“Speaking of which,” Martha glanced at her watch, “it’s still rather early, but I can’t remember when I’ve been this tired. If there isn’t anything more on the agenda-and for the life of me I can’t think of what could possibly follow what we’ve been through-if we’re done for the evening, I think I’ll just retire.”
Winer looked at Sister Janet. “I take it, Sister, that the visit to our classrooms that you announced after dinner was no more than a ploy to get us away from ‘the scene of the crime,’ and that there is really no need to go there before the sessions tomorrow.”
Janet nodded.
“Then,” Winer said, “I feel you have touched upon a consensus, Mrs. Benbow. It’s off to bed we go.”
“Amen,” Marie said.
Benbow stifled a yawn. “So much for our first exciting night in Dynamic Detroit.”
And so, not one by one, but as a group, they left the dining room and its memories not of food but of surprises.
Meanwhile, between the dining room and the front door of the Madame Cadillac Building, Father Koesler had been talking virtually nonstop, apprising the two officers of all that had happened that evening.
The gathering of the writers; the gradual and mutual realization that each had been solicited by Krieg; the immediate sense of agreement that they would have prostituted their talent had they had the misfortune to sign with Krieg; the dramatic entry of Krieg partway through dinner; the departure of everyone but Krieg from the dining area; the gunshot; finding Krieg “dead”; the false alarm with Augustine; the confrontation between Winer, Benbow, and Marie as to which might have had the opportunity to murder Krieg; and finally, his call to Homicide.
Koesler was anxious that Tully and Mangiapane understand what had prompted him to summon them. He realized he undoubtedly would have saved them the trouble of coming out had he gone through the routine of calling 911. Surely an officer or two from the precinct could have observed the absence of a victim as easily as experts from Homicide.
Koesler felt about as sorry as anyone had ever felt about anything.
Throughout Koesler’s detailed explanation, Tully paid only peripheral attention. He was just drained. It was really the end of his shift. With any luck, in a short while he could check out and go home. He would get a bit to eat, an extravagant hot shower and, again with any luck, a relaxing back rub. And so to sleep.
Not quite as tired, Mangiapane was relishing Koesler’s tale.
After Koesler had expressed his contrition for the umpteenth time, Mangiapane said, “You don’t have to feel so bad, Father.”
“I don’t?”
“This isn’t the first time we got fooled by some kind of scam.”
They had reached the exit. Tully was eager to leave and start the process that would, the sooner the better, free him to go home, get some tender loving care, and sleep-in that order.
Unfortunately, Mangiapane had begun a tale told out of school. Tully knew the story but he decided to endure it once again. He knew Mangiapane was telling the story for Koesler’s benefit. And, well, what the hell, the priest had been through an ordeal himself this evening. Maybe learning that he was not alone in failing for a fictional mystery scam would make Koesler feel better. The priest might get some sleep tonight but it would not be preceded by any tender loving care. Too bad, Tully thought, but that’s the way the collar buttons.
“This is a true story, Father,” Mangiapane continued. “It started when a guy got a piece of mail, no return address, just a plain piece of paper with threatening words all over it-like ‘murder,’ ‘kill,’ ‘an unsolved crime,’ ‘sudden death.’ The words looked like they came from newspapers, magazines, other publications. Just these words cut out.
“The guy couldn’t figure out why he got this threatening letter, but he was plenty scared. And he stayed scared, getting dead-bolt locks on his doors, double-checking the back seat of his car before getting in, parking near street lights at night, the whole thing.
“Then about ten days later, he gets another letter. Just like the first one, this has no return address. Just a plain envelope containing another plain piece of paper with threatening words cut out of various types of publications.
“By this time, the guy is scared enough to come to us. We took it pretty serious too. In fact we started an investigation. Sure enough, in another week, the guy gets another anonymous threatening letter. Now, none of these letters specifically threatens him personally; they’re just filled with life-threatening words. And we keep adding to the file.”
Koesler interrupted. “Did you put him under-what’s it called? — protective custody?”
Mangiapane chuckled. “You mean like they do in the movies, where almost an entire police department stops everything they’re doing and guards some potential victim for twenty-four-hour periods? So nobody can get close?”
The way Mangiapane rephrased the question, Koesler knew the answer was no.
“That just doesn’t happen in real life, Father,” Mangiapane said. “There’s no possible way we can protect anybody who decides he’s gonna do what he ordinarily does. If he’s gonna go to work, walk outside, go out to eat, his regular routine-he’s fair game.
“The only way we can protect somebody is if he agrees to retreat to a safe place. Say a hotel room or a jail cell. We’ve got to control the environment before we can offer secure protection.
“Anyway, this file we were keeping was filling out pretty good when, finally, he gets a piece of mail identical to the others, except this one promises the murder is gonna take place on Mackinac Island-at the Grand Hotel. And this time there’s a return address-a travel agency in Royal Oak.
“Needless to say, the guys working this case hopped right over to the agency and really rattled their cage.
“The thing turned out to be a brand new enterprise for the agency. They were sponsoring a ‘Mystery Weekend’ at the Grand Hotel. . not an awful lot different from your little psychodrama here. The agency was sending out fliers to likely customers. It turns out that this guy and we were the only ones who were taking it serious.
“When our guys were pinning this travel agent to the wall, all the poor guy could say was, ‘But it was just promotion.’ I can tell you one thing, Father: It’ll be a long time before that guy tries another tricky promotion like that.”
“And,” Tully added, “it’ll be a long time before we fall for another stunt like that. By the way, Father, that story was meant for your consolation-not for publication.”
“I can keep a secret,” Koesler assured.
“Yeah, you can, can’t you,” Tully replied.
“And,” Koesler added, as the two detectives were leaving the building, “thanks.”
Koesler returned to the dining area. Finding no one there, he assumed-correctly-that the others had retired for the night. He decided to do the same.
Before entering the room, he noticed a sign on the bulletin board advising that Mass would be at 8:00 a.m. in the chapel. On entering his room, he found a note from Sister Janet, asking him to say the morning Mass. The note had a postscript regarding the condition of Father Augustine: A doctor had pronounced him indisposed but very much alive.
It was only then that Koesler realized he had completely forgotten Father Augustine. He had moved from reported death to a healthy snore to a normal prognosis. Koesler had been so distracted by other developments that, for all practical purposes, Augustine’s condition had been blocked out. How soon they forget!
9
The mass, a reenactment of the Last Supper, is the core liturgical event of many Christian sects. In no religious expression is it more at the heart of everything than in Catholicism.
Catholics old enough to remember a time during and before the Second Vatican Council, will recall the expected routine of daily Mass. Virtually all priests offered Mass every day. Most parishes were staffed by more than one priest. Thus, most parishes had more than one scheduled Mass daily.