William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Koesler exhaled audibly. “As the stars in the sky or the sands of the desert.”

“Perhaps out of sheer desperation we would eventually have come to Mr. Harison. But, of course, we were looking for an enemy—of which, as you state, there were many—not a friend.”

“Then I misled Peter when I told him the police would have discovered that his typewriter was the one they were looking for.”

“Not necessarily. It was a fair assumption. And, in the end, probably was true.”

“There’s something nagging at me, though,” Koesler said. “Why didn’t Peter just destroy those four letters, I wonder? I mean after Rid had his fatal seizure? Then everyone would just have thought Ridley had merely suffered a heart attack. With his medical history, it certainly would come as no surprise to anyone that Rid would go that way without any outside provocation.”

“It is a good point.” The Inspector pondered as he sipped more coffee. “Why did Nixon not destroy the tapes? Probably because enough people knew the tapes existed that, had they been destroyed, and had their existence been subsequently revealed, their destruction would have aroused suspicions. Even more so in this case. Each of four people knew that he or she had sent a most inflammatory and threatening letter to Groendal. It would be only natural for one—or all, for that matter—to wonder what had happened to his or her letter. All that needed to happen was for one of them to raise the question—to poke around the Suburban Reporter’s newsroom, to ask someone in the news media. Just to become inquisitive about what had happened to the letter. If one questioned the matter, certainly the others would join in. At that point, Harison, as the one who sorted and presented all Groendal’s mail, would be hard-pressed to explain the absence of these letters.

“Better to let the letters alone and let them point to the writers as the probable guilty parties.

“Harison simply could not know that the instigation of the letters would be traced back to him. Or, he took the chance they would not be.”

Koznicki caught Koesler gazing longingly as a diner some tables away lit a cigarette. It had been many years since the priest had given up smoking. If he was being tempted at this late date, Koznicki concluded his friend must be in a very distraught state. Koznicki leaned forward. “It is Peter Harison, is it not? You are concerned over what is happening to him.”

Koesler looked intensely at Koznicki and nodded.

The Inspector glanced at his watch. “He should be processed by now. It may be time enough to check on what is happening. Would you excuse me, Father?”

“For that? Gladly.”

During the approximately fifteen minutes Koznicki was gone, Koesler absently gazed at the Christmas decorations. In addition to the basic green and red, there was a generous sprinkling of attractions for children, including a Santa. All in keeping with the restaurant’s merited claim to be a “family” dining establishment. Because his parishioner managed the place, Koesler felt especially pleased by its success.

So lost in thought was he that he was taken by surprise when Koznicki resumed his chair. The inspector wore just the hint of a smile.

“Good news?” Koesler was eager.

“Tentative, but, yes, good news. At least as good as the news could be at this stage.”

“You’ve talked to Peter.”

“No, to Sergeant Ewing. After he processed Mr. Harison and put him in a holding cell, he phoned the chief deputy prosecutor and explained the case. It was the prosecutor’s opinion that we have here a most rare, if not unique, case and that he would have to check it out first thing in the morning.”

“Excuse me, but check what?”

“Various statutes and cases, to determine what, if any, charge to bring. He will, after all, be the one to prosecute the case.”

“What happens to Peter in the meantime?”

“That is the part I think you will like. The prosecutor asked Sergeant Ewing if he thought Mr. Harison would try to escape if he were released overnight.”

“And?”

“And the sergeant said he thought not. And, in very truth, I must agree. So, Mr. Harison was ‘released to appear.’ That is a term we use to indicate that when we get a warrant, the prisoner must return to our custody.”

“That means that Peter will at least be able to attend the funeral tomorrow morning?”

“I would think so, yes. It probably will take several hours to formulate the case against him. So it should be at least midmorning before a determination is made.”

“Thank God.” Koesler was genuinely relieved. “At least he’ll be able to attend the funeral. And then?”

“And then we shall see what we shall see.”

Part Eight

At the Grave

23

Father Koesler could remember—long, long ago—when he had been an altar boy. Especially on school days, it had been most desirable to accompany the priest to the cemetery. That way one could miss an entire morning of school.

In those days, priests usually ate breakfast—their first nourishment of the day—immediately following the funeral Mass. Then the priest and his altar boys were chauffeured to the cemetery by the mortician. Mourners usually were kept waiting in their cars until the priest finally arrived. All in all, the process consumed considerable time.

Like everything else, these things had changed. Now it was permissible as well as sensible to eat before Mass. Nor did the priest usually take altar boys with him to the cemetery.

Thus, Koesler arrived at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery alone and well in advance of the cortege. None of the visiting priests who had attended the Mass would be at the cemetery. The cemetery, Koesler thought sardonically, was for diehards. Only the most committed mourners accompanied the body to the grave. And literally no one this day would go all the way to the grave. In winter the final rites were held in the mausoleum. That was as close to the frozen ground as the funeral party could get.

There was no point in staying in his car and running the motor to keep warm. So Koesler entered the mausoleum as soon as he arrived. He was greeted by the cemetery’s manager. Over the years and through hundreds of burials, priests and cemetery personnel became acquaintances, if not friends.

“Cold enough for you, Father?”

“Plenty. And we’ve still got all of winter to go.”

“Got the burial permit with you, Father?” The manager carried a pad of permit certificates just in case a priest forgot It happened.

“Sure, here.”

“Ridley C. Groendal. Must have been kind of famous. Got a big obit in the paper.” The manager studied the certificate.

“Yeah, he was kind of famous.” Koesler had long since ceased to be surprised when a celebrity in an artistic field was not generally known. About the only ones widely famous were motion picture and television personalities.

“Really peculiar middle name, eh, Father?”

“Huh? Peculiar?” Koesler tried to recall Ridley’s middle name. At one time he’d known it but, never having a use for it he’d forgotten it. “It’s . . . it’s . . . oh . . . Charles, isn’t it?”

“Maybe according to the baptismal certificate, but not according to the birth or death certificate. Got it right off the county records. It’s Caligula.”

“Caligula! Are you sure?”

“Yep. Never seen that one before. I mean outside a history book.”

Caligula! Koesler had no reason to disbelieve the man. Rid had managed to keep it a secret all these years, if, indeed, he had ever known what his real name was. What kind of parent would give a name like that to a child? Thinking back on Ridley’s parents, Koesler could only guess it must have been Rid’s father. Some sort of ultimate joke played on a child the father never wanted. The name, now revealed, spoke volumes on what Ridley’s early life must have been.