William Kienzle - Man Who Loved God

“But why call it murder just because of an absence of powder burns?”

“Brother, it’s this way: when somebody is going to take his own life with a handgun, he doesn’t want to miss. See, the suicide is nervous; his hand is probably shaking. Try it. Pretend you’re holding a gun and you’re going to shoot yourself. If you hold the gun a foot away from your head, you can’t be certain you’re going to hit dead on. You’re not going to be able to control the weapon that well at that angle, or without a firm surface to steady it.

“Now, you don’t want to blast your nose or your ear away or just give yourself a painful flesh wound. No, you want to kill yourself with one shot.

“Now, to do this, the suicide holds the gun right up against his head. That way he’s got a good idea of just where the bullet is going. Or, he may stick the gun in his mouth and fire … another sure way he’s going to accomplish what he set out to do.

“So, my tentative label is homicide … uh, excuse me a minute.” He beckoned to Sergeant Moore. “Angie, work this case as a homicide for now. Make sure the techs dust everything- everything. Is the body ready to go?”

Moore nodded. “They were just waiting for you to finish with it.”

“Okay. I’ll call the morgue and see if I can get Moellmann on it. There’s something here and I’m betting Doc will find it.”

The priest and the detective left the room with Zoo’s arm around his brother’s shoulder.

“Where to?” Zoo asked, as they entered the unmarked police car. “I’ve got to get back to headquarters. This has all the marks of being an extra-busy day. You’re welcome to come with me, but I don’t think I’ll be much company.”

“Thanks. But I’d better head for the rectory. Bob should be getting in any time now. It’d be good if I were there with a hearty welcome.”

“Okay.” The lieutenant smiled broadly as he set course for St. Joe’s. “Well, Sherlock, got any idea who done it?”

His brother smiled in return. “I’ve got no idea … unless it was Moriarty.”

“Who?”

“The archvillain of the Sherlock Holmes series.”

“Oh … yeah. But seriously: you’ve been a witness to what’s been going on with the Adams Bank people. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? We thought we’d closed this book when we got the kid who killed Ulrich. Now, we’re opening another chapter. We’ve got a murder one on the guy’s widow-”

“Murder one?”

“Murder one,” Zoo repeated, “because anybody who tries to make a murder look like a suicide didn’t stumble onto the idea. It had to be carefully planned.

“Anyway, as I was saying, you’ve pretty well been in the thick of this thing … you’ve talked to just about everybody who’s mixed up in this. So, brother, what do you think?”

The priest was silent for some moments. Then, “There are a couple of things that I wondered about at the time. They’re probably nothing … they just seem a bit odd in the light of what’s happened since. I’m a little reluctant to even tell you because they probably don’t mean a thing, and they might throw you off the track.”

“No … no.” Zoo’s tone was earnest. “This is exactly what we’re looking for. Just tell me about it. Let me judge whether it’s relevant.”

“Okay. Well, the first incident was just before the award dinner. Right after Barbara Ulrich made her entrance, she sort of worked the room. I noticed something curious: she seemed to be slipping notes to four men-well, at least four that I saw; I didn’t watch her all evening. Anyway, the four were Tom Adams and his three executive vice presidents-Jack Fradet, Lou Durocher, and Martin Whitston.

“That seemed peculiar. Then, at the wake service for her husband, she took extra time talking individually to each of those same four men. I have no idea what they talked about … only that it seemed something was going on between them.

“And,” he concluded, “that’s about it.” He turned to Zoo. “That’s probably not going to help you much.”

Zoo shook his head. “It’s a start. We’ll be asking questions and we’ll definitely include those guys.” He pulled into the parking lot of St. Joe’s. “Well, here we are.” He didn’t bother putting the car in park.

As he exited the car, Father Tully said, “I’ll see you later, eh?”

“I’ll keep you posted. I know you’re interested.”

“Great!”

Father Tully was conscious of being pressed for time. Just inside the rectory he encountered a concerned Mary O’Connor. “I was just about to try to find another priest for noon Mass,” she said. “Did you get lost?”

“Too much to tell you now, Mary. After Mass. Father Koesler back yet?”

“Good Lord, is he coming back today?”

The priest chuckled. “He can’t stay away from you, Mary.”

The faithful few who frequented daily Mass were in their places. In the brief time he’d been offering daily as well as weekend Masses, Tully had gotten used to the same faces occupying the same pews in the vast church.

He was not surprised that his nagging distraction during this Mass was the image of Barbara Ulrich lying like a discarded doll. He recalled that neither she nor her husband had been affiliated with any church or religious body. He might well be asked to deliver another eulogy.

Meanwhile, he would pray that she had already entered the new life. He had no idea whether his prayers were needed or wanted. He offered them anyway.

After Mass, Father Tully returned to the rectory and lunch. He had barely wolfed a sandwich before Mary O’Connor caught up to him with two phone messages. One was from his brother, the other from Tom Adams. He decided to return his brother’s call first for more reasons than chronological order.

Zoo picked up at the second ring. On hearing his brother’s voice, he asked, “I haven’t pulled you away from something?”

“No. I haven’t done that to you?”

“Well … we’re a bit pushed,” Zoo admitted. “But I thought you’d want to know what’s happened since I dropped you.”

“Absolutely … and thanks.”

“I’ve been on the horn to Doc Moellmann-the medical examiner. He put the final nail in the homicide premise.”

“Congratulations … I guess. Exactly what was it you wanted him to discover?”

“The gunpowder … remember?”

“I remember.”

“The Doc saw the same thing we did. There were only a few specks some inches away from the entrance wound. And no muzzle imprint on her skin. So, there was good reason to suspect this was highly doubtful as a suicide.

“But what I was concerned about was that maybe the residue-the black soot-might’ve been blown inside the head. That would argue for the gun’s firing at point-blank range. In other words, instead of the powder showing up on the external skin around the wound, that the force of the shot had simply blown the soot inside her head.

“But Doc didn’t find any powder or soot inside. His conclusion is that the gun was fired at a distance of at least ten to twelve inches from her head. For a suicide that’s highly unlikely.”

“So you were right,” the priest said. “It was a homicide.” Once again he was impressed with and proud of his brother the cop.

“That’s not all, brother. Our victim, Barbara Ulrich, was pregnant.”

“Pregnant!”

“Only a month or two. But very definitely pregnant.”

“Oh! That would’ve been their first child,” the priest said. “What a tragedy. Now all of them dead-Al, Barbara, and their child. What a tragedy!”

“Hold on,” Zoo cautioned. “We don’t know that her husband was the father of her child.”

“Wha-!”