William Kienzle - Masquerade

“I didn’t-”

“For that matter,” Benbow cut in, “how do we know you actually took that elevator? When I turned to go up the stairs, I saw you standing at the elevator. I didn’t see you get on the elevator. How do we know you actually took the elevator? You were alone, as you yourself testified. What if you-”

“I beg your pardon, sir!” Marie shot back.

“Please,” Sister Janet broke in, “before this goes too far, let’s hear from Rabbi Winer.”

“As it so happens,” Winer began, “after we left the dining room, I was going to go up to the classroom, but I stopped first to go into the kitchen and compliment the cooks on the meal.”

“But I saw you,” Benbow said. “I watched you at dinner. You hardly touched your food. Why would you compliment a cook for a meal you didn’t eat?”

“You presume too much.” Winer was teaching, which is what a rabbi does, and his tone indicated just that. “You presume because someone does not eat, the food is not well prepared. It is a presumption against fact. There can be many reasons a person does not eat.

“In any case,” the rabbi returned to his narrative, “I stopped in the kitchen to compliment the cooks. They were so pleased, that nothing would do but that I meet everyone in that very well-kept kitchen.

“And that,” he smiled, “is where I was when the shot was fired.”

Benbow was taken aback. “You mean you had all those witnesses?”

Winer continued to smile.

“If you were so close to the dining room,” Marie said thoughtfully, “you must have been in position to see who did it!”

Winer shook his head. “Reaction time. We were all so startled by the noise, nobody reacted immediately. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the dining room, whoever had done it was gone.”

As anyone and everyone could deduce, that left Father Benbow and Sister Marie.

It was at that moment that Father Koesler decided to leave the room.

From the very beginning he had not been implicated since he had been with the two women. Not only was he not implicated, he had not contributed a word to this entire rehash of the crime. He surmised he would not be missed. And he was proven correct: No one seemed to note his departure or miss his presence.

This, Koesler had been thinking through the whole process, is ridiculous. There’d been a murder. The only sensible thing to do was to call the police. He had a hard time imagining that, of all the professional people here, he was the only one who thought of a police investigation. Could it be that the amateur detectives assembled thought it was their duty to solve the crime?

No matter. The police were needed, and he would make the call.

Ordinarily, in an emergency one dials 911. Koesler knew the procedure well enough: 911 would summon uniformed officers assigned to this precinct. Once satisfied there was a probable murder, they would notify Homicide. Particularly since so much time had already been wasted, he determined to cut through the red tape and get right to the heart of the matter.

Koesler did not need to look up the phone number for the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department. Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of Homicide, over the years had become a close friend. The two had occasion to phone each other from time to time. Thus Koesler’s familiarity with the number.

Koesler had no expectation of finding Koznicki at headquarters. At this hour, especially on a Sunday evening, he very probably would be at home with Wanda, his wife, listening to classical music or reading. But there were a few officers with whom Koesler was familiar through previous dealings with Detroit’s Homicide Division. Koesler breathed a quick prayer that somebody who knew him would be on duty.

On the third ring, a voice said, “Homicide, Sergeant Mangiapane.”

The name rang a bell. Koesler knew the name; he tried to place Mangiapane, to recall which of the seven Homicide squads he was with. He had to decide quickly. He was aware that Homicide particularly did not suffer fools gladly. With one more quick prayer, he asked, “Is Lieutenant Tully available?”

“Just a minute.”

Koesler was put on hold. That was progress of sorts. At least he wasn’t informed that Tully was not in, or was “on the street.” Such information could conceivably still be forthcoming. But so far-

“Lieutenant Tully,” said a quiet, world-weary voice.

Koesler’s hopes soared. Luck or Providence, it didn’t matter; he’d reached someone with whom he was acquainted. “This is Father Koesler.”

“Who?”

“Father Koesler.”

Silence. Then, “Oh, yeah; Father Koesler. So, what’s happenin’?”

Koesler could almost feel Tully’s fatigue. He should be home in bed, Koesler thought. But he’s not. My good fortune he’s at work. “Lieutenant, there’s been a murder.”

“What?”

“A murder.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you ever dabble in something simple like auto theft or bank robbery or check forgery?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Tully checked himself. This was no time for frivolity. Exhausted as he was, Tully found it funny-odd, at least-that this parish priest should with some regularity be involved in homicide matters. Given a few minutes to look it up, Tully could have come up with exact dates. It seemed barely a year ago that Koesler had been actively involved in an investigation.

“Forget it,” Tully said. “Give me the details.”

Koesler, relieved, gave him the basic information on what had happened at the college, leaving out the mutual interrogation carried on by the amateur sleuths.

Tully would be at the college in a few minutes. Koesler would wait for him at the front door of Madame Cadillac Hall.

Tully parked-rather precisely, Koesler thought, for the sense of urgency he felt-in front of Madame Cadillac Hall in the space formerly occupied by Krieg’s white stretch-limo.

Koesler had been pondering that parking space while waiting for Tully. Strangely, he hadn’t adverted to the limousine or its absence, until Tully pulled into the vacated “no parking” zone. Vaguely, Koesler wondered how Guido Taliafero would react to his employer’s death. Poor Guido, to beg he probably would be ashamed and to resume a professional football career he would undoubtedly be unable.

Tully and Maniapane took the steps two at a time. Amazing, Koesler thought, what the stimulus of a murder investigation can do to regenerate dead-tired bodies and spirits.

Alonzo (“Zoo”) Tully had been with the force more than twenty years. Black, of average build, with short-cropped graying hair, Tully to the casual observer, was unprepossessing. On the other hand, the perceptive person noted Tully’s eyes: While betraying a delightful sense of humor, they could be all business; active and intelligent, they were as magnetic as a black hole.

The bad guys had a habit of underestimating Tully. They also had a habit of getting arrested by him and convicted by the evidence he brought to court. Unlike Rodney Dangerfield, Tully had respect, the respect of his fellow officers as well as the grudging respect of the more discerning criminal element. For Tully, homicide was little more than a murder mystery, a puzzle that could and must be solved by sorting clues after culling red herrings and false leads. His record at solving these puzzles was enviable.

In Phil Mangiapane, Tully perceived a gifted sleuth in the rough. With Homicide only a few years, Mangiapane had made his share and more of mistakes. But in him Tully found the natural inquisitiveness and patience that with care and nurturing would produce a top-notch detective.

Mangiapane belonged to Tully’s squad. As often as possible Tully saw to it that they worked together. The arrangement was perfect as far as Mangiapane was concerned. Not only did he realize he could learn as yet unwritten knowledge from Tully; Mangiapane was genuinely fond of the senior officer.