Like Professor Henry Higgins, he was indignant that his erstwhile protege was using the devices and maneuvers he’d taught her. Under his guidance she had grown from being an ugly duckling with a distracting and disconcerting nervous tic to become a Carmen-like seductress. In quick order, Pam narrowed the field, singling out a promising bank executive several years her junior. After a brief engagement, they were married-not by the Reverend David Benbow.
Her marriage threw David into an even deeper funk. It was as if his love affair had not only been pronounced dead; it had been entombed.
And for all of this he had Klaus Krieg to thank-overlooking, for the moment, his own culpability for initiating the affair with Pam. For a while, David had been so obsessed with Pam and her happiness in the face of his misery that he had virtually lost sight of Krieg’s ultimatum.
With Pam’s marriage and the ultimate end of their relationship, David recalled with horror that there was some sort of time limit to the ultimatum. Although he hadn’t set any specific date, Krieg had made it clear that David was running out of time.
However, with no recent contact from Krieg, David decided to let bad enough alone. Unless he were blessed by some unforeseen circumstance that would free him from Krieg’s clutches, Benbow would have to sign. It would take no more than a moment or two to sign the stupid contract. So why not wait until there was utterly no more room for maneuvering? Meanwhile, who could tell; something might happen.
Then the invitation arrived. In effect, it was a command performance from Krieg to attend a writers’ workshop at Marygrove College in Detroit.
The invitation was innocent enough. Not unlike many another invitation he’d received, as had other published authors. The difference was the small paragraph explaining the role of Krieg in this conference. It would be meaningless except to someone obligated to Krieg.
David knew. It was time. Unless. .
David’s attention focused on the other three proposed faculty members. He had heard of them. Two of them were first-time authors, but all had garnered good notices.
David studied their names. He had no way of knowing. But, supposing. . just supposing they were in the same or a similar boat as he. It was not inconceivable. Supposing all, or one or another, were being sought by Krieg for his stable. Supposing there was a kindred soul in that group. Could something be worked out? What? Strength in numbers? Together might they not be able to effect the “miracle” that would eliminate Krieg as their tormentor?
Contact with them would have to be discreetly handled.
He couldn’t write or call any of them now. Not without betraying his humiliating situation. Contact would have to be made in person-and even then only circumspectly.
He would have to wait until they had assembled at the college. He would consider it indicative if all the invited accepted. Difficult to think that all would have schedules that permitted attendance at the same workshop. If every one of them accepted and was present, that would indicate the possibility that they were united in a reluctant bond to Klaus Krieg.
Sound them out as judiciously as possible. Who could tell what might transpire? Maybe, just maybe, this dilemma might find a satisfactory conclusion. Maybe God would not have to intervene. Maybe they could do it themselves. Praise God!
18
Even during a school term, with a full complement of students, Marygrove’s campus was rarely this busy.
Particularly bustling was Madame Cadillac Hall, overflowing with police, the media-print, radio, and television-as well as the students who had signed up for the writers’ workshop. Gawkers and the curious lined the iron fences that surrounded the grounds. Police were stationed at regular intervals to keep bystanders off campus.
The story of the murdered rabbi had broken last night, reported on the late TV and radio newscasts and the early morning editions of the News and the Free Press. The city of Detroit, which routinely absorbs multiple murders daily, was shaken by the bizarre event of the killing of a visiting rabbi on an otherwise peaceful Catholic campus. The city might burn down around it, but Marygrove traditionally was spared this sort of notoriety. Yet now it had happened, and the city was stunned.
Inspector Walter Koznicki did not need a directive from Mayor Cobb to clean up this mess forthwith. He got one anyway. Lieutenant Alonzo Tully didn’t need a similar directive from his boss; he didn’t get one. Just the promise of all the police manpower he needed. Everyone in authority wanted this one locked up as quickly as possible.
There had been police task forces on the local scene before, lots of them. And Tully had participated in several. This was the first time he had been in command of one. It was a singular feeling. He had never been in charge of hundreds of soldiers in war either. But he surmised the two experiences were not all that different. On this field and in the heat of battle, he found he was not bad as a modern major general.
His troops were being efficiently utilized and he had done a credible job at delegating complementary responsibilities. Some of the officers were interrogating the workshop students, both those living on and off campus. Others were combing nearly every inch of Madame Cadillac Hall with deliberation and meticulousness. Still others were going over the scene of the crime: the dining room used by the workshop’s faculty. What remained of the faculty, minus the deceased Rabbi Winer, had been interrogated at length and in great detail last night. The panel members remained under a loosely structured surveillance-with the exception of the Reverend Klaus Krieg. Because he refused to stay in one securable place, he could not be protected in any absolute way. But in the number and quality of officers used, the police approached perfection.
Tully, through his delegates, was keeping abreast of what was going on in all areas of this investigation. In his mind, the most important detail, headed by Sergeant Angie Moore, was the group inquiring into the backgrounds of Augustine, Benbow, and Sister Marie. Due to the questionably unwarranted bitterness they exhibited toward Krieg, these three had to be the prime suspects at this point in the case.
It was natural, then, for Tully to feel a particular anticipation when he spied Angie Moore hurrying down the corridor toward him. Her haste telegraphed the message that her squad had uncovered something of moment.
With Tully was Father Koesler. His presence in the inner circle of this investigation was due, in part, to Inspector Koznicki’s invitation.
“Got somethin’?” Tully greeted Moore.
Moore nodded perfunctorily at Koesler. Under more casual circumstances she would have greeted him warmly. Now she was strictly business. “Yeah. We started calling people last night, till it got too late. Then we started again early this morning.”
“And?”
“And Benbow’s got-or at least had-one on the side.”
“A mistress?” Tully wasn’t sure Koesler understood what Moore meant, and he wanted to make sure there was no communication breakdown.
“Uh-huh.”
“How long’s it been going on?”
“Years.”
“How notorious?”
“Hard to tell. The first several calls we came up dry. Phoned some of his friends, a few parishioners whose names he gave us. Nobody knew anything except they were concerned about his being involved in any way in an act of violence. Then we got a break. One of the parishioners-I think her type used to be called ‘a pillar of the Church’”-she glanced at Koesler.