “I’m Lieutenant Tully and this is Sergeant Mangiapane. We are with Homicide, Detroit Police Department, and I want an answer. . now! Where did the body go?”
From out of the silence came a small voice. “He left.”
“He left?” Tully repeated to be sure that’s what he’d heard. “Who are you?”
“J. . J. . Julie,” the small voice of a small waitress said.
“Okay Julie: He left. How did he manage that?”
“Well, he got up, and his chauffeur brushed him off, and then. . they left.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry and so very embarrassed.” Sister Janet was quite obviously on the verge of tears.
Tully turned to her. “And you are. .?”
“Sister Janet, Janet Schultes. I’m responsible for this conference.”
Aware that she was distraught, Tully tried to keep from his voice the frustration he felt. “Why don’t you tell me what happened. What ‘wasn’t supposed to happen this way’?”
Janet fumbled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Her hand was trembling. “I didn’t think it would work. He seemed so childish. But the agreement was made, and I couldn’t get out of it.”
As gently as possible, Tully waved his hand, cutting off her disjointed explanation. “Take your time, but start from the beginning. How did we come to get a corpse who gets up, is dusted off by his chauffeur, and walks away? The beginning, please.”
Janet reluctantly realized she was very definitely the center of attention and that the faculty of this workshop was every bit as eager to learn what had happened as were the police.
“You see,” Janet began, “this conference was set up almost a year ago. It was the brainchild of my predecessor, Jack Regan. Every conference or workshop of this sort must begin with a commitment from some major figure or celebrity that, you hope, will draw a significant enrollment. Jack began by extending an invitation to Klaus Krieg. Not a bad idea, all in all. . ” She glanced around at the faculty. “Whatever your opinion of Reverend Krieg, he is in demand as a celebrity and he does fit the bill as someone who can draw a crowd.
“Jack told me he was surprised and delighted that Krieg accepted. But his acceptance was conditioned on two provisions. The first was that the other panelists be Sister Marie, Fathers Augustine and Benbow, and Rabbi Winer. He also insisted that Father Koesler attend as an expert resource person.
“It was a most unusual stipulation, but Jack wanted Reverend Krieg enough to agree to at least try to meet his demands.
“The second condition Reverend Krieg insisted upon is what has caused this trouble. He proposed we stage what he termed a psychodrama.”
“A psychodrama,” Tully interrupted. Though a statement, it was a question.
“Yes, sort of an ad libitum play, a cinema verite. . a staged murder mystery. The idea was that this psychodrama was supposed to engage the creative processes of the faculty. Reverend Krieg thought it would help set the stage for tomorrow’s sessions if we were to stage a fake murder and then encourage the amateur sleuths to try to solve the case.”
“And that’s what happened?” Tully asked.
“Pretty much, yes. The writers”-her gesture included the four- “gathered here by late afternoon today. They had not met previously, and things were a bit stiff. The faculty did not much. . uh. . care for the Reverend’s TV ministry or his publishing house. It seems that all of them had, at one time or another, been offered a contract with P.G. Press. But none had signed the contract.
“Then when Reverend Krieg arrived during dinner, everything seemed to galvanize around him. After dinner, when the others had spread out through the building, we staged the fake murder. But,” and again she seemed on the verge of breaking down, “things got out of hand, as I feared they might. Angry words were exchanged and, worst of all, we never anticipated that the police would be called. I thought I could keep everyone together in here until the setup was consummated. If I had known anyone was about to call the police, I would have called a halt to the whole thing.”
Suddenly Koesler felt guilty on two scores: He had called the police without informing the others. As it turned out, if he had mentioned it, Janet would have aborted the whole thing. And secondly, his call to the police turned out to be a false alarm.
“Janet!” Marie spoke with incredulous anger. “You staged this whole thing! You let us accuse each other! You staged this entire sorry scenario without telling us it was all a piece of fiction. How could you!
“And when, for God’s sake, were you going to tell us?”
That was all Janet needed. She burst into tears.
Martha hurried to her side and tried to console her.
“Oh, Janet,” Marie said, “I’m sorry. You couldn’t help it, I suppose. You had to live up to the agreement.” She said it, but she wasn’t sure she meant it.
Tully felt as if he had about one grain of adrenaline left and he wanted to expend it on the one who was responsible for this farce. And that surely was not the lady now dissolved in tears. “Just where is this Mr. Regan now?”
Janet mumbled something unintelligible into her handkerchief.
“What was that?” Tully asked.
“The University of California,” Marie said. She had moved to join Martha in comforting Janet.
“Ahhh. .” Tully said. It was as if the air were being let out of him and he were being slowly deflated. There, in far distant California, was the only one at whom Tully felt justified in venting his anger and frustration. The other lady was right: It wasn’t this Janet’s fault. She’d inherited the crazy scheme. This Krieg character wasn’t really fair game either. It may have been his nutty idea, but all the Regan guy had to do was reject it and that would have been the end. The weariness returned with a vengeance.