William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Well, no more time for speculation. The cortege had arrived and was being organized by the funeral directors.

The metal casket was carried carefully up the few steps and set on the wheeled cart. A mortician guided it into the mausoleum. The mourners filed in and were directed to stand near either side wall. The crowd had thinned drastically. Only a few of those who had attended the Mass had come to the cemetery.

Once again, and for the final time, Koesler stood at the foot of Ridley Groendal’s casket. Although the entire cemetery had been consecrated, and although they were not standing at the open grave, it was customary to read the prayer:

“Lord God, through your mercy those who have lived in faith find eternal peace. Bless this grave and send your angel to watch over it. Forgive the sins of our brother whose body we bury here. Welcome him into your presence, and with your saints let him rejoice in you forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Koesler sprinkled the casket with holy water again. As he continued the familiar prayers, he scanned the little group. Peter Harison, present by the grace of the prosecutor’s office. Dave, Mitch, Charlie, and Valerie were not there. Evidently, they were satisfied that Ridley would no longer be around to foul their lives. They trusted Koesler and the few remaining faithful to plant Ridley.

Peter Harison felt the tension ease. Why, he did not know. Perhaps because the burial service was near its conclusion. Perhaps because so few of those in the church had come to the cemetery. That was it, probably. Especially with the four—Palmer, Mitchell, Hogan, and Walsh—gone. Truthfully, they made him at least slightly uneasy. It was like being confined in a room with one’s own murder weapon—a club, a knife, a gun. And yet, the four were not really his weapons; he had merely orchestrated their assault of Ridley. The determination to kill Ridley had been theirs.

Harison—familiar as he was with his friend’s private life—knew well their animosity toward Ridley. Even though found out last night, it had been a damned clever plan—as uncomplicated as uncapping an active volcano. All he’d had to do was write them—posing as a fellow victim of Ridley’s venom—assuring them the time was ripe, and urging them to an act of revenge. In actuality, the time was more ripe than any of them could have suspected.

After that, it had been easy. So intent was Rid on killing himself that almost any occasion would have served. All Harison had to do was wait—and he was reasonably sure they all would write—until all the letters had been delivered; then, at an appropriate moment set them up for Rid.

The way Rid was abusing his health, Harison knew that almost any moment would be appropriate. And so it had been. That evening had been a classic. Rid had perfectly set himself up with his gluttony, guzzling, and attitude. All Harison needed to do was to stack the letters with their predictable contents and let nature take its course.

Soon, he felt sure, he would have to pay the price for what he had done. But, at most, it would be an earthly penalty. Before God, he’d done nothing wrong. Of that he was certain. They—Rid’s enemies—had killed him. Harison, at most, had let them do so. And, in any case, he had saved his friend from suicide and the eternal fires of hell. Let civil law do its damnedest. He was ready. He would not whimper.

As he neared the end of the Prayers at Graveside, Koesler noticed an additional person enter the mausoleum and take a place at the rear. It was Sergeant Ewing. He wore the same somber expression as the others. If one did not know he was a police officer, there would be no way of telling he was not one with the other mourners.

Koesler concluded the rite:

“We command our brother, Ridley, to you, Lord. Now that he has passed from this life, may he live on in your presence. In your mercy and love, forgive whatever sins he may have committed through human weakness. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Koesler intoned, “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”

And all responded, “And may perpetual light shine upon him.”

“May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

The funeral director spoke briefly, thanking all for attending, and directing them back to their cars. After many funerals, at least those who had taken the trouble of going to the cemetery were invited to return to some location where a luncheon would be served. Not at this funeral. Everything ended at this point.

In silence, those present began to depart.

Peter Harison seemed at a loss. He appeared uncertain as to whether to go or stay. He moved as if to approach Father Koesler, then thought better of it and turned to leave.

When he was stopped by Ewing at the door, Harison seemed startled. The officer spoke earnestly to him for several minutes. From time to time, Harison nodded. Finally, when Ewing had finished, Harison made an abortive gesture, half turned as if to return to Koesler, decided against it, and hurriedly left the mausoleum.

Only Ewing and Koesler remained. The priest inclined his head slightly and looked inquiringly at the officer.

Ewing, smiling benignly, approached Koesler. “I suppose you’re wondering what happened.”

“I certainly am.”

“Well, you broke this case. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be among the first to know. My friend the prosecuting attorney got out his law books first thing this morning.

“And, briefly, the prosecutor has denied our request for the issuance of a warrant.”

“That means . . .?”

“Harison walks. He skates. For all intents and purposes, he’s free.”

“They’re not going to prosecute?”

“The determination is that, at most, it’s a civil cause of action. The charge would be Intentional Infliction of Mental Distress. So, in theory, Harison could be sued for soliciting those letters. But there’s no one left to sue him. Groendal is dead, survived by no one. No one close. No one who cares. The only one who cared was Harison and he killed the guy.”

“Then Peter will not be tried?”

“Without a warrant—no. There is no criminal charge.”

“But those letters did it. Reading them, as Rid did, killed him.”

“Father, I guess the moral is, if you’ve got a weak heart—diabetes, whatever—and you’re expecting some inflammatory mail, you’d better get someone to open your mail for you.”

“Well, I must say, nothing much surprises me anymore. But this is surprising.”

“It sure as hell is. The most the prosecutor said was that he’d have to face a higher judge. But I don’t operate on that level. If they get by a judge and jury in the city of Detroit, they’re by me.” Ewing turned and walked away.

“Thanks,” Koesler called after him. “Thanks for taking the trouble to explain it for me.”

Without turning, Ewing nodded and shrugged.

Koesler was alone in the marble vault. Alone with the mortal remains of Ridley C. Groendal.

The priest returned to the casket. He placed his hand against the metal. It was wet. Beads of holy water still clung to it.

As if a videotape was played at fast-forward, Ridley’s life, as Koesler knew it, passed before his memory. He and Ridley were children making their way through Holy Redeemer grade school in the good old days. There was the ill-fated concert when Rid took on Dave Palmer and lost. The treasured days of the seminary during which Rid tried to compete against a more talented playwright, Carroll Mitchell, and felt himself compelled to plagiarize. The friendship with Charlie Hogan that turned into a different lifestyle for Rid and got him expelled from the seminary. His awkward and fateful evening with Jane Condon that produced a doomed child and, eventually, an unexpected enemy in Valerie Walsh. His lasting love of Peter Harison and the one infidelity that cost Rid what little health he had left.