William Kienzle - Chameleon

“Are they sure?” Moore asked. “I mean, did it go through ballistics?”

“You got doubts?” Mangiapane was being sarcastic.

Moore slowly shook her head. “Not really, I guess.”

“There wasn’t any doubt,” Tully said. “But, yeah, it did go through. Ballistics is under the same kind of pressure we are, A.38 caliber wad cutter; same marks, same gun.”

“Really rips my theory to hell and gone, don’t it?” Mangiapane said.

“What theory was that?” Moore wanted to know.

Tully explained the discovered connection between the distant cousins-Fred Stapleton and Sister Joan-and their dotty aunt at Lourdes Nursing Home. “We were going to draw you in on this theory this morning, Angie. But, last night …”

“Sounds good to me,” Moore said. “Like the kind of break we wanted. What’s the matter with it?”

“Well,” Tully said, “the orginal theory had it that Fred Stapleton was aware of the small fortune he was about to inherit and so was his cousin Joan Donovan. Only he wanted the whole fortune, not just half of it. He tried to kill the nun, but made a fatal error-literally-and got the hooker instead.”

As Tully sipped his coffee he seemed to drift into his private stream of consciousness.

“The problem,” Mangiapane explained, “was why would Stapleton go and kill the Hoffer guy.”

“To cover his tracks,” Moore replied. “And to throw us off the track. He would get us thinking that there was a plot to knock off officials of the Detroit Catholic Church. Our investigation would go off in that direction, while Stapleton could double back and get Donovan.”

Mangiapane grinned. “Great minds …”

“The problem, of course,” Tully rejoined the conversation, “is why would he go on? He only needed to kill Hoffer and his plan would be well off the ground. He had us doing just what he wanted. We were running all over ourselves in the Catholic administration. He was free to go back after the nun. Why would he go and kill the old man?”

“Yeah, he already achieved his secondary objective,” Mangiapane said.

A brief silence followed as the three either warmed their hands around their cups or actually sipped the strong coffee.

“Wait a minute,” Moore said. “I have an idea.”

“Let’s hearit,” Tullysaid.”

“Supposing Stapleton found out-supposing, one way or another, he discovered that Manj was on to him. Right off the top I’m not sure how he would’ve known that. From the old woman, maybe?”

Mangiapane shook his head, “She’s a full-time looney tune,”

“Your aunt?”

“I don’t think so, but I can check easy enough.”

“Another patient who overheard or knew?” Moore persisted.

Tully rubbed the stubble he hadn’t had the time to shave this morning. “A possibility. A definite possibility. Make that a top priority, Manj. Get enough manpower to quiz everybody at the home. Stapleton might have found out from someone out there that the lady is your aunt, that she talked to you, that you had checked the old lady’s will.

“If he found out-that’s a pretty big‘if,’ but possible-it just might be that he wanted to get us back on the original track by killing the old man.

“Good, Angie, very good. Get on that now, will you-both of you.”

Moore was up and moving. Mangiapane, gulping the remainder of his coffee, was only a step behind.

Tully caught the waitress’s eye and pointed to his mug. She refilled it with regular coffee, He needed to be as wide-awake as possible.

It was always heartening to have something going for you during an investigation. And, in Moore’s hypothesis, the Stapleton connection with his cousin was revived. But it was still on tremendously shaky ground.

The scenario from the beginning had been extremely flimsy, he had to admit. It was based entirely on hearsay

Apparendy the old lady was related to both Donovan and Stapleton. She had a fortune of some as-yet-undetermined amount. She was leaving whatever she had to the two; Mangiapane’s reading of the will indicated that.

After diat, what?

Did Stapleton need money that badly? Did he murder the wrong cousin? Did he kill Hoffer? If he did, was that part of the original plan, or was he winging it?

There wasn’t a shred of proof. Deep down, Tully suspected that should this case work out just the way they were figuring it now, he might begin to believe in miracles.

He knew what he must do. And he didn’t want to do it. He had to take one more dive into the murky administrative waters of the archdiocese of Detroit.

Father Koesler had never seen his archbishop in such a state.

As a result of heart surgery a few years before, Mark Boyle had slimmed down. He now took regular and extensive walks for exercise. Lately, he’d looked fine. Trim in his inevitable clerical suit, vest, and collar, with gold pectoral chain; thinning white hair smoothed over a noble head; his handsome Irish features topped a better-than-six-foot frame.

But today, though none of his physical characteristics had changed, he seemed somehow deflated, almost as if air had been let out of his body and it had shriveled somewhat.

He had phoned and asked Koesler to stop by. Yet now as the archbishop greeted him, Koesler got the impression that Boyle was distracted and unsure why the priest was there. But he soon recovered, at least to the point of getting down to business.

“Good of you to come, Father, at such short notice.” Boyle’s formality remained unchanged.

“Certainly, Eminence. I’m sorry about Archbishop Foley. I admired him, and I know he was your good friend.”

Boyle’s eyes welled up. Koesler thought the Cardinal might actually weep. But he pinched his eyelids and quickly regained his composure.

“It was just yesterday that Archbishop Foley was sitting in this chair that you are using,” Boyle said. “He was so alive. Though he was retired, he was still very active and alert. A great loss. And so tragic. But … that is not why I asked you here.”

Koesler waited, saying nothing.

Boyle continued. “While we visited yesterday, I got a message that you had arrived for your appointment with him. He hadn’t mentioned the appointment, so I knew nothing about it. However, I now wonder whether it might not cast some light on last night’s tragic occurrence.” His eyebrows arched as he looked to Koesler for any relevant information.

Koesler proceeded to recount most of his conversation with Foley, including the names of the two suspects high in the order of importance to the police investigation. The Cardinal listened attentively, fingers forming a pyramid that touched his lips, eyes never leaving Koesler’s face, seemingly not even blinking.

After Koesler finished his narration, neither man moved or spoke for a few moments.

“What interests-troubles-me,” Boyle said finally, “is why he was so concerned about this matter.”

“The very same question I had, Eminence. I mean, we are all concerned about these murders, of course. But it wasn’t at all clear to me why he was so anxious to the point of calling me in to talk about it. So, eventually, I asked him. The reason for his special concern was yourself, Eminence.”

“Me?” Boyle was startled.

“He was afraid that you were slated to be the next victim. No, it was more than apprehension; it was a premonition. That’s what he called it: a premonition.”

“He actually thought …”

“It came to him in prayer. The passage about striking the shepherd and scattering the sheep. Of course he’d seen that Scripture countless times in prayer and preaching. But the other day he read it again and, as he expressed it, it was as if he experienced some sort of revelation. Suddenly, the shepherd was yourself and the purpose behind these killings was-well, it wasn’t clear to him. But it had to do with further confusing the faithful.