William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Each of the letter writers had threatened to kill him. Which of them had succeeded—or was it a collaborative effort?

Shortly after leading the recitation of the rosary for Groendal, Father Koesler thought he knew the answer to that question. Of all the people in this drama, his position was unique in that he knew each of the dramatis personae and their interrelationships.

He needed to ask only one question and, depending on the answer, his solution would prove to be either right or wrong.

Part Seven

In Paradisum

21

The Gregorian Chant was so reassuring and beautiful. Ridley would have wanted the choir to offer this final commendation of his soul to heaven. Father Koesler wanted to think that he would have suggested it even if Peter Harison had not requested it. But why quibble over credit for so inspired a thought?

Koesler stood at the foot of the casket to conduct the final church rites before leaving for the cemetery. He let his mind wander through the familiar Latin. “In paradisum deducant te Angeli . . . ”

May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem. May the choir of angels welcome you. Where Lazarus is poor no longer, may you have eternal rest.

The police had been most cooperative last night. Of course, things might not have gone so smoothly had it not been for Inspector Walter Koznicki.

Koznicki and Koesler had been friends for many years. The Inspector was head of Detroit’s busy homicide department. It happened that Father Koesler had been of some help, by contributing his religious expertise, in solving some police investigations that had Catholic overtones. While their relationship had begun on a completely professional basis, over the years it had grown into a close and abiding friendship.

It was Koznicki who, after being contacted at home by Father Koesler, had gotten the ball rolling. David Palmer, Carroll Mitchell, Charles Hogan, Valerie Walsh, and Peter Harison were summoned to police headquarters at 1300 Beaubien.

While they waited for the principals to arrive, Koznicki showed Koesler the letters that Ridley Groendal had read just prior to expiring.

Koesler was quite sure he knew essentially what each letter would contain, but he read them nonetheless. There was nothing better to do while awaiting the others.

The letters had been smoothed out and flattened in clear plastic binders. But Koesler could tell by the creases in the papers that Ridley had crushed them rather forcefully before casting them in the wastebasket or on the floor. His final fury was almost palpable.

Later, Koesler would remember only salient segments of the four letters.

David Palmer:

. . . Groendal I find it hard to believe that any adult could hang onto and nurture a childhood grudge the way you have. You played a trick on me. I played one on you. We were kids, for God’s sake! All these years, you’ve imagined that I took something away from you—Interlochen.

Nothing could be further from the truth. You had no talent You were a fourth-rate musician. You turned into a fifth-rate human being. But because of our childish pranks you have shit on my career over these many years. And I’ve taken it. All I’ve done is gripe and grouse over your unfair treatment. It occurs to me that you’ve done all you can to me. The time has come to return the favor. You’ve been sitting in the critic’s chair untouched and untouchable for too long.

I wonder how artistic America would react to the fact that its premier critic is an unpunished and, to date, undetected arsonist. You were not alone when you set that fire in the auditorium. I was there with my camera. I’ve got the photograph. You and the fire.

It happened a long, long time ago. But not long enough for your ego to be free of the shame of it. I know you, Groendal. You’ve built the irreproachable image of the impeccable commentator who feels free to tear everyone else apart, confident that your seamless garment will never be rent or soiled.

I promise you this, Groendal: Beginning with arson, I will find out all your evil from peccadillos to capital sins, and make sure the artistic world, especially your many victims, knows what a prick you are. Groendal, the world lost one of its great assholes when God decided to put teeth in your mouth . . . .

It continued in the same vein. Koesler shook his head. He wondered how Dave would feel if the media got hold of his letter. Undoubtedly he had never thought of that when he sent it. Koesler went on.

Carroll Mitchell:

. . . It seems to me that your function is to be the constant judge of competition. Actors competing with each other, competing with actors of the past. Playwrights in competition with each other. Which is the best play on Broadway; which is the worst? Constant competition. And you are the judge, the acknowledged chief judge. The judge of all this competition.

You have judged my work over all these years and always found me sadly wanting. You have been a harsh and cruel judge of many other adequate to fine playwrights. You have been the supreme Judge for all these years. Yet, the only time you were in actual competition with me, you were so frightened by that competition that you committed the most heinous crime possible to any writer: You stole. You plagiarized!

The time has come for the public to know what sort of individual has been setting standards for America. Fortunately, you won that contest. Or rather, Emmet Lavery won it with his “The First Legion.” So your “winning” entry was published in The Gothic. I have had several copies made of that and will offer it as proof when I give this story to literary publications.

I hope you know, Rid, how dearly everyone out there wants to “get” you. Needless to say, they will have a field day with this story. Your credibility is all you have going for you. Say goodbye to it. In a little while, it will be gone. . . .

Koesler did not know in which order Groendal had read these letters, but he himself was beginning to experience the cumulative effect they must have had. He continued.

Charlie Hogan:

. . . Some people know you’re gay, others don’t. I’ve got to hand this much to you, you’ve been discreet. You’ve been living with this Peter Harison for years now. And yet you‘ve never come completely out of the closet. Nor has anyone made a publicized statement about your homosexuality. That seems to be the way with you gays. You either flaunt it or keep it decently quiet.

I don’t know why the hell you’ve bothered, but you evidently want to keep it private. Well the time has come to let people know what kind of a bastard you are. I think the public would relish knowing that not only are you gay, but that you were kicked out of the seminary not just for being gay but for a homosexual attack.

At this point, you probably think I can’t prove this, because, in return for your leaving quietly, Monsignor Cronyn allowed you to quit. What you didn’t know is that, so you could never go back on your decision, Cronyn made the notation in your permanent record, along with the reason for your dismissal.

I’m sure the gossip columnists—dung beetles that they are—will appreciate clearing up the mystery of your sexual preference along with that juicy tidbit from your younger days.

Further, no one could have been so vengeful against me all these years without slipping up himself. That much meanness can’t have been contained. So I pledge myself to finding and exposing every fault and failing of yours I can uncover. And I’m confident I can find plenty . . . .