Koesler’s eyes widened in understanding. “The image!”
“Precisely. The city administration will be most eager to have this case closed as quickly as possible. The media will have a field day with this story. A visiting rabbi murdered in a Catholic college at a workshop given to the study of religious murder mysteries!”
“Of course. Put those ingredients together and the story almost writes itself. So that’s why you assigned the case to Lieutenant Tully.”
Koznicki nodded. “He will have all the help he needs or wants.”
“This is sort of like that case years ago, when we first met, isn’t it? Remember: when those priests and nuns were being murdered by that demented man who left a rosary as his calling card.”
Koznicki grimaced. “How could any of us forget that? But, yes, there is a similarity. Again it was a case of who was being killed-priests, nuns, save the mark! Then as now, the city’s reaction was to do everything possible to expedite a solution. And, again, Father, due to the nature of this case, I would very much appreciate it if you would give us the benefit of your observations-in a most unofficial capacity of course. If that is not asking too much?”
“Of course, Inspector. But I don’t know that I’ll be of much help.”
“Nonetheless, if you please?”
“Certainly.”
Koznicki was not playing a hunch. Over the years he had come to rely on Father Koesler in cases such as this. Whenever Catholicism was introduced into a murder investigation, Koznicki could depend on Koesler to provide a unique contribution toward the solution.
Koesler had the background. He’d been a Detroit priest for the past thirty-five years. He had ties to and easy familiarity with most of the priests and many of the nuns of the Archdiocese of Detroit. He was at home in the old Church as well as the new. He kept up with theological developments. Thus, when there was an understandable gap in the knowledge of things Catholic on the part of the police, Koesler was able to fill in that gap nicely.
Beyond that, Koznicki had learned that, despite the priest’s demurrers, Koesler had an uncommonly keen eye for detail. His observance of Krieg’s choice of Frangelico as an after-dinner drink was an excellent example. Koesler’s powers of observation had been demonstrated in any number of investigations over the past several years.
Besides these very good reasons, Koznicki wanted Koesler in the inner circle of this case for the simple fact that the two enjoyed each other’s company.
Mangiapane returned. “Father, Zoo., er. . Lieutenant Tully wants-uh, would like you-in the room across the hall-uh, now.”
“Okay,” Koesler glanced at Koznicki.
“I will just come along too,” said the Inspector.
Tully had not requested Koznicki’s presence. But Mangiapane well knew the department’s pecking order. “Yes, sir!” he said fearlessly.
14
Of those who’d been invited, Koesler was the last to arrive.
The room held himself, Koznicki, Mangiapane, Tully, Janet, Marie, David and Martha Benbow, Augustine, and Krieg. This was the first Koesler had seen of Krieg since the murder. His appearance left little doubt that he’d been badly shaken.
Koznicki immediately motioned Tully into the corridor, although not out of Koesler’s line of vision. He could see that the Inspector was addressing Tully in what, for Koznicki, was an animated manner. Koesler guessed the two detectives were bringing each other up-to-date on what they had discovered to this moment.
While they conversed, Koesler, affecting nonchalance, studied the others in the room. To a person, everyone appeared to be very struck, as well they all might be, at the murder of a confrere, even though they had known him but briefly. The silence was total and strained.
By far, Krieg seemed the most affected of all. He was so pallid he looked as if he might faint at any moment. And gone, completely gone, was any vestige of the patented smile. The smart money had it that Krieg had just escaped a sudden and unexpected death. And his escape was no more than an accident, a fluke. If Rabbi Winer had not known there was an alternate key to the cabinet, if he had not suddenly gotten a thirst for a nightcap, the Reverend Klaus (“Blitz”) Krieg would now be headed downtown. Not to the Westin Hotel but to the morgue. It was enough to give any person pause. And it certainly had reached Krieg.
Out of the corner of his eye, Koesler noticed movement; Koznicki and Tully reentered the room. Their expressions gave inscrutability new definition. Koznicki remained in the background. Tully seated himself on an undraped table. Although this, another comparatively small dining room, was filled with tables and chairs, there was no sign it had been used for dining-or any other purpose-for a long while.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tully began, “what appears to have happened is that a bottle of Frangelico liqueur was poisoned. The substance used appears to be cyanide. There can be no doubt that whoever poisoned the liqueur intended to kill someone. We believe the intended victim was Reverend Krieg.”
At the mention of his name, Krieg’s complexion grew even more ashen. Koesler had not thought this possible.
“We don’t know,” Tully continued, “exactly when the liqueur was poisoned, but we can narrow it down a bit. Since two of your group-Reverend Krieg and Rabbi Winer-drank from that bottle last evening, we know there was nothing wrong with the liqueur at that time.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Benbow said, “but how do you know that? Is there a hidden camera someplace in that room?”
For a moment Tully enjoyed the luxury of wishing that room had been outfitted with a hidden camera. It would make this a much easier investigation if all the police had to do was run the film and watch the murderer poison the liqueur. But life, particularly a policeman’s life, was tougher than that. Besides, Tully was in no hurry for a society where Big Brother watched everything everyone did at all times.
“We have the testimony of an eyewitness, reliable, who saw Krieg and Winer pour and consume drinks from that bottle. There may have been others who saw the same. The point is, one survivor is all we need to know that, at least at that time, the bottle was free of poison.”
“Just a minute, Lieutenant,” Augustine said. “What about the possibility that an amount of the poison insufficient to cause immediate death was used? That way it could have a cumulative effect. The rabbi might have gotten a small amount of cyanide last night. Then tonight, the second drink-or maybe he had several-would have killed him. If that were the case, the liqueur might have been poisoned even before last night.” Augustine seemed inordinately proud of the point.
Tully, expressionless, regarded the monk for a few moments. “I know of no way anyone can measure a dose of cyanide that will kill only on the second drink-or not on the first. You’re probably thinking of cases where arsenic has been added to food in very small quantities over a considerable period of time.
“Anyway, we will be testing the liqueur to see how much poison was in it. Judging from the coloration of the body, it was a healthy dose. Although”-Tully almost but not quite smiled at his inadvertent use of the word “healthy” to describe a fatal dose of poison-“a little cyanide goes a long way.”
Augustine seemed to physically retreat within himself.
“That brings us to tonight. Sometime between last night’s dinner and late this evening someone poisoned the liqueur. It was not unrealistic to expect that later last evening, or after dinner this evening, or surely sometime during this week, Reverend Krieg would have another drink of his favorite liqueur. If someone else were to reach for the Frangelico as an after-dinner liqueur, whoever poisoned it would be able to block its use-by ‘accidentally’ spilling the contents or dropping the bottle, for instance. Obviously, no one, least of all the killer, anticipated that anyone besides Krieg would return at night and, in effect, break into the cabinet.”