William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“Either you hoped or you presumed that all four would leap at the opportunity—and that their letters would all be delivered to the office on the night in question, or that you could hold the earlier ones until all were there. You wanted your weapon to be potent enough. You made sure he ate and drank all the wrong things. After the concert, he wrote his review, you gave him the letters—and waited.

“It worked out just as you planned. He was dead before he could kill himself. Presumably he will be in heaven rather than hell because of what you did.

“Is that about it?”

Koesler was sure of his solution. The glue that would hold it all together was Peter’s typewriter. Of this, Koesler had not been certain until the telltale despair in Peter’s eyes at the mention of the typewriter. With that, there were no more doubts. The typewriter would be—what did they call it?—it was a metaphor in any case. Ah, yes: the smoking gun.

Harison was the picture of defeat. His head drooped. His shoulders sagged. And though the room was chilly, perspiration soaked his shirt.

Ewing stepped forward. “Mr. Harison,” he said, “you have the right to remain silent . . .” As the officer proceeded, Harison shook his head wearily.

“You’ve got one detail wrong,” he said at length. “I did not manipulate or control the way Rid ate and drank the night he died. He did it on his own . . . though I knew he would. He was doing the same thing almost every day by then. He took some sort of smug satisfaction in that for the first time in his life he could eat everything he wanted and more and still lose weight. I guess AIDS or stress or something dissipated the calories as fast as he took them in. It was killing him, of course, but he didn’t care. I cared.”

A long silence followed.

Finally, Valerie Walsh stood and faced the officers. “May we leave now?” Her gesture included Palmer, Mitchell, and Hogan.

“What do you think,” Papkin asked, sotto voce, “are they coconspirators?”

“I don’t think so,” Ewing replied in the same soft undertone. “Even if they are, I doubt they’re indictable.”

“You may leave,” Inspector Koznicki said audibly. “We may have more questions for you. If we do, we will call you in.”

The four left the room with a new, and as yet undefined, attitude toward Peter Harison. Till now, not one of them had taken Harison seriously. They, and most others familiar with the twosome, had considered Harison to be at worst a toadie to Ridley Groendal or at best his paramour. But a murderer? It would never have occurred to anyone.

After the others were gone, Harison asked, “What’s . . . what’s to happen to me?”

“We’ve read you your rights, Mr. Harison, and now I’m going to book you.” Ewing had his man. There was no longer any reason to play a role. He spoke gently.

“What does that mean—that you’re going to book me?” The panic in his eyes seemed to overflow.

“We’re going to get your prints, picture, take a statement.”

“Lock me up?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Does this mean I’m under arrest?”

“’Fraid so.”

“But the funeral! Tomorrow is Ridley’s funeral. I’ve got to attend his funeral.”

“Especially since you’re the cause for the funeral,” Papkin contributed.

“Sergeant,” Koesler addressed Ewing, “would it be all right if I stayed with Peter—for a while at least? Maybe I could help him compose himself.”

Ewing, looking to Koznicki, found no support for this unusual request. The sergeant was saved from refusing Koesler when Harison said, “It’s all right, Father. I’ll be okay. Thanks for thinking of me. But it’s not your fault. I’ve got no hard feelings. It’s better that it’s out. They would have found my typewriter anyway. So don’t blame yourself.

“I just wish I could have attended Rid’s funeral. You’ll take care of everything, won’t you, Father? Just the way we planned it?”

“Just the way we planned it, Peter.” Koesler turned to Koznicki. “Isn’t there any way . . . ?”

The Inspector shook his head, “It’s not likely. Come along, Father. Perhaps we could stop somewhere for a nightcap. It has been a long evening.”

Koznicki started to usher the priest out of the squad room. Then the Inspector seemed to have a second thought. “Ray, this is by no means one of our run-of-the-mill cases. Perhaps you would be good enough to check with the prosecutor’s office after you have processed Mr. Harison.”

“Sure thing, Inspector.”

22

Inspector Koznicki followed Koesler out to Norman’s Eton Street Station in his own car, so they arrived at about the same time. Norman’s was a restaurant in what had once been a railroad station. Koesler had selected it because it was managed by a parishioner, so they would be able to order very little, enjoy privacy and, at the same time, not vex the staff.

Once inside, Koesler introduced the inspector to James McIntyre and explained the purpose of their visit. The personable manager showed them to an out-of-the-way alcove table and gave instructions to their waiter.

Both Koesler and Koznicki ordered decaffeinated coffee. The waiter promptly brought the coffee and a basket of breadsticks. He would return periodically to refill their cups.

It had been longer than usual since the two had last met, so initially they filled each other in on what had been happening in their lives. Koesler spoke of Christmas, always an especially joyful event in his parish, with the crêche, the decorated evergreens, the sanctuary filled to overflowing with poinsettias. The choir had done exceptionally well this year.

Koznicki spoke of Christmas with his wife and, for a change, all of his children, their spouses, and their children. It was rare that all were free to gather together for the holidays. After a few minutes, the Inspector paused. He sensed his friend was distracted by what had occurred earlier.

“Troubled, Father?”

“Oh, I guess so. A bit.”

Koznicki waved a massive hand. The waiter approached to fill their cups. He checked the breadbasket, but it was still nearly full.

“You should not be troubled, Father. A case is solved and you were pivotal in its solution. That should give you a feeling of satisfaction.”

“Huh? Oh, I suppose so . . .”

“Yet there is something. What is it?”

“Would you police actually have checked Peter Harison’s typewriter? Would you have discovered who really invited those others to write to Ridley? Would you have found ‘the smoking gun’ without my lucky guess?”

Koznicki smiled briefly. “You do yourself a disservice, Father. It was not a lucky guess. It was an excellent piece of deduction. As for whether we could have checked and found Mr. Harison’s typewriter,’” Koznicki spread his hands, “well, that is a matter of pure speculation.”

“Then, would you mind speculating?”

“Difficult.” Koznicki sipped the coffee. “I suspect we would have gotten around to it, providing we spent enough time on the case. We were trying to cover every angle. There was the syringe under the desk—which, as far as we could ascertain, turned out to be quite innocuous; there was nothing in it but traces of insulin. Then there was the AIDS question; we asked Mr. Harison to undergo a test for that—which, as you now know, turned out negative. As for the ‘smoking gun,’ as you term it, in all likelihood, we would have first tried to exhaust the possibility that any of the original four might have used a typewriter other than their own. While that would have taken many man hours, we already had several detectives on the case besides Sergeants Papkin and Ewing.

“Failing that, I suspect we would have searched among those who hated Groendal—and I take it there were many.”