William Kienzle - Body Count

Too bad. A couple of the cases he’d been studying had been very attractive-compelling, almost.

One was the murder of a man at high noon on Jefferson Avenue directly in front of the Renaissance Center-or, as Detroiters knew it, the Ren Cen.

Lunchtime crowds had filled the streets, yet with plenty of people around, no one had come forward to give witness. The well-dressed attorney had left his downtown office to attend a business luncheon in one of the Ren Cen’s many restaurants. He had just crossed Jefferson when suddenly he fell to the sidewalk. No one came to his aid. People walked around and even over him until one of the traffic officers came over to investigate. But it was too late. He was dead, said the medical examiner, before he hit the pavement. Poisoned, the ME pronounced. The vehicle probably something like an umbrella nib or a stick with a pointed tip. The victim would have felt nothing more than a sharp prick. A large crowd, a busy street; he probably didn’t pay much attention, or probably disregarded it. Some careless pedestrian-a midday annoyance. As it turned out, it wasn’t carelessness, not with a poisoned weapon. Deliberate murder. Murder One. The victim had been identified as, among other things, closely linked to the local Mafia.

The other case beckoning Tully was the murder of a Detroit News reporter. He had been killed just outside an inner-city church; apt, since he was the religion writer for the News. He was covering a complex, multifaceted story, involving a priest, the parish’s pastor, who had gotten married months previously. His marital state had just come to light and the archdiocese was taking steps to oust him from the parish and have him defrocked.

Outraged parishioners had called a meeting at the church. They didn’t care whether or not he was married; they did not want to lose their priest. In response, a throng far larger than all the possible members of that parish had gathered. The standing-room-only crowd spilled out onto the street. The leaders of the protest had whipped the multitude into a revival-type frenzy. At the very peak of that passionate response, according to bystanders, shots rang out, which caused the uproar to increase, when no one thought that possible. Several people were hit, the reporter six times. He was dead on arrival at Detroit Receiving Hospital.

Two dead men, neither a platter case. The missing facet of each case was the motive.

There were any number of reasons why animosity toward a lawyer could explode into violence. Frequently, lawyers entered people’s lives at one or another crisis period. A harsh divorce settlement. A botched divorce case. The same with reference to a host of similar situations: property settlement, child custody, disability judgment, acrimonious estate matter, and so forth. Among all these possibilities, which one? And why poison? One of those bizarre Mafia statements? It was unusual, and that’s what whetted Tully’s interest.

And the reporter? Not in Tully’s memory had a local news writer been murdered. As far as he could see, people took out their frustrations with the media by an angry letter to the editor. Or perhaps, at most, a lawsuit. Why would anyone kill a reporter-and a religion writer at that?

For his part, Tully could not quite fathom why the crowd was so unhinged over what was happening to that priest. Tully had only a surface knowledge of organized religion. He was aware that the Catholic clergy were not allowed to marry. In fact, he’d had quite a cram course in the Roman Catholic Church’s rules and regulations concerning celibacy. A bizarre case last year had highlighted that Church feature. But-okay-so a priest gets married, he breaks the rule, and, Tully supposed, he’s out. Maybe there’s an appeal possibility. But it’s all there in Church law; why should lay people get all worked up? Were those bullets intended for someone else? Tully thought not. When several rounds all hit the same target, it’s not likely the shooter missed what he wanted to hit.

All this Tully could have communicated to Inspector Koznicki in a plea to pursue the cases that were already his. But from long experience, he knew such an appeal was foredoomed. At best, he-or maybe the Bloomfield cops-would find this missing priest in a hurry and Tully could get back to his work.

Could that have been the reason Koznicki was dumping this business on him? Ol’ Walt was a crafty guy. He would be well aware that Tully wanted no part of a missing person investigation. And that Tully would do everything in his power to get rid of it. And that the only way to do that would be to solve it or bring it to a successful or otherwise conclusion.

In any event, Tully hoped that some of these intriguing cases would still be waiting for him when he got back to the real world of Homicide.

Tully gathered the files, tapped them neatly together, placed them on the far corner of the desk, and faced Koznicki squarely. For better or worse, Tully was now at Koznicki’s disposal.

“Okay,” Tully said, “let’s start from the top. It might help to know just who this ‘influential’ person is who got everybody to throw out the rule book.”

“Eric Dunstable.”

“U.S. Motors?”

“Chairman of the board.”

Tully nodded. “That’s influential. What’s he got to do with it?”

“He’s a parishioner at St. Waldo’s-make that an invoked parishioner. He is, in fact, president of the parish council.”

Tully reflected on that. “Well, now, Walt, my education on things Catholic hasn’t quite got that far. But it does sound impressive.”

Only Koznicki’s eyes smiled. “A parish council is elected by parishioners. The president, usually, is elected, in turn, by the other council members. Or the council member who gets the most votes becomes the president. Suffice to say that the position-”

“-is an ‘influential’ position,” Tully broke in. “Whatever this guy does is going to be influential, isn’t it?”

“So it seems.”

“Or he doesn’t play.”

Koznicki considered a further analysis of the council president’s role irrelevant. He moved on. “The housekeeper at St. Waldo’s was not overly concerned when Father Keating did not appear for dinner on Friday evening. It seems he is not only somewhat undependable in matters he considers of minor importance-such as a commitment to a meal-but he generally does not bother explaining.”

“Sounds like a real sweetheart.”

“Undoubtedly he has other virtues,” Koznicki said noncommittally. “Apparently, he did not return to the rectory Friday night. He was not there Saturday morning and nothing in his room was disturbed. The bed was not slept in.”

“Let me guess: still no concern.”

“Correct. But Saturday is another story. As you can well imagine, Alonzo, the weekend is a terribly busy time for priests, what with confession and the Masses.”

“Masses?”

“Services. At St. Waldo’s there is a Mass late Saturday afternoon, with confessions before and after, and four Masses Sunday morning.”

Tully was impressed. “Quite a load for one guy.”

It took a moment for Koznicki to realize that Tully thought that the same priest presided at all these Masses. “Oh, no, Alonzo, there is help. I do not know how many priests assist at that parish of a Sunday, but you may rest assured Father Keating does not carry that load alone. I believe he has a full-time assistant and I would assume he has secured another priest-perhaps more than one-to help from time to time. St. Waldo of the Hills is not the sort of parish that would be strapped for help.”

“Okay.” So far so good, thought Tully. “So the priest wasn’t there yesterday-or today.”

“Exactly. And this was unprecedented. Father Keating invariably supervised the operation on weekends, settling such questions as which priests would offer which Masses, compiling announcements; in short, making sure everything ran smoothly.”