William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Koesler thought of what Sergeant Ewing had said: that the prosecutor had left those involved in Rid’s death to a higher than earthly judge. The matter now rested between God—the just judge—and the consciences of five people.

It was impossible for Koesler to crawl inside those consciences and learn what their individual judgments might be. But, if he had to bet on it, he would have wagered that their consciences would have told them that they had done God’s will at best or a good deed at worst. Peter Harison was convinced he had saved his friend from suicide and the fires of hell; the others that they had righted the scales of justice and insured that Ridley would ruin no more lives.

Koesler was brought back to the present with a start when the casket moved. He had been so lost in reverie, he had not noticed the attendant who came to take the coffin into a holding room. “Done here, Father?” The attendant was surprised the priest was still there. Usually, everyone cleared out immediately after the final rites.

“Oh . . . oh . . . yes. Sorry.”

“Gotta get ready for the next funeral. Just turned in the gate. Gonna be here in just a couple of minutes. Life goes on, y’know.”

Koesler watched as the casket was wheeled from the room. Life goes on? For some of us, yes. For others, no. You did not fit too well into this life, Rid. Be at rest now. Rid. Be at peace.

Acknowledgments

Gratitude for technical advice to:

Sgt. Roy Awe, Homicide, Detroit Police Department

Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University

Detroit Free Press:

Lawrence DeVine, Theater Critic

John Guinn, Music Critic

Neal Shine, Senior Managing Editor

Detroit Symphony Orchestra:

Cathy Compton, Viola

Oliver Green, Personnel Manager

Gunther Herbig, Music Director

Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department

Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit

Timothy Kenny, Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division, Wayne County Prosecutor’s Office

Walter D. Pool, M.D., Medical Consultant

Wendy Schulte, Modeling Consultant

Hal Youngblood, Host of “Hal Youngblood’s Nighttime Report”

Any technical error is the author’s.

Deadline for a Critic copyright © 1987, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC

an Andrews McMeel Universal company,

1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

Excerpts from the English translation of Rite of Funerals ® 1970, International Committee on English in the Liturgy, Inc. (ICEL); excerpts from the English translation of The Roman Missal ® 1973, ICEL. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.

ISBN 978-1-4494-2366-7

www.andrewsmcmeel.com

William X. Kienzledied in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.

The Father Koesler Mysteries

1. The Rosary Murders

2. Death Wears a Red Hat

3. Mind Over Murder

4. Assault with Intent

5. Shadow of Death

6. Kill and Tell

7. Sudden Death

8. Deathbed

9. Deadline for a Critic

10. Marked for Murder

11. Eminence

12. Masquerade

13. Chameleon

14. Body Count

15. Dead Wrong

16. Bishop as Pawn

17. Call No Man Father

18. Requiem for Moses

19. The Man Who Loved God

20. The Greatest Evil

21. No Greater Love

22. Till Death

23. The Sacrifice

24. The Gathering

Here is a special preview of

Marked for Murder

The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 10

1

"It's all right, you know-I mean, if you can't. . ."

The young man tried feverishly-as he had for the past fifteen minutes-to stimulate himself. But the longer and more frantically he tried, the less likely it seemed that he would maintain or even attain an erection. And, before he'd begun, she had spent another quarter of an hour trying to help him. She'd used every means she knew. And she knew them all.

Nothing.

"Believe me, honey," Louise Bonner assured him, "it happens to everybody once in a while. It's nothing to get upset about. Tomorrow you'll probably have a hard-on all day."

"I can do it." His teeth were clenched as he thrashed about. "Goddammit, I've done it all my life."

"Yeah, sure, honey. But this is your first time with a woman, right?"

He flushed deeper as he continued his effort.

All his life. Louise suppressed a smile. All seventeen or eighteen years of his brief life. She had a mental image of him in his room, alone. On the walls, photos of females, nude or in various stages of dishabille. And there he would masturbate the night away. Then the fateful day-today. He'd saved his money. Or his father gave him ten bucks, told him to find a whore and become a man.

Well, what can you get for ten bucks these days, Louise mused. Forget the pricey bitches in comfortable hotels. Head for Cass Corridor in the decaying center of Detroit and you're likely to find a Louise Bonner-El to her street friends.

She had plied this, the oldest of professions, for all but sixteen of her fifty-one years. And, as far as she was concerned, she had never achieved her full potential. Even as a kid with tight skin, she'd been on the streets. For that she blamed her early pimps.

Now? Hell, she knew she was much the worse for wear. Oh, she had managed to stay slim. And even if the curves were no longer shapely, the angles were still there. But her legs were a bit flabby, the flesh of her upper arms sagged, and the wrinkles-God, how they betrayed her!

But she was still good enough for this kid. It wasn't her fault he couldn't get it on. Even though she was old enough to be his mother. Forget that; old enough to be his grandmother!

All this she thought as she lay back on the metal bed with its stained sheets and grungy mattress.

"Look, honey, if it's the money . . ."

"It's not the money, dammit! I can do it. I know I can."

She shook her head. Time was money, even on a Sunday afternoon. The longer she spent in the room and off the street, the more potential business was driving away from this tired old neighborhood. By now, she would gladly give back his ten bucks. If she spent countless hours waiting for ten dollars to get used up, she could forget about eating.

She sat up and reached for her pantyhose.

"No, wait!"

She hesitated.

He went to his coat, which he had thrown across a chair. He fumbled in the pocket and brought out what appeared to be some kind of feminine undergarment. He offered it to Louise.

"What the hell!" she exclaimed. "It's a garter belt."

"Put it on."

"Honey, it won't fit. It's way too large."

"Put it on. Please put it on."

"But, why-?"

"It's my mother's."

She shrugged. Why not? It had been a crazy afternoon. Maybe she could get rid of him if she humored him. She slipped the belt on. It was, as she had anticipated, several sizes too large. She looked at him to check his reaction.

He was ready.

"Well," she sighed, "I'll be damned."

It did not take long. In a few seconds he was no longer a virgin.

It was obvious from his demeanor as he dressed, and the jaunty wave he gave as he left the room that, as far as he was concerned, today he had become a man.