A priest Koesler’s age will have witnessed the marriage of hundreds of couples, most of them fading into one unrecognizable melange. Ditto baptisms, first Communions, and school plays.
So he tried to be as pleased about this chance meeting as was the young woman who had greeted him. But his hesitation communicated his failure to place her.
“Angie Moore,” she supplied. “Sergeant Angie Moore. We worked together briefly last year on an arrest. .”
Aha! That was it. “Of course. . Sergeant Moore.”
It all came flooding back. “The last time I saw you you were sitting on the floor and you were cut. . bleeding. How are you now?”
She laughed. An infectious, musical laugh. “That was a year ago, Father. I’m fine. I would’ve lost more blood if I’d given to the Red Cross.”
“Good, good.” Now what? “So, what are you doing here, Sergeant?”
“There’s been a murder, Father. I work in Homicide, remember?”
Damn! “Of course. How stupid of me.”
“Did you see her, Angie?” Tully was tiring of this reunion.
“Yeah, Zoo. I saw her. And learned a lot.”
Tully explained to Koznicki and, necessarily, Koesler also. “I asked Angie to get in touch with Mrs. Winer, the rabbi’s wife. . widow. So you saw her. How did it go?”
The transformation was instantaneous. It was as if her happy surprise at meeting Koesler hadn’t happened. Angie Moore was all business.
“It was rough,” Moore said, “real rough. I guess they must have been real close. One of those exceptions, a long and happy marriage. I thought I was gonna lose her right after I gave her the news. I mean, I thought she was gonna faint. But she didn’t. She hung on. She wanted so much to know what happened she must have forced herself to hold on.”
“And then?” Tully prodded.
“And then she wanted to know how it happened. Wait a minute. .” She took her notepad out of her purse and consulted it. “I told her,” Moore said, “that it had been a mistake-the result of a fluke, an accident. That someone had intended to kill Klaus Krieg, but that her husband had accidentally been poisoned with a drink intended for Krieg.
“At first she didn’t say anything. Then she said, ‘What a waste! What a waste!’”
“Strange,” Koznicki commented.
“That’s what I thought,” Moore said. “But I got the impression she wanted to open up to me. So I just kind of kept quiet and waited. And then, she did.
“She said, ‘What a waste! Irv went to that workshop to have it out with Krieg once and for all. And that Irv should die in Krieg’s place-I can’t believe it!’
“I agreed with her. Then I asked what she meant by her husband ‘having it out’ with Krieg.
“She didn’t respond immediately. Like she was debating with herself whether to open up or not. Finally, she said, ‘You see, my husband was in a Nazi concentration camp. .’” Moore looked at Tully. “Did you know that?”
“Yeah,” Tully said. “He had a number tattooed on his arm.” Tully shrugged. “He was Jewish.”
“Well,” Moore continued, “I asked her what her husband being in a concentration camp had to do with Krieg. She didn’t say anything for several minutes, just sat looking off into the distance. Finally, I guess everything overflowed. She started to talk, so slowly and quietly at first that I could barely hear her.
“She said, ‘It was near the end, just before the camp was liberated. Irv had suffered the pains of the damned for seven years. He lasted longer than just about anyone else condemned to that hell on earth. Then something happened.’ She stopped for a moment. . as if she was struggling with herself. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision-sort of as if she had decided to trust me. Actually,” Angie looked a little ill at the memory, “I think she was so close to breaking down that she had to overflow-you know, confide in another human being. And I guess ’cause it was another woman, it was easier for her.
“Anyway, she said, ‘He became an informer, a traitor to his own people, a collaborator with the Nazis.’
“Then she broke down crying. She was sobbing so hard I put my arms around her and just held her. Finally, she pulled herself together. And she said, ‘Irv didn’t know I knew. It was the one thing, the only thing he never told me. I found out when I started researching his genealogy. He was so proud of his heritage, I wanted to get a family tree put together for him. I went to a lot of trouble, writing, getting names of his friends, his family.
“‘It was one of his friends-well, actually a distant relative-who still lives in Germany. He told me. He said Irv didn’t know that quite a few people knew what he’d done in the camp. He wanted Irv to know that the Jews who knew about it bore him no ill will. They understood. They had been there. You did what you had to. You stayed alive.’ She shook her head, and added, ‘He was just a boy.’
“Then she looked at me and she said, ‘I never told Irv. What good would it have done? It didn’t matter if they forgave him or understood. I know him. I know he never could forgive himself. So I didn’t let on I knew his secret. If he didn’t tell me, he didn’t want me to know. I couldn’t let him know that I’d found out, even if it was by accident.’
“That seemed to be all she wanted to tell me. I waited, but nothing more came. So I asked her what all that had to do with having it out with Krieg here at the conference.
“She said, ‘It had everything to do with it. Because Krieg had found out. Oh, it wasn’t that difficult. It wasn’t that difficult for me to find out, and I don’t begin to have the money, the power, the resources that Klaus Krieg has. It just wasn’t as difficult as Irv probably thought it was.
“‘See, one of the times Krieg called, Irv wasn’t in. So Krieg talked to me. I guess Krieg assumed Irv had told me what had happened in the camp. Of course, Irv hadn’t told me. And if I hadn’t found out on my own, it would’ve been a terrible way to find out-from Krieg. But if I hadn’t already known about it and if Krieg had discovered that I didn’t, he would have threatened Irv that he would tell me about it too.’
“I said,’Too?’”
Tully exhaled so audibly it sounded almost like a whistle. “Blackmail! Krieg was blackmailing Winer. That’s what it’s all about.”
“That would explain why the rabbi was so upset at Reverend Krieg’s repeated efforts to sign the rabbi to a contract,” Koznicki said.
“That’s it,” Moore said. “Mrs. Winer said that Krieg, after he got done using every legitimate means to get her husband to sign, had threatened and finally issued an ultimatum that if Winer still refused to sign, Krieg would get the story out in the open.”
“Could it have hurt that much?” Koesler asked.
The others looked at him as if he’d dropped out of the sky. They had nearly forgotten he was there.
Their reaction slightly embarrassed Koesler. Nonetheless, having surfaced, he proceeded. “I mean, it happened so long ago. In the context of where and how it happened, it is so understandable. And, according to his wife, everyone who knows about it has forgiven him.”
“I asked her the same question,” Marie said. “But she said that at very least he would lose his credibility, and very possibly the president of the synagogue would move to have him dismissed. And they’d probably do it. She was convinced that if that had happened his life both as a rabbi and a writer would end. But most of all, if it had become public, her belief was that he would just have disintegrated.”
Silence.
“So,” Tully said, “Winer came here to have it out once and for all with Krieg.”
“Do you think it possible the rabbi intended murder as a last resort?” Koznicki asked.
“Sure sounds like it,” Tully replied.
“Father Koesler has told us of his surprise at the hostility toward Krieg not only on the rabbi’s part, but from all the other writers,” Koznicki said. “Is it possible. .?”
Tully nodded. “Angie, go get Krieg. He’s in the dining room.”
Shortly, Moore returned with Krieg.
“Reverend,” Tully said, “Sergeant Moore here just got done talking with Rabbi Winer’s widow.”