William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Koesler had a quizzical look. There was something in these three letters that disquieted and at the same time intrigued him. At the moment, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Instead of going back to find the source of this feeling, he decided to complete the cycle.

Valerie Walsh:

I think I will never forgive or forget what you did to me. What baffled me was why you’d do it. You worked overtime keeping me off the stage. You were grossly unfair, cruel and rotten. I would never have discovered the reason if I had not confided in my mother. She clarified it all. Why would you sabotage my career when we had never met? To get even with my mother. Even with my mother! You certainly had reason to get even! You left her pregnant, homeless, and unemployed. She certainly treated you shabbily! She didn’t give you away, or take you to court for child support, but stayed out of your life.

Over the years, you’ve built a reputation of being above and beyond any sort of disgraceful affair. You’ve been welcomed into the homes and parties of the movers and shakers. You are above all criticism.

Well the time has come to burst your pretentious bubble. Mother is making an affidavit concerning your responsibility. Just imagine how titillating all your former friends will find the delicious gossip about you and your one-nighter. Yours is not the conduct of a noble critic. Yours is the behavior of a scoundrel and a fraud.

I know, from being on the New York scene, that people laugh behind your back at the combination of your gay lifestyle and your thin reputation of self-righteousness. Think of the fun they’re going to have with this new scandal. It will be a marvelous season for the critics of the critic. We’re going to enjoy it. We are all going to enjoy very much seeing the modern-day Grendel monster skewered. . . .

While Koesler had been reading the letters, Sergeants Charles Papkin and Ray Ewing, the investigating officers, had been speaking quietly with Inspector Koznicki. As Koesler completed his reading, the first of the five summoned people arrived. The others appeared within minutes. Lynn Mitchell and Red Walsh, who had accompanied their respective spouses, were asked to wait in an adjoining room.

There were more than enough chairs around the several tables in the squad room. After all were seated there was an awkward silence. No one seemed to know who should begin. The guests looked expectantly at the police, who, in turn, gazed at Father Koesler. Following the officers’ lead, the others began to stare at Koesler. It was he, after all, who had requested this gathering.

The first thought that crossed the priest’s mind was the bromide, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here?” He dismissed that. Instead, he said, “I may be wrong, but if a couple of hypotheses are correct, I think we may be able to clear up the matter of Ridley Groendal’s death.”

Sergeant Papkin failed to suppress a sardonic smile. He could recall a few times this priest had been wrong. He would not be at all surprised if Koesler were wrong again.

Sergeant Ewing, on the other hand, kept an open mind. Confident and self-assured, he was willing to take a chance on an amateur. He did not feel at all threatened by Koesler’s hypotheses.

“I’ll try,” Koesler proceeded, “to approach this logically, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s.” Not far from him on the table was a legal pad with a few unused sheets. He pulled it to him and began making notes. It would help keep him on track.

“The status of Ridley’s health, particularly over the past year, was no great secret,” Koesler continued. “Partly in the gossip columns and partly on the entertainment pages of the newspapers, we could read both rumors and facts about Ridley. So, anyone interested in knowing how he was doing—or, more pointedly, how badly off he was—could find out easily.

“All of us, for varying reasons, were linked to Rid. All of us, particularly you five, were affected by him. So, it is quite likely—probable?—certain?—that we all knew his health was delicate and deteriorating.

“We knew he was a diabetic, that he had high blood pressure, that he had suffered heart attacks and was prone to having more. We might even have known—or guessed—that he had contracted AIDS. There was a popular rumor to that effect.

“In any case, it would have been simple for any of us to guess that he would not likely survive a serious emotional strain.” Koesler continued to make notes. And he spoke more slowly, seeming to choose his words ever more carefully.

“Now,” Koesler continued, “before he died just a few days ago, Rid had gone to Orchestra Hall. Afterward, he went to his office, where he wrote a review of the evening’s concert. Then he went through his mail. And in that particular batch of mail were letters from four of you—Mitch, Charlie, Dave, and Valerie.

“Ridley read each letter, one after the other, growing more furious and agitated as he did so.

“Now I read these letters just before you came tonight, and I must admit they are provocative. The information you threatened to make public was no secret to Ridley. In fact, due to my association with Rid and the rest of you, it was no surprise to me.

“But these were all old, old skeletons. Why would you all pick this particular time to threaten Rid with their revelations? For there is no doubt—am I correct, Inspector?—that Rid died of a massive coronary as a result of reading those letters?”

Koesler looked toward Koznicki for corroboration. The Inspector nodded.

“By no stretch of the imagination,” Koesler continued, “could this be a coincidence. All these letters dredging up the very worst of Rid’s past at the same time. Either you all got together and agreed to do this now—in which case you would have counted on the cumulative effect of your letters to cause Rid’s death. Or—and I tend to think this is the case—some outside agent prompted each of you individually to get it off your chest. Did you all, indeed, get some sort of invitation to strike back at Rid? Did you get some sort of letter that prompted you to write?”

He looked expectantly from one to the other and was more than mildly surprised that each of them readily nodded. Koesler was even more startled that each likewise wore a combined bewildered and bemused expression.

“We’ve already been through this, Father,” Papkin said.

Koesler knew he had blundered. He tried not to blush. But the more effort he put into it, the more he reddened.

“Each of these four claims to have received a letter inviting him or her to threaten to reveal their charges against Groendal.” Sarcasm was evident in Papkin’s voice. He began to pace restlessly, one hand deep in his pocket rattling change.

“We’ve got the letters these people received, Father.” Ewing’s tone was conciliatory. “Each of them is identical with the others. They don’t appear to be copies; each seems to be a typed original. And, of course, there’s no signature. The letters just end with the words from another victim of Ridley Groendal.

“The presumption is that one of these four sent the invitation to all four, including himself—or herself.” Papkin’s tone clearly implied that they were wasting valuable time that might have been used in the continuing police investigation.

“The type in the invitation doesn’t match the type in any of the hate letters sent to Groendal. So whoever wrote the invitational letter used another typewriter. We haven’t found it yet. But we’re looking.” Again the implication that the police would find “the smoking gun” if only they were left to do their job.

“Well . . . I’m sorry,” Koesler fumbled. “I should have known that you would have investigated that. How stupid of me!”