One eyebrow raised slightly. “Unusual for the medical examiner to give an opinion so quickly,” said Koznicki.
“He didn’t say for sure it was cyanide. He thinks it is. But if you ask me, he’s pretty damn sure-uh, ’scuse me, Father. The M.E.’s got this glint in his eye and he’s giggling a little bit. If I had a bottom dollar, I’d put it on cyanide.”
Koznicki suppressed a grin. Obviously, Mangiapane had grown accustomed to Moellmann’s many eccentricities. If the M.E. was relishing this, he was, indeed, pretty sure.
“What happened,” Mangiapane continued, “was that the rabbi was sitting at the table when he took the drink. The Doc says he must have gone into instant convulsions. .” The detective referred to his notes. “Then he probably clutched the table and the cloth was dragged off the table when he slipped off the chair and onto the floor. Doc says he was dead within four or five minutes.”
“What was the rabbi drinking?” Koznicki asked.
“Frangelico,” Mangiapane said, and immediately returned to his notes. “Doc says whoever put the stuff in picked the right kind of booze: Both the Frangelico and the cyanide have an almond odor. So the guy wouldn’t think anything odd about the aroma of the Frangelico as he opened it and poured it. Oh”-he began reading his notes verbatim- “and Doc says the condition of the body also suggests cyanide. He says the lividity is the clue. The guy looks all red. Doc says the poison paralyzes the enzymes in the body that allow the transfer of oxygen from the blood to the cells. The body is full of oxygen, but the oxygen is unused.” Mangiapane looked particularly pleased with himself.
“Is there any chance any of the other bottles have been poisoned?” Koznicki asked.
“Doc doesn’t think so. There’s no special odor to any of the rest of the booze. But he’s takin’ it all downtown for tests. And, of course, he’ll do the autopsy on the rabbi. But, like I say, he’s pretty sure.”
“Hmmm,” Koznicki said, “I wonder-if Dr. Moellmann is correct-I wonder how the killer knew to tamper with just the Frangelico specifically.”
“I have an idea,” Koesler said. “Last night after dinner, Krieg offered each of us a drink from his supply. Of all the choices possible-and I think he’s got one of everything and probably back-up bottles of each-”
“He’s right, Inspector,” Mangiapane interjected, “not only one of everything but the best of everything.”
“Yes,” Koesler agreed. “Well, Winer chose Frangelico. And, now that I think of it, he was followed by the Reverend Krieg. So, even anyone who hadn’t known beforehand, could, if he or she paid any attention last night, have noted that Winer and Krieg favored the Frangelico. It just so happened that I was standing off to one side, and since I was not conversing with anyone, I was able to observe what everyone else was drinking.”
“Excuse me, Father,” Mangiapane said, “but Krieg wasn’t the one who was murdered; Winer was.”
“The supposition at this moment, Sergeant,” Koznicki said, “is that the Reverend Krieg was the intended victim and that Rabbi Winer was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time drinking the wrong liqueur.”
“Oh. .”Mangiapane felt foolish.
Koesler wanted to explain and, at the same time dispel, Mangiapane’s embarrassment. “You weren’t here, Sergeant, when I was telling the Inspector what’s been going on here over the past couple of days.”
For Mangiapane’s benefit, Koesler recounted in some detail the interaction that had taken place, omitting only that which Tully and Mangiapane had learned when they had responded to the false alarm last night.
“So, you see, Sergeant,” Koesler summed up, “while there has been a great deal of animosity shown by the writers to Krieg, it has been Krieg’s overt aim to get any or all of the writers under contract to his publishing house.
“Although I can’t really envision any of these religious people actually committing the sin of murder, from everything that’s been said, a plausible case could be made that one or another of them might actually try to kill Krieg.
“And, as for the possibility that Krieg might be involved, the last thing in this world that he would do would be to kill one of the writers he was trying to sign.”
Mangiapane had followed the discussion attentively; he now proceeded to summarize. “So,” he said, “the idea is that someone put the poison in the Frangelico thinking that Krieg would drink it-based on the fact that that was his liqueur of choice last night. But, before Krieg gets to the bottle, Winer takes a drink, and that’s all she wrote.” He seemed content.
“It was not a bad plan, as I see it,” Koznicki said. “The killer might think that he had a fail-safe scheme. After he-or she-poisoned the Frangelico, he-let us simplify things-would figure that he would be present after meals when one would expect liqueur to be served. If anyone other than Reverend Krieg approached or accepted the Frangelico, the killer would be able to take some action-drop the bottle, or “accidentally” spill the contents of the glass or some such. But, as you said, no after-dinner drinks were offered due to the argument. Then, if it so happened that the Reverend Krieg would stop off for a nightcap alone and drink the poison”-Koznicki spread his hands-“so much the better. But what the killer did not foresee was that someone else would drop in unexpectedly, use the extra key and, unfortunately take the fatal drink.”
“And that,” Koesler said, “is what must have happened. Rabbi Winer must have come back downstairs from his room later in the evening. I can well imagine that he might have had trouble getting to sleep. Of all of us, he undoubtedly had the most hectic day. He probably thought that a drink or two would calm him down and help him get some sleep.”
“So,” Mangiapane continued the scenario, “he comes in. He’s the one who checked before dinner to see whether the cabinet was unlocked. He’s the one who was specifically told about the whereabouts of the duplicate key. So he goes directly to the key, unlocks the cabinet, pours himself a small glass of Frangelico, sits at the table, and. .
“He probably downed the glass in a gulp, went into convulsions, clutched at the cloth, and pulled it with him as he fell to the floor. And that’s how we found him.”
“And,” Koznicki concluded with a tone of regret, “the one who poisoned the liqueur was not there to intervene.”
“And so he became a murderer,” Mangiapane said.
Koznicki looked up as from a reverie. “He or she was a murderer from the outset. Except that the real victim was not the intended victim. Which means, of course. .” He gave no indication of completing the remark.
Koesler completed it. “. . the intended victim-Krieg-still lives. Will the killer try again? Or, now that everyone has been alerted, will the deed be aborted or postponed?”
“Good and relevant questions, Father,” Koznicki said. “I do not think the person we are dealing with is the type to be permanently dissuaded because of one failure. There must have been sufficient motivation. It required too much deliberation-courage, if you will-to dare the deed in the first place. I think there will be another attempt. We must be vigilant.”
“Excuse me,” Mangiapane said, “I’ve got to get back to Zoo.”
Koznicki and Koesler were left alone with their private thoughts.
“I specifically wanted Lieutenant Tully on this case,” Koznicki said finally.
“He’s your best, isn’t he,” Koesler said.
“There are many fine officers in the Homicide Division.”
Koesler smiled. “But he is your best, isn’t he?”
Koznicki smiled back. “Yes.”
“Do you anticipate this case being that difficult to solve?”
“I have no idea. Only time will provide that answer. It is not the difficulty in itself that will be the problem. It is the victim. It is,” Koznicki made a small but encompassing gesture, “the setting.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“There may be a great number of murders in the city of Detroit, but we do not as a rule kill members of the clergy.”