William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“Not at all, Father. You were only trying to be helpful,” Koznicki said. “But I’m curious; tell me: What made you think there had been an invitation? It might just as easily have been the result of an agreement between the letter writers.”

“Well . . .” Koesler pushed the legal pad away; from now on he would wing it. “. . . A number of things, really. I kind of had my suspicion bolstered tonight when I had a chance to read the letters sent to Rid.

“There was a recurring phrase in each of the letters. Something about ‘the time has come.’ Each letter contained that phrase. As if someone had suggested that Ridley had overstayed his welcome and was overdue for revenge. As if someone had programmed the response ‘the time has come’ by stating forcefully that the time, indeed, had come.

“If these four had conspired among themselves in sending their letters to Ridley, they surely would have taken pains to make sure each letter was entirely different from the others. Editors, politicians, and I’m sure, the police, when they get more than one letter regarding a specific issue, are on the lookout for repeated phrases that indicate a form letter or, at the very least, collusion. These are intelligent people. If they had conspired, they certainly wouldn’t have let that phrase—‘the time has come’—appear in each and every letter. No, somebody had to have invited them to write.”

“Interesting, Father.” The Inspector nodded. “And that’s exactly the conclusion we ourselves had reached.” Ewing’s face registered no emotion; Papkin seemed bored. “However,” the Inspector went on, “you said that reading the letters sent to Groendal merely bolstered a suspicion . . . a suspicion that you already held. Is that not correct?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

There was a good deal of shifting about in chairs. Koesler knew he’d better get to the point soon. “Well,” he said, “I was sort of subconsciously aware of that suspicion when I selected the first Scripture lesson that will be read at the funeral Mass tomorrow.

“Go on, Father.” By now, Koznicki was playing straight man for his friend, who seemed to be zeroing in on his target at his usual, gradual, systematic pace.

“When I selected the reading,” Koesler continued, “it seemed appropriate. But I didn’t know why it felt so right. It must have been something deep inside me dictating. Actually, it wasn’t until after we recited the rosary tonight for Ridley that everything sort of fell into place. And the first thing to tumble was my less-than-conscious reason for selecting that first reading.”

“What was—or rather—what is that first reading going to be?” Was the normally placid Inspector becoming impatient?

“I was getting to that. The reading is from the Second Book of Samuel in the Old Testament. I scarcely ever select that reading for a funeral Mass. It seldom seems appropriate. But for some, as I say, subconscious motive, I picked it for tomorrow.

“It tells the story of how King David mourned at the loss of his son Absalom. Now, even though David was reluctant to admit it, Absalom had to be killed. Even so, David became inconsolable when he was finally informed that his son had been killed. And David says, ‘If only I had died instead of you.’”

Koesler paused. The others looked from one to another. No one seemed to be able to make any sense out of what the priest had said.

Koesler looked intently at each of the guests seated in this barren squad room and very deliberately repeated the quotation, directing it at each of them in turn: “If only I had died instead of you.”

There followed a painful silence.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Charlie Hogan said. “He ruined my life. I wouldn’t have died instead of him.”

“Same here,” Carroll Mitchell said. “He did everything he could to block me from what I deserved. Honestly, I’m glad the bastard’s dead.”

“To borrow from Rhett Butler,” Dave Palmer said, “frankly I don’t give a damn. If anything, I’d have to agree with Mr. Mitchell here. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Last but by no means least, Valerie chimed in. “I’m afraid, to be brutally honest, I go a bit beyond these gentlemen. I had rather hoped it was my letter that killed the asshole!”

“Well,” said Koesler, “that accounts for almost everyone.”

“Whaddya mean almost? That is everyone,” Sergeant Papkin said brusquely.

“Not quite,” Koesler replied. “Not quite.” He looked steadily at Peter Harison.

“What?” Harison seemed to be waking from a shallow slumber. “What? You can’t . . . you can’t mean me! Why, I was Rid’s dearest friend. I was . . . well, you simply can’t mean me. Of all the people here—of all the people in the world—I have got to be the least likely suspect. I say! This is ridiculous! I loved Ridley Groendal!”

“Yes, you did,” Koesler affirmed. “In fact, you were the one I was subconsciously thinking of when I selected that reading. Of you alone might it be said, ‘If only I had died instead of you.’”

“Look here: If you are referring to AIDS, I did not give that disease to Rid. I took a test for AIDS—after Rid’s death. It came out negative.” He looked to Koznicki for corroboration.

The Inspector nodded. “That is correct; Mr. Harison underwent testing at our request.”

“I told you how Rid got that disease,” Harison continued. “And,” he almost spat the words at the priest, “I told you in confidence!”

“It has nothing to do with how Rid got AIDS, Peter. And nothing you or Ridley told me in confidence has anything to do with this.”

“Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the other night, when Ridley Groendal died. If you could have died in his stead, I’m sure you would have.”

Harison loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “Well, Father, that’s very nice of you to say. But it has no relevance here. The police are trying to discover which of these people invited the others to vent their spleen, as it were, on Ridley. That has nothing to do with me.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Koesler pulled the legal pad back and began making notations again. “I think everybody has wondered about the fact that Ridley opened and read all four letters on the same evening and consecutively—even though they had not all been mailed on the same day.

“Now, from your own statements in the papers and on radio and TV, you maintained that you were the one who prepared and presented his mail to Rid.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That Rid did not suffer his fatal seizure until he had opened and read all four letters. It was the cumulative effect that brought on his death. And, although the letters were mailed at different times—even on different days—they were presented to Rid at one and the same time, all together, one after another, by you—you who were the only one who knew the part all four of the others had played in Ridley’s past life.”

The four looked at each other as if in tacit assurance of ignorance as to each other’s past role in Ridley Groendal’s life.

Harison, however, seemed to gain a measure of assurance. As if he suddenly had become aware that he had betrayed some anxiety a few moments before, he quickly rebuttoned his shirt and slipped his tie taut to his neck.

“Well, I don’t know who knows what—and I don’t see how you could prove whether they did or didn’t. As for the letters being presented all at once, there’s nothing greatly unusual about that. Really! I mean, you know the post office, particularly around Christmastime. They’re swamped. It’s notorious that mail is delivered helter-skelter at this time of year.