William Kienzle - Body Count

When Pat returned to the table, Pringle lost no time in resuming the conversation. “It’s a funny thing,” she said, “I hadn’t thought about it until we started talking about Hal and the religion desk. But you know, if he were alive now, he probably would’ve gotten my assignment.”

Pat looked at her quizzically over the cup rim.

“That’s why I was late this morning: Bob gave me this assignment as soon as I hit the city room.”

“What story?”

“A missing priest.”

“Somebody lost a priest?” Pat could not bring herself to take this seriously, at least not at first blush.

“Yesterday,” Pringle explained. “Well, actually Friday, I guess.” She fished her notepad out of her purse and flipped it open. “A Father Keating-John Keating. Ever hear of him?”

Pat shook her head.

“He left his parish sometime Friday. Mentioned he was going into Detroit on business, and that’s it. That’s the last time anyone seems to have seen him.”

“He didn’t get back for Sunday Masses?” Pat’s interest picked up slightly.

“Apparently not. That’s significant?”

“You bet.”

“God,” Pringle sighed, “I wish Hal were here. For lots of reasons, not the least of which is that he’d be covering this story. Short of that, I wish Bob had given it to a Catholic.” Her eyes widened. “Say, you’re a Catholic, aren’t you?”

“Used to be.” She half smiled, half grimaced. “Well, I guess I always will be … I just don’t work at it much.”

“Well, this business of not being there for Mass on Sunday: Is that about the same as … oh, a minister not showing up for Sunday services?”

“Worse, I’d say. Considerably worse. If it were a Protestant church, I think it would be a considerable inconvenience for the congregation if no one were there to conduct the services. But in the end, they could live with it. Probably somebody would be available to lead them in prayer, sing a hymn or two-wing it. Couldn’t do that in a Catholic church.”

“Is that the way it is?”

“Seems so to me.” Lennon decided she’d had enough coffee; she eased her cup away. “Did Bob tell you anything about the crowd-the congregation? Was there some other priest around to cover for-what’s his name?”

“Keating.” Pringle looked once more at her notes. “I don’t think he mentioned.”

“I’d find out about that if I were you.”

“Oh?”

“Seems to me a slightly more serious problem if there was no other priest to take the Masses. I can’t imagine a priest-especially a pastor-not providing for Sunday Mass if he could help it. If there wasn’t any other priest around, then odds are you got a very sick-or dead-absent priest.”

“What if all the Masses were taken care of?”

Pat shrugged. “Who knows? An unannounced vacation. Illness, maybe, but probably not as significant. What it comes down to, I think, is that those guys generally are pretty serious about an obligation like this. If a pastor was pretty sure things would be taken care of one way or another, then if it would be a serious inconvenience for him to show up, he might skip it.” She thought for a moment. “Wait a minute … did you say ‘missing’ priest?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who says?”

“Who says what?”

“That he’s missing.” Pat mentally computed the elapsed time. “You said it was Friday when he was last seen in his parish?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Friday to Saturday, twenty-four hours. Saturday to Sunday, forty-eight hours. It won’t be seventy-two hours until sometime today. If memory serves, the cops don’t begin looking for someone as ‘missing’ until seventy-two hours have gone by. If the cops aren’t looking for him, why should you be?”

“But the cops are looking for him. Have been since yesterday afternoon.”

“How come?”

“Ever hear of Eric Dunstable?”

Lennon whistled softly.

“He’s the one,” Pringle explained, “who got the cops going on it.”

“Eric Dunstable! Wait a sec: What parish are we talking about?”

“St. Waldo of the Hills, Bloomfield Hills.”

Pat’s chuckle was low and throaty. “St. Waldo of the Wheels. This thing is beginning to come together.”

“The Wheels? Does somebody call it Waldo of the Wheels?”

“I’ve heard it called that now and again. Couldn’t tell you exactly why. I suppose it’s because the people who live out there are some of the better-known wheelers and dealers in this territory-like Eric Dunstable. Or maybe because they’re auto execs who put the world on wheels-like Eric Dunstable. That makes sense … I can easily imagine Dunstable getting the Bloomfield cops to bend the rules.”

“Not just the Bloomfield Hills police.”

“Huh?”

“The Detroit cops too.”

“Detroit? Just because he said he was going to Detroit?”

“That’s not all,” Pringle added. “Not just Detroit Missing Persons; Homicide is investigating too.”

“Homicide! My God! That’s overkill.” Lennon giggled. “Please forgive; I didn’t intend the pun.”

“That’s the part that’s got me worried.” And indeed, Pringle’s face was clouded.

“What’s got you worried?” Pat asked supportively.

“Homicide. The fact that Detroit Homicide is in on this. It scares me. I haven’t worked on a story that involved homicide since …” She did not need to elaborate.

Pat slid her chair closer and touched Pringle’s arm. “Don’t give it a thought. There aren’t that many people with enough clout to get two major police departments involved in a missing persons search-a good twenty-four hours early at that. But if anybody could pull it off, Eric Dunstable certainly qualifies. I can just see him calling in some of his markers from Mayor Cobb. Don’t worry: Homicide’s there just for show. Just to flaunt Dunstable’s belief that he’s got pull and the balls to use it.”

Pringle smiled. “You think so?”

“Sure. You’re gonna have a ball with this story-oops, another involuntary pun.” She shook her headand grimaced. “I’ve got to cut this out before I start work today.

“But you’ll see: You’ll be fine. Go find the missing priest.” She grinned. “By the time you get done, you’ll probably be able to give me a refresher course in Catholicism.”

It was late Monday afternoon and Lieutenant Alonzo Tully had not gotten his wish.

Periodically during the day he had imagined the elusive Father Keating simply showing up at St. Waldo’s. Those occupying the parish buildings-housekeeper, secretary, janitor, religious education coordinator, teachers and the like-had been forcefully instructed to call either the Bloomfield Hills or Detroit police should anyone spot the priest.

At no point in this so-far brief search had Tully given a damn where Keating had been or what he’d done. As long as the priest stepped forth or somebody located him, all would be well that ended.

Those members of Tully’s squad whom he’d called in yesterday afternoon had greeted their new assignment with a variety of reactions. As for Tully’s two closest collaborators, Sergeants Angie Moore and Phil Mangiapane, they were poles apart.

Moore greeted the task in much the same spirit as her leader. To both her and Tully, this was a necessary evil brought on by arich bastard who would settle for nothing less than what he demanded-and by the mayor, a political animal who would exchange his consent for future favors.

Mangiapane, a very practicing Catholic, never could get enough of his religion and its mysteries. And one of those great mysteries, stemming from the sergeant’s youth, involved priests-priests and nuns. As a boy, young Philip had wondered: Are they human? Do nuns have legs? Hair? Do any of them ever go to the bathroom?