William Kienzle - Body Count

“He didn’t call? No word?”

“None. Needless to say, everyone was and is quite concerned. Earlier this afternoon, Mr. Dunstable stepped in.”

“Or took charge.”

“Probably more accurate. He contacted the Bloomfield Hills Police, and they are already on the case. And then he contacted our mayor.”

“Cobb? He found Cobb? On a Sunday?” Tully snorted. “You did say he was influential.”

“Mr. Dunstable and the mayor are quite close socially.”

Tully shrugged. “I suppose it’s about time Dunstable got something in return for all those contributions. One last question, Walt: Why me? I mean, I know no mere question is going to get me out of this one, but just for the record, why me?”

Koznicki treated it as a rhetorical question. “The mayor promised Mr. Dunstable our best detective would head the investigation. And the mayor is aware of your record.” There was a note of barely disguised pride in Koznicki’s voice over the fact that the mayor recognized Tully’s accomplishments.

Koznicki rose slowly. “The mayor contacted the chief, who notified me. I think it best you call in the troops immediately. By the way, the Bloomfield Hills and other suburban police will be assigned to you for the term of this investigation. You will head up this task force.”

Koznicki left, knowing he had placed the matter in most competent hands.

The only silver lining Tully could perceive was that as missing persons go, a missing priest is at least a little out of the ordinary. Maybe he would learn something along the way.

In any case, this would, Tully vowed, be one of the briefest searches in the history of missing persons investigations. He would find the errant priest and bring him home safely. Then he would get back to serious business.

Pat Lennon sat alone at a small table in a far corner of the cafeteria on the second floor of the Detroit News.

She was by no means alone in the cafeteria. A large percentage of those who worked in the News’s downtown building began the workday in this spacious dining room. Some hit the cafeteria before their desks. Bleary-eyed, still in their coats, they would straggle in, knowing the day would not get moving until they had their coffee.

Most of them were creatures of habit, sitting at the same table each day, trading gossip with the same people.

That’s why Lennon sat alone. Any number of reporters-safe to say all the males-would have been delighted to join her. But her usual companion at this hour was Pringle McPhee, who, this Monday morning, was late.

Pat sipped her coffee with mounting impatience. If Pringle didn’t step on it, Pat would go on to the city room without her. Just as she was about to give up, in bounced Pringle. She spotted Pat, smiled and waved to her, then headed for the snail-paced line at the elongated buffet.

Pat watched as Pringle moved along, selecting cold cereal, scrambled eggs, sweet rolls, and coffee. Quite a breakfast, especially for one as trim and slender as Pringle. Pat wondered how she kept her shape without any bridle on that voracious appetite.

Pringle’s limp was barely noticeable. Indeed, if one did not know about the problem, one would scarcely be aware of it. As Lennon looked on, she remembered almost subconsciously that night when the car hit Pringle. Now, four years later, Pat could still enumerate Pringle’s wounds: bilateral broken legs, a closed head injury, skull fracture, fractured pelvis, fractures of facial bones, abdominal damage, and six broken ribs on the right side.

Pat remembered so well the list of injuries because not only had Pringle been run down in lieu of Pat, Pat had played a vital part in Pringle’s rehabilitation.

The rehabilitation had been a remarkable success. Providentially for such a lovely girl, there were no scars. Remaining was only that suggestion of a limp-and a subtle weakening in Pringle’s self-confidence.

There was no diminution in her professional confidence. She was a good reporter, steadily getting better, and aware of her worth as a journalist. Her vulnerability lay in her fear of danger. The dread, while understandably natural, bordered on the phobic.

Pringle, in her mid-twenties when she was injured, had defeated death by a hair’s breadth. An extraordinarily healthy specimen, she had been able to do practically anything she set out to accomplish. Then came the overwhelming trauma, and the long, agonizing struggle to make the slightest gesture, to think clearly, to walk. Where before she would ski the most forbidding hills, now she hesitated at crossing a busy street.

Because Pat understood all this, she was especially understanding and protective with Pringle. She was a little more than ten years Pringle’s senior. The two could have been sisters. Only in comparison with Pringle could Lennon be considered full-figured. They were, simply, two beautiful women.

Pringle sat in her accustomed chair. Pat smiled as she watched her unload her busy tray.

“Anything more on Hal?” Pringle asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

Pringle didn’t give her eggs a chance to get cold. “What do you think?” she asked between bites. “I mean, it’s all so senseless, isn’t it?”

They were talking, as was just about everyone, about the killing of Harold Salden, the religion writer for the Detroit News.

“Sure it’s senseless. I guess it just underscores this crazy society with guns all over the place. And we’re right in the middle of it. We’re there covering stories that are all about violence. That’s what Hal was doing when he was shot: covering a story in a violent atmosphere. It could have happened to any of us.”

Pringle dropped a forkful of eggs back onto her plate. Pat glanced at her. Pringle’s hand was trembling. Instantly, Lennon regretted her words. It wasn’t tactful to mention in Pringle’s presence that their profession could be and occasionally was hazardous. Pringle didn’t need that.

Quickly, Pat added, “Of course, there’s another angle as far as what happened to Hal. Unlike lots of religion writers in thegood old days, Hal was a damn good reporter. Good reporters have a tendency to make enemies. You know the old principle: If you have no enemies, you’re not doing anything. In that case, then, maybe it wasn’t senseless after all.”

“What do you mean?” Pringle’s concern was evident.

“I mean there are at least a couple of ways of looking at Hal’s shooting. It could have been pure chance: He just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe it was somebody who hada grudge.”

“A grudge against Hal? Pat, he was a religion writer! Who’d have any reason to hold a grudge against a religion writer?”

“You forget, he was also a first-rate reporter. And don’t think there aren’t some very violent people mixed up in so-called religious affairs. There’s always the good old Islamic jihad; Allah and Yahweh never did get along. And how about the pro-life and pro-choice people when they confront each other on a street corner? Anger and violence all over the place. Even religion? Especially religion! And Hal covered that scene. He must have made some enemies. Any of them could have done it.”

This wasn’t going well, Pat had to admit. The further she speculated about Hal’s murder, the more she was adding to Pringle’s nameless fear. This might be an appropriate moment to call a halt to this conversation and get on with the day. She should be at work now anyway. She pushed her chair back from the table.

“Wait,” Pringle said, “let me get you some coffee.”

It was a longstanding signal. Pringle wanted to talk.

Pat couldn’t refuse. “That’s okay. You work on your breakfast. I’ll get myself some coffee.”