William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“Besides, we only dropped in at Rid’s office periodically. By no means did we get to his mail on a regular basis. It was quite ordinary for it to back up so that we had to go through quite a pile. It was the rule, not the exception, for us to open mail that had been delivered over the course of many days—sometimes a week or more.

“As to the fact that he opened the letters from these four people consecutively, well, yes, that’s the order in which I gave them to him, I suppose. But routinely, I always stack the junk mail, notices, releases, announcements together. I always put the first class mail at the end. And there seldom is much first class mail at the office. So it’s easily understandable that Rid would have letters that could very well have been delivered at different times. And that they would be together in the first class mail.” Harison appeared quite self-assured.

“Indeed.” Koesler seemed to have expected Harison’s explanation. “But the coincidences go on.

“We all know that Rid’s health was failing. Even for those of us who don’t read gossip columns, we could see it for ourselves in his dramatic weight loss and in just his general appearance and demeanor. His condition, particularly the diabetes and high blood pressure, was common knowledge. But far from being in any sort of fit or even adequate condition for the onslaught he would absorb from the threats in those letters, he was in the worst condition of his life.

“Now, according to what I read, the medical examiner stated that Ridley had ingested large quantities of extremely rich food and, in fact, had had enough alcohol to be legally drunk. Peter, you were his only companion at dinner that evening. The same person who presented him with what turned out to be lethal mail also undoubtedly encouraged him to eat and drink things that would help measurably to prepare the way for a fatal seizure.”

“That’s not true! That simply is not true!” Harison tugged at his tie, but did not loosen it. “You can ask the waiter—what’s his name?— Ramon. Ridley ordered his own food. If anything, I tried to discourage him from abusing himself with all that food, and those drinks.”

Harison turned to face the three officers, who, seated near the door of the squad room, were paying careful attention to this exchange. “Do I have to go through this?” Harison was almost pleading. “Do I have to answer these charges? The imaginings of some priest?”

No one replied for a moment. Then Inspector Koznicki said, “Not really, Mr. Harison. You are under no obligation to continue this conversation with Father Koesler. However, if he stops asking questions of you, we will begin. Of course, if you would prefer an attorney be present . . . ?”

“Uh, no. No, of course not. I have no need of an attorney.”

Harison turned back to Koesler with a defiant look. All three officers silently agreed that Harison should have opted for an attorney.

“All right,” Harison challenged, “you who think you are Father Brown, you have brought up the fact that it was I who handed the letters to Ridley and it was I who dined with him. Both of those things we always did together. But it is obvious, is it now? Somehow, in your fatuous clerical mind you have made me responsible for the death of Ridley Groendal. If that isn’t the most ridiculous supposition! Why on earth would I do such a thing? We were not having any sort of ‘lovers’ quarrel.’ We were the best of friends. He was—”his voice faltered—“my best friend.”

“Of course he was.” Koesler’s sympathy was evident. “And that’s why you did what you thought you had to do. Because he was your best friend.”

“That’s ridiculous! It’s silly! It’s absurd! I don’t have to listen to this!” Harison was close to panic.

“Calm down, Peter. I’m sure the police would eventually have checked your typewriter and found that it was the one used to type the letters all four of these people received.”

It lasted only an instant, but Koesler noted despair flit behind Harison’s eyes. “It’s impossible! Why would I do such a thing?” Still Harison struggled.

“You told me all about it this evening at the funeral home, Peter. But it was only after I left, after we said the rosary, that it all fell into place. That was when I called Inspector Koznicki. He called Sergeants Papkin and Ewing and they called the other four.”

“But, how . . . ?”

“For all your avant-garde ways, Peter, you and Rid were very traditional Catholics,” Koesler explained. “For instance, the liturgy you and I worked out for tomorrow’s funeral Mass is as traditional as it could be short of it all being in Latin. Even then, you requested the “In Paradisum” be sung in Latin and in plainchant.

“And this traditional penchant of yours also prompted you to ask me this evening whether I might get in trouble by granting Rid a Catholic burial given the fact he had AIDS. It was very thoughtful of you, Peter. You were concerned that once the Chancery became aware of that condition of Rid’s that they might come down hard on me because of . . . what? Because I gave Catholic burial to a public sinner?

“Well, as I explained to you, it doesn’t work that way. But you were deeply concerned that for some publicly known sin, Rid might have been denied Catholic burial.

“Now granted, every once in a while, the Church does deny burial rites to someone such as a notorious criminal because of the scandal it might cause. But that never happens merely in a case such as AIDS.

“However, there is a more ancient and historic reason for denial of Christian burial. It is so famous that it is seemingly well known by everyone, and referred to in fiction and in fact. The one sin that has been traditionally associated with the denial of Christian burial . . .”

“Suicide.” Charlie Hogan, who had been intently following Koesler’s reasoning, barely whispered it.

“Indeed,” Koesler said. “Suicide.”

“Remember, Peter? It was just after we had talked about the AIDS business. You were telling me, at some length, about Rid’s atrocious dining habits. You said something like, ‘He’s been killing himself lately. And then, this AIDS! Well, it was just a matter of time.’

“When I thought back on it, Peter, that’s when it all fell into place. It was just a matter of time. Rid’s condition was bad enough with the heart and the diabetes. When AIDS was added to that and he lost his immune defense system, he was doomed to practically disintegrate before our eyes.

“But, rather than let these diseases ravage him, he was, with his gorging and guzzling and his lifestyle, doing exactly what you said—he was killing himself. And he was doing it quite deliberately.

“If he had continued—if he had succeeded—it would have amounted to, at least in traditional Christian thought, the ‘unforgivable’ sin. In that view, he was condemning himself to hell.

“And you, Peter, his best friend—the one who would have died for him had you been able—could not let that happen. You could not let your friend condemn himself to hell.

“Yet you could not stop him. He was determined. You could find only one alternative. You had to intervene. It was the kindest thing you could think of doing for your friend.

“In a way, he was already under a death sentence. If one or another of his illnesses did not kill him, in all probability AIDS would have. But anything would have been better than the death he was preparing for himself—suicide.

“As Rid’s closest friend, you, of course, knew of the virtual war that had gone on between him and these four people. You knew all the details. So you invited them to play their trump cards. You were certain the cumulative effect of the threats would be a burden his system could not sustain.