William Kienzle: Man Who Loved God

“This is Father Tully. I was just speaking with Mr. Adams. He said he would return my call right away. Is he there?”

She caught the agitation in the priest’s voice. “No, Father.” Her tone became perturbed. “No. He … he just left his office.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“N … no. He didn’t say. Would you like me to-”

There was no point in continuing this conversation. Time was of the essence. The priest didn’t know what was going on at the bank, but he sensed danger and impending tragedy. He dialed homicide, identified himself, and asked for his brother.

“Lieutenant Tully is on the street.”

“Whereabouts on the street?”

The officer chuckled. “He’s in his car, Father-on the far east side.”

Too far away. He’ll never be able to get downtown in time! Another cop. He had to get another cop. But who? He knew so few. The bread eater-the priest’s mnemonic for one of Zoo’s cops. “How about Sergeant Mangiapane?”

“One second.”

The line clicked; a phone was picked up. “Mangiapane,” a preoccupied voice said.

“This is Father Tully. I need you right away.”

“Oh, hi, Father. What’s the problem?”

“I think it’s a matter of life or death.”

“You want Zoo?”

“He’s too far away. It’s gotta be you.”

Mangiapane hesitated a millisecond. “Okay, Father: Shoot.”

“You’ve got to get over to Adams Bank and Trust headquarters. Mr. Adams’s office. I’ll meet you there-”

“But what-?”

“No time to explain. There’s no time. Just hurry, please-fast as you can!”

“I’m gone!” There was a click answered by the one from the priest’s phone.

Father Tully raced his rented car down Jefferson toward Woodward and the skyscraper that housed the headquarters of Adams Bank. He left the car double-parked on the street amid honking horns and imprecations not ordinarily directed at a man of the cloth.

The elevator seemed to barely move. He struck the wall in frustration. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Should he have taken the stairs? Immediately the thought of a run up twelve flights made him realize he would have left his game on the stairway. When the car finally reached the twelfth floor, he almost hurled himself through the not yet fully opened doors, banging his shoulder in the process. He shook his head as if to shake the pain from his arm.

“Did he come back?” he asked as he hurtled past an astonished Lucille into Adams’s office.

“No … no, he didn’t,” a startled Lucille said to the space recently occupied by the priest. “Father, you can’t go in there!” She followed the priest into the inner office.

“Oh yes, I can.” Tully rifled through papers near the phone on Adams’ desk. “You can call … uh … Nancy Groggins. She was there when he invited me to visit anytime at home or work.”

“Well, that may be-” Lucille was becoming huffy; even if he was a priest, he had no right” You have no right to bust in here.…” Her increasingly angry protestation gained steam.

No letter. There was no letter from Barbara … or at least he couldn’t find it. Then he caught sight of a piece of paper obviously ripped from the desk calendar. It bore a single word, written in big, bold letters, JUDAS!

By now Father Tully was accustomed to Tom Adams’s regular reference to biblical figures and features. Judas was the quintessential traitor. Judas was one of those chosen to be closest to Jesus.

Who would play Judas to Tom Adams? Someone closest to him-one of the executive vice presidents. What did Tom Adams hold most precious? Independence-that his bank remain independent. Who of the three executives would be in a position to sell out the bank? Who, by manipulating figures, could show false profits and losses … lull the president into thinking his bank was secure when it was not? Jack Fradet!

This conclusion was reached in only a few moments. “Where are the executives’ offices?”

Lucille was still sputtering vehemently. “One floor down,” she answered before she realized her upbraiding had been interrupted. But Father Tully was already gone, running toward the stairs. Again he led with his shoulder, pushing against the stairwell door. Open, damn you! Then he realized that he had to turn the knob and pull to open the door. He hurtled down the stairs, taking some two at a time while praying that he wouldn’t trip and topple down the rest of the way.

This time the door did open outward. He burst through it. Another dash down another corridor. His chest heaved; his breath pounded in his ears. There! The nameplate he was seeking.

“You can’t go in there-!” But he was past her and into the inner office.

He found just about what he had expected to see.

Tom Adams, jacketless and, for him, disheveled, held a gun pointed squarely at an obviously terrified Jack Fradet. Adams stole a quick glance at the priest and just as quickly returned total attention to the cowering Fradet.

“Tom!” The priest was almost shouting. “Put the gun down. Please! It’s not worth it. He’s just not worth it. There are better ways. You’ll just ruin your life. Everything you’ve worked for will go down the drain. Please. Put down the gun!”

“Father’s right,” said a commanding voice from the office doorway. “There’s a desk in front of you, Mr. Adams. Put the gun on the desk. Carefully please.” The cavalry, in the person of Sergeant Mangiapane, weapon drawn, had arrived. Father Tully breathed a half sigh of relief.

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand what this traitor has done.” Adams, still holding the gun, spoke in an imploring tone.

“I think I do,” said Father Tully. “But the place to settle this is in the courtroom. Not here.”

From the maelstrom of thoughts whirling through the priest’s mind, one was suddenly uppermost: he knew what kind of a person Tom Adams was at his core. “Tom, what you’re thinking of doing is a sin-a mortal sin. It’s murder. You’re going against one of God’s commandments. God does not want you to do this, Tom. I’m a priest and I’m telling you: God wants you to put that gun down.”

He did not turn his gaze from Fradet. But Adams moved slightly. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun and laid it on the desk.

“Now, Mr. Adams,” Mangiapane said in a calm, steady tone, “I want you to step back from the desk.”

Adams did as he was ordered. Mangiapane stepped forward, picked up the gun, then holstered his own. He patted down both Adams and Fradet, the former in a seeming daze, the latter in a state of shock. Mangiapane turned to Father Tully. “What’s going on here, Father?”

“Fraud, I think, at the very least,” the priest said. “And maybe lots more. Sergeant, seeing as how I’m the one who called you in on this, would you humor me? I need a few favors.”

Mangiapane’s cocked eyebrow evidenced his uncertainty.

“Could you give me a little time alone with Mr. Adams, make sure that Mr. Fradet doesn’t leave, and, finally, get my brother over here?”

Mangiapane deliberated. While such a procedure was in no police textbook he’d ever studied, he could find nothing substantially problematic in these requests. Neither Adams nor Fradet was armed. Adams was not likely to step out an eleventh-floor widow. Fradet could be detained in one of the other offices. And, in fact, Mangiapane himself dearly wanted his superior officer here as quickly as possible. “You got it, Father. But make it snappy. Zoo was heading in when I left. I’ll call him now; he should be here in a couple of minutes.”

Mangiapane left the office with Fradet literally in hand. As he made his way through the outer office, he ordered a host of spectators back to work.