William Kienzle - Chameleon

“Oh, sure, Zoo. He was a secular priest. He didn’t have no vow of poverty. He coulda kept the bundle.”

For a moment, Tully thought of the only priest he knew to any degree. There was a fleeting image in his mind of Fatfier Koesler living in a luxury high rise, fantastically wealthy. It was a ridiculous notion. But briefly amusing.

Tully realized to what supposition all this was leading. He wondered if Mangiapane did. “So, whaddya think, Manj?”

“What I was thinkin’, Zoo, was that maybe this case ain’t anything like what it looks like. Suppose Stapleton knows about the inheritance. He probably does if the old lady really did tell both of them about it. Then he knows that when she dies-which can’t be far off-he and his cousin split a fortune … if mey’re both alive.

“But what if the nun dies in the meantime? Then Stapleton gets the whole enchilada. Of course, he could make sure she was dead by killing her.”

“And the Hoffer murder?” Tully was gratified that his detective was reaching the same conclusion he had.

“Well, I was thinking, Zoo: Suppose Stapleton wants his cousin dead. With the contacts he’s kept up with priests and nuns, it ain’t hard for him to find out her routine, if he didn’t already know it. So he either already knows or he finds out that she usually get home real late at night. He waits for her outside St. Leo’s. Somebody in a nun’s habit who looks like her gets out of a cab and heads for the convent. It has to be her, doesn’t it?

“And so he kills the wrong cousin. The cousin who would never have made it into the old lady’s will because, far from being a nun, Helen’s a prostitute.

“Now he finds out he’s killed the wrong woman. Then I stop sombody from pulling a copycat murder. He develops plan B-or maybe it was part of his plan all along. He kills another head of another diocesan department. Right away we figure it’s some sort of plot to knock off department heads for God knows what reason.

“Meanwhile he can go back anytime he wants and get the right cousin. Maybe after that he kills the old lady. Or if he can wait just a little while, she’ll do him a favor. And dien he’s got it-the whole bundle.”

Tully was tempted to call out a “bravo,” but he didn’t. “Good, Manj. Very, very good. I love it. It gets us out of all this mumbo jumbo about Vatican Councils and priests who can’t marry and priests who are married so they can’t be priests and people who are mad at the Church for a zillion reasons.

“Now we got simple greed. That we can deal with. Get on it, Manj. Start digging into Stapleton. Get into his financial records-debts and liabilities. His daughter’s going to some ritzy music school. Look into that. I’ll get the rest of the squad into other facets of the man’s finances. This is it, Manj: Let’s wrap it up before he gets back to the nun.

“And, by the way, it probably would help if he knows we’re onto him. It may keep him away from the nun. So squeeze him, Manj; squeeze him.”

“You got it, Zoo.”

Both were elated. The conclusion of a very complicated investigation was nearing.

It was time for a celebration. But that would come later. Right after they caught the bad guy and delivered him for trial, conviction, and punishment.

Archbishop Lawrence Foley was surprised when he answered the door to find Fadier Ralph Higgins.

Higgins was an old buddy from Miami. He and Foley had been friends all through the seminary years. After ordination their paths separated. Higgins had been assigned to a series of parishes in the St. Augustine diocese-from which the diocese of Miami was created in 1958-until he had been named pastor of St. Agatha parish and finally pastor of Our Lady of Lourdes in Boca Raton. Foley, of course, after ordination spent only a brief time in parochial ministry before he was sent off to Rome for graduate studies, followed by a series of chancery assignments; then he became a bishop and ultimately archbishop of Cincinnati.

Even though their ecclesiastical careers diverged, they remained close friends. After Foley had moved on to Cincinnati, whenever he and Mark Boyle vacationed in Florida, they would stay with Higgins.

“Ralph! What a surprise!” Foley exclaimed. “What brings you here?”

“Like most things when you reach our years: a funeral.”

Foley’s demeanor instantly changed to one of concern. “Oh, I am sorry. Who was it?”

“A sister-in-law. Not terribly close, But at this stage in life, one of the last of the relatives. I thought I owed it to her memory-and, of course, to my brother, God rest him.”

“But, if I had known … I would have attended the funeral … we could have gotten together, done some things.Why don’t we-I could get some tickets … the symphony, a show-?”

“No time, Larry. Another time. I just got in this morning. Leaving in just a couple of hours. Just couldn’t be in town without seeing you, even for only a few minutes.”

“Well, that’s great. Can I get you something, anything?”

“No, no; had supper. I can only stay a few minutes.”

Foley took his friend’s coat, and they proceeded to the comfortable living room where Higgins was assaulted by a small but eager dog. He tried petting the animal but it wasn’t having any. “Now I know how the early Christian martyrs felt.” Higgins laughed.

Foley spoke sternly to the dog. “John Paul, come! Sit! Stay!” The little spaniel mix bounced willingly to Foley and sat contentedly against his leg. “His manners are not the best, but he’s an obedient little fellow.”

“John Paul?” Higgins tilted his head. “You named him after the Pope?”

“It was the least I could do.”

They laughed.

“I’m so sorry you can’t stay,” Foley said. “Mark will be too.”

“Can’t be helped. How is Mark, anyway?”

“Very fit, I’d say. Walks a lot. Stays healthy.”

“That’s the secret, okay. The path to health is not to get sick. But try telling that to the oldsters in Boca Raton. And, by the way, Larry, when are you and Mark coming down? It’s January, you know.”

“Just. I’d like to go. God knows these old bones don’t react very well to all this cold and snow. But I haven’t been able to convince Mark it’s time for us to migrate. I wish … I fervently wish I could.”

“I wish you could too. After all, Larry, Florida is your home.”

Higgins never admitted it, even to himself, but he was jealous that Foley had chosen to live out his retirement in Detroit rather than in Florida. Quite simply, it meant that Foley’s friendship with Mark Boyle was stronger than his attachment to Higgins. So much stronger that Foley would endure the bitter Michigan winters instead of basking in the warmth of the sunny South. In addition, Foley’s roots were in Florida, not in Michigan, nor even Cincinnati.

“It’s not just the warmth or the golf or the relaxation,” Foley said.

“That’s not bad for starters.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Ralph, But I’m worried about Mark. You’ve probably read about these two murders we’ve had here involving people in diocesan administration.”

“Even with all the murder and crime we’ve got in Florida, yes, Michigan murders regularly out-bizarre us. Yes, I know of them. But-”

“They’re not solved. Not even close. And I have this feeling that Mark is on the list … on the killer’s list.”

Higgins was genuinely shocked. “You must be kidding. What ever for? Why would anyone want to harm the Cardinal?”

“I’m afraid it’s not ‘Why would anyone?’; it’s more ‘How many would?’ You must be aware there are a lot of unhappy people out there suffering in one way or another from the effects of the council.”