Chameleon (36 page)

In this expansive glow, Bash became somewhat uncomfortable with the silence between him and Meyer. Obviously the younger man was content to eat rather than talk.

In reality, Meyer had simply run out of ways to keep the ball in Bash’s court.

“You know, Bob …”

That was a good sign, Meyer recognized. Bash seldom used Meyer’s given name. But when it was used it meant that Bash was in one of his rare relaxed and good moods.

“You know, Bob,” Bash said, “one of the good things—fringe benefits—of an occasion like this—die death of a priest or a bishop—is that the gang gets together to really let their hair down and relax. Last night, for example, we had a bunch of out-of-town priests spending the night at St. Al’s.” Bash thought about diat for a moment, and added sadly, “All those rooms above the chancery. Used to be overflowing with priests. Now diey’re empty except for when Something like this happens.”

Then, as rapidly as he had become maudlin, his happy frame of mind returned. “One of the guys from Toronto was telling about a priest’s funeral up there sometime back. The dead priest was lying in state in the rectory parlor. Some priests gathered to pay their respects. Then they went upstairs where there was a generous supply of booze. They all had a few drinks when this one screwball priest said, ‘You know, Tony would like this,’—Tony was the name of the dead priest.

“Then this priest left. Everyone figured he had gone home. But after a bit they heard this sound. Someone was dragging something up the stairs. Something stiff and heavy.

“They all had the same idea at the same time: that the screwball was dragging Tony upstairs so he could enjoy the party.

“Well, they all went running out into the hallway—and there was the screwball dragging a statue up the stairs.

“And one guy had thrown up for nothing.”

They laughed. Meyer 55 percent because he thought the story funny, 45 percent because it was the boss’s joke. Bash laughed for the same reason he told the story: The martinis had done their job and he was expansive.

One story reminded him of another, and so Bash told stories throughout their luncheon. In Meyer’s association with Bash this was a unique performance.

After finishing coffee, Bash pushed the check to his assistant. “Take care of this and take it out of petty cash.”

Meyer knew that Bash would eventually check to see that nothing more was taken than the luncheon’s tab plus a modest tip. Bash ran a tight ship.

Bash stood without swaying. All evident effect of the liquor was gone. “I’m going to stop off at my room before I go back to work this afternoon. If there are any calls from any of the media I’ll get back to them later today.”

The direction was unnecessary. Meyer knew there was one, and only one, spokesman for the archdiocese.

Bash bundled up and started off. He crossed Larned and turned onto Washington Boulevard. He began the slow ascent toward Michigan Avenue. At his back was Windsor, calling up a Detroit claim to fame of being the only city in the United States whence one traveled south to reach Canada.

This close to the riverfront was one of the coldest areas in the city. The wind whipped off the water, turning the already frigid air into a humid, bone-chilling force as it swept through the skyscraper canyons. Bash had not dressed particularly warmly. After all, he knew he’d be spending most of the morning in the cathedral at Foley’s funeral. And, as anticipated, it had been very warm in there.

But that strategy had left him unprepared for this. The cold was so bitter he gave thought to hailing a cab. But it really wasn’t all that far—a little more than four blocks. Besides, there weren’t any cabs in sight. Practically nothing in sight. A combination of the early afternoon hour and the weather seemed to be keeping most cars and just about everybody off me streets.

God, it was cold! So cold his bones felt brittle—as if they would shatter any minute. Memories of Korea enveloped him. No matter how cold he had been before or since, nothing could match his experience in that wretched country.

MacArmur had been right, of course: You shouldn’t fight a war unless you fight to win. Didn’t learn it in Korea. Maybe learned it in Vietnam.

He squeezed his eyes nearly shut against the biting wind, as he tried to make his body crawl inside itself in search of an escape from the cold.

Once more, in memory, he was hunkered in a hastily dug trench. He had never been more terrified. The night was so black; no moon, no stars. His beard was frozen. He tried to keep tears from flowing. They were ice as soon as they left his eyes.

The soldiers with him in those trenches were so young, and more frightened even than he. He at least had a more untroubled attitude toward death. Not that he wanted to die. He wanted to live as much as anyone, but, as a priest, he had prepared himself for inevitable death any number of times in the past, an ingredient of spiritual retreats and missions. These poor kids, most of them had never seriously thought their young bodies could cease functioning. Not until now. All they wanted to do now was to go home and work in the family gas station. More urgently, they wanted to get out of their frozen clothing, get those boots off, and see if they could wiggle their toes—or if they still had toes. They wanted the noises of war to stop—the shrieking shells, the triphammer machine guns, the screams of wounded buddies.

Then there was the single sound Bash would never forget. It was the shell he instinctively knew was zeroing right in on his platoon. Then there was the explosion that cost him an eye.

Then there was the explosion on Washington Boulevard.

Cletus Bash pitched forward and fell to the pavement.

He was above the scene looking down at it. It didn’t hurt. He could see people looking out their windows onto Washington Boulevard where his body lay stretched out on the pavement. None of the onlookers could see the figure running down the alley, tucking the gun into his coat pocket. The man who had been following Bash at a discreet distance since he’d left the restaurant. The man who had waited until Bash reached the alley. The man who, moving up quickly, had fired a single shot into Bash’s head, turned, and dashed down the alley.

Bash, now drifting farther from his body sprawled on the ground, could see it all. He even recognized his killer. Somehow, now it didn’t make any difference. He continued to drift away and became less and less interested in what was going on on earth.

Gradually, as people concluded that the gunshot was a solitary, not-to-be-immediately-repeated event, some cautiously emerged, but not before donning hat and coat. One helpful soul, when he realized Bash’s condition, hurried back to call the police, which, oddly, no one else had thought to do, even after hearing the gunshot and seeing the prone figure. The others stood about, observing that it wasn’t safe to walk around in Detroit, even downtown, even in broad daylight.

It was but seconds until a blue-and-white arrived. Once the uniformed police saw the head wound and that the victim was a priest, one of them called and alerted Zoo Tully.

It was early evening, but no one was counting.

At police headquarters, the Homicide Division was almost deserted. Some officers were investigating cases that demanded immediate attention. But most were out kicking the bushes on the Church-related serial murders. With the killing of Father Cletus Bash earlier in the day, all burners were on high. Shift times were disregarded, as, in many cases, were dinners. It didn’t need to be said but the mayor said it anyway: This string of murders must be ended, and the perpetrator brought to justice.

Homicide didn’t have to be specially motivated. The officers who worked this division were experienced and good at their job and they knew it. Beyond every other consideration, they were personally embarrassed by three—in effect, four—murders of members of the Catholic archdiocese.

In one of the squad rooms, Lieutenant Tully and Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore sat with Father Koesler around a couple of pushed-together desks. The silences—there were many—were awkward.

The common denominator of this group was Tully, who had invited Koesler to sit in at this meeting. Of course Tully also was Mangiapane and Moore’s commanding officer. Neither of the sergeants knew precisely where the priest fit in, particularly at this stage of the investigation when it was expedient that things run most smoothly and efficiently. As far as the sergeants could see, this was a time for the highest degree of police procedure. Not a time for bringing in a layman—in police terms—and an amateur at best.

But Tully, in inviting Koesler to attend, was following the same hunch he’d had throughout this investigation: That the priest could provide a Catholic insight that might elude the police areaof expertise.

“Are we sure of the bullet?” Moore asked.

Tully nodded. “I just got the report from ballistics a little while ago. Just before you got here. A head wound; same gun.”

“Wow!” Mangiapane exclaimed. “Record time.”

“That’s what we haven’t got—time,” Tully commented. “Father Koesler, is there any chance this Father Bash could have had a vital interest in the possible closing of Church schools or parishes?”

Koesler pondered the question briefly. The pause was largely pro forma; he was quite certain of the answer. He slowly shook his head. “Not to the best of my knowledge, Lieutenant. Oh, he undoubtedly had an opinion on the question, although I have no idea what that opinion might have been.

“But he would not be intimately affected in either event—whedier the institutions were closed or allowed to remain open. He was not in the parochial ministry. By that I mean he wasn’t attached to any parish. At most, he probably helped out at some parish on weekends. Again, if he did, I don’t know where. His prime concern would have been in relaying the decision to the news media. In effect, I guess you could say he probably didn’t care what decision was made as long as he had that decision in hand in enough time to dish it out to the media.

“As far as I can see, Lieutenant, that thread we had going to link the murders broke when Father Bash became a victim. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tully said. “It was my theory. You told me what you knew of the first three and I came up with the idea. The problem is it puts us back on square one. And an added problem is that the perp seems to have changed his M.O.”

“His M.O.?” Moore said. “How’s that?”

“The first three killings,” Tully explained. “They all took place at night … with Donovan, early in the morning, actually. Both Hoffer and Foley were killed near eleven at night as each one was walking his dog before retiring. In each case the killer picked his time carefully. Of all the times and places he could have picked for Donovan, he struck late at night, ’cause she had a habit of doing a lot of her work in the evening and she frequently got home very late. Plus, at that hour, not only could he depend on her coming home alone but there likely would not be anyone around to witness the killing.

“He was right about everything but the victim. No way he could guess that one particular night would be the one and only time the nun loaned an outfit to her sister. So he got the wrong one. But it was a one-in-a-million chance. The important thing is that the perp had himself pretty well protected.

“The same in the next two killings. Both men had a steady, dependable habit of ending the day about eleven by walking their dogs. In both cases, that’s exactly what both did. In both cases it was late at night on a pretty predictably empty street.

“In every case—in all three killings—his careful preparation paid off: All three were killed at his convenience. The victims were faithful to their schedules. It was most unlikely anyone would be around to witness the killings. If by chance he had spotted anyone coming home or passing by unexpectedly, he could just have walked away and done it some other night. None of the habits these people had were going to change. If anything prevented him from killing them when he originally intended, all he needed to do was come back another night.”

“I see where you’re headed, Zoo,” said Moore. “The Bash killing doesn’t have any of those elements.”

“Not one,” Tully continued. “How could the perp know what Bash was going to do today? According to his assistant … what’s his name …?”

“Meyer. Robert Meyer,” Mangiapane supplied.

“Meyer. According to him, Bash suggested the Pontch Wine Cellars right out of the blue. Bash ate there frequently but by no means so regularly that it could be predicted. But the killer either followed him or waited for him in that alley. The more likely probability is that the guy was either in the restaurant or waiting outside. By the way, while I’m thinking of it, get some of our people to do as complete a make as possible on who was in the Pontch this afternoon. Joe Beyer knows his clientele pretty well. See if he recalls Carson or Stapleton—or if anybody can identify either of them as being there.”

Both Mangiapane and Moore noted the instructions.

“To get back,” Tully resumed, “the perp, as I figure it, followed Bash up Washington Boulevard. When he got to that alley, the perp checked out the area and when he didn’t see anyone, he shot Bash and escaped down the alley.

“But just look at the difference: It’s not at night; it’s in broad daylight. The perp hasn’t done his usual thorough surveillance; he’s winging it for the first time. And he’s taking a huge chance that someone—maybe looking out one of the windows—could be. a witness, possibly even recognize or identify him. Now what does all this mean for us?”

A slight smile played at Moore’s lips. “He’s getting desperate. He’s not being cautious. He’s in a hurry.”

Tully nodded. “Something like that. For whatever reason, he went against his M.O. And that’s something we’ve got to figure out: Why? He improvised and still got away with it. We got to make sure if he improvises again, we’re there to make sure he isn’t lucky again. Or …” One of Tully’s worst fears in this case seemed to be coming true. At this point the only thing that made sense was that more than one killer was out there; that two—or more—crazies were operating, using the same gun, but, obviously, if one wanted to consider this latest killing, not the same M.O.