Man Who Loved God (19 page)

“In the brief time I’ve gotten to know my brother,” he continued after a moment, “all I’ve been able to observe, all I’ve heard about him, tells me I can be proud of him and confident in his ability. He heard me out when I suggested that one of the VPs could be responsible for your husband’s death. He listened to me with an open mind—of that I’m sure. And he dismissed the idea.” He paused again. Still no response from Mrs. Ulrich.

“To be honest,” he said reflectively, “I haven’t completely abandoned the theory. It keeps popping into my head from time to time. Especially since each of those VPs—or maybe just one of them—could have a very credible motive. But for all practical purposes, I no longer consider it seriously. My brother said it: leave police work to the police—and in this instance, I think he’s absolutely right.

“Look at it this way, Mrs. Ulrich: If you try to get involved in this thing, what can you accomplish? If you—if we—are wrong, you could make some powerful enemies. If you’re right, you could be exposing yourself to great danger: you’d be dealing with someone who has already paid for one killing and could do it again.

“So I urge you, Mrs. Ulrich: leave it alone. Leave it to the police.”

She could have terminated this call some minutes ago. She certainly didn’t need his peroration urging her to give up her quest for the perpetrator of her husband’s murder. But it was easier just to let him go on while she pondered her next step. It would probably be good to let the priest think he had talked her out of it. “Okay. Thanks for all your information and advice. I promise I’ll think this over very carefully. I won’t do anything foolish. Promise.”

Father Tully took the lightness of her tone to mean that she would let the matter lie. Buoyed by all the good he had just accomplished, he bade farewell and hung up.

He gathered the books and papers that had hit the floor at the start of his pacing. He began putting them in order. He had been so close to a concept for his homily. But then his intense involvement in the conversation with Mrs. Ulrich had all but completely derailed his earlier train of thought.

As he organized his references, he gave a final consideration to the death of Al Ulrich.

In his experience as a priest serving in one poor parish after another, Father Tully had known more than a few individuals who would have casually accepted a contract killing. He had met only a very few who could have or would have hired someone to do the job.

Had he just met three of the latter type?

Best he himself take to heart his brother’s admonition: leave police work to the police.

At last he was comfy again, his papers and notes gathered close Except that now he was having a difficult time concentrating on the sermon he was trying to put together.

Damn! If only she hadn’t called. Their conversation had insinuated a seemingly permanent distraction in his mind. Now he was trying to rid his consciousness of the vague bothersome thoughts. At last he pinpointed the shadowy misgiving: it was Barbara’s seeming conviction that no harm would come to Nancy Groggins in her position as manager of that new branch.

That conviction was predicated at the outset on the hypothesis that Al Ulrich had been killed by a hired gun … and that one of the VPs had done the hiring. Finally—and Barbara seemed alone in this—on the assertion that none of the VPs need any longer worry about being ousted from his position for the simple reason that Tom Adams would never raise a woman to his bank’s hierarchy.

If all this were true, then there would not be another killing. Nancy Groggins, while ineligible for a top executive position, would not be in any danger—other than from the street threats that everyone faced.

Father Tully dug into his homily, vowing to at least try to erase all else from his mind.

Barbara had repaired to her tub for a long, leisurely soak.

From the moment the suspicion of murder by contract had occurred to her, she had bought it without reservation. Now she felt confirmed because someone else shared the same suspicion.

The fact that that someone—Father Tully—had done his utmost to discourage her from, in effect, carrying out her own private investigation, did not deter her. She knew that in his heart the priest believed as she did. And that was more than enough for her.

Gently, she marshaled the bubbles that skimmed the surface of her bath.

Jack, Lou, and Martin: as long as they needn’t get their hands dirty or bloody, any one of them could easily afford to pay someone else to do it. The kid had had eight grand. It hadn’t taken the cops long to find it.

Until now Barbara had given no serious thought to Tom Adams’s being a suspect. But why not? He’d have as much if not more to fear from a public scandal when Al loudly disavowed paternity.

She had informed all of them—Jack, Lou, Martin,
and
Tom—that she was pregnant. Her husband was not the father. But he had to be dealt with.

Now it was quite possible that she could get more than abundant support for herself and her child from all four men. At first blush that might appear impossible to carry off. But hadn’t she structured affairs with all four while none of them was aware of the others?

Another idea had come to her during the conversation with Father Tully. These guys had been playing fast and loose as far as any sort of ethical behavior was concerned. Adultery with the wife of one of their co-workers. And now at least one of them, she was certain, was responsible for that co-worker’s death.

Could one—or all of them—be guilty of more?

The CEO and his executive officers were subject to few checks and balances. Might there be any other skeletons in their closets? If there were, mightn’t there be a basis for additional blackmail? For blackmail surely was what she actually planned.

In any case, her immediate plans were clear: one by one she would lead each of four men to conclude that he was the father of her unborn child. Failing their initial belief, she would convince each of them that he was the father.

That should result in a more than comfortable income for her. Actually, she would do well financially if even only one were convinced—especially if that one were Tom Adams. What, indeed, had she to fear? After all, one of them
was
the father. She couldn’t miss.

On top of that, she might very well uncover more dirt. Based on the track record of each of her lovers, with the possible exception of Tom Adams, they easily might be as dishonest in their business lives as they were in their private lives. Discreet yet determined questioning might uncover secrets they desperately wanted to keep hidden. This was new territory; she would have to proceed with caution.

It would require research and investigation. Fortunately, Al had been open with her, at least concerning the bank’s business operations. Based on that information and knowledge, she ought to be able to open up some cans of misconduct that could cause one or more of her paramours to squirm. She would start digging. This was a win/win situation; she couldn’t lose.

She completely disregarded Father Tully’s admonition.

Sixteen

Saturday and Sunday had been what all the Tullys hoped for during Father Zachary’s visit: a peaceful time to grow in the knowledge and love of one another. The Koznickis were with them for Saturday brunch. For the remainder of the weekend, outside of the Masses presided over by Father Tully, it was family time.

Now it was Monday and the priest had a eulogy to deliver.

Father Tully took a seat at the rear of the chapel, an excellent vantage for people watching.

He had arrived at McGovern Funeral Home some twenty minutes before the service for Al Ulrich was scheduled to begin. He would have been earlier still but for the phone call from the pastor of St. Joe’s. Father Koesler had been away from his parish almost one whole week. He could not quite let go.

Ostensibly this morning’s call was to relate yesterday’s adventures in the good company of Father Koesler’s priest classmate in Ontario. In actuality, the call was about St. Joseph’s parish in Detroit. But Father Koesler didn’t want to appear so openly possessive as to make it obvious that he missed his parish and was checking on how things were going.

But back to the adventure. Yesterday—Sunday—Father Koesler and his priest buddy had toured the rebuilt stockade of Ste. Marie Among the Hurons.

The Jesuit mission, established in 1639, had lasted a mere ten years—during which time some Indians were converted to Catholicism and some Jesuits were martyred. Many of these martyrs were famous among parochial school students—among whom was Robert Koesler when he was a lad and people got away with calling him Bobby.

It had been an evident thrill for Koesler to visit the martyrs’ shrine, as well as the fort, which had been burned to the ground when the Jesuits retreated, and much later rebuilt according to the original specifications.

To be honest, Father Tully was more than a little vague about the North American martyrs. Koesler gave a brief rundown featuring Isaac Jogues—the most famous of them all—and Fathers Brebeuf, Lalemant, Garnier, and Chabanal; as well as two laymen, René Goupil and Jean de la Lande.

Koesler omitted any detail of the terminal agonies of these dedicated saints. Although he did mention a humorous prayerful invocation found in a book titled
St. Fidgeta and Other Parodies.
The invocation, logically inserted in the Litany of the Saints, prayed, “From the Sisters who tell us precisely what the Indians did to Saint Isaac Jogues and his companions; good Lord, deliver us.”

Actually, schoolboys lapped up the macabre details of the torture and slaughter of these saintly priests. However, once the lads matured to become students in the seminary, where the martyrology was read to them immediately after lunch, the effect could be a bit nauseating.

During their visit to the old fort, Fathers Koesler and Rammer spent much of their time in the chapel, a long, narrow building constructed principally of logs. A plain wooden table served as the altar. Ornate vestments, complete with the old fiddleback chasubles, ready to be donned, hung on nearby hooks. On the altar sat a chalice that appeared to have barely survived a couple of wars.

Also on the altar lay prayer cards—two small, one large. These supplied the Latin prayers when the celebrant found it inconvenient to read the missal.

Regular Mass had not been offered in that chapel, for almost 350 years. Yet all was in readiness to begin again.

Koesler was most impressed with the realization that these vestments, implements, missal, and prayer cards had been in use a century or so before this present crude chapel was built. They were the exact same paraphernalia and trappings that had been in use in the era of his own ordination. They had remained in common use until a few years after the Second Vatican Council. Now, occasionally, with special permission, they were still used.

For Fathers Koesler and Rammer, the visit to the chapel in Huronia was a refreshing occasion for nostalgia. This was obvious from the warmth in Koesler’s voice as he concluded his account of that visit.

At that point, the conversation took an expected turn. “How are things in Detroit?” Both men knew what specific section of Detroit Koesler referred to.

“Goin’ good. Just like you said, I get out of the way and Mary O’Connor keeps things running.”

“Great! How’d the weekend liturgies go?”

“Nobody walked out till I was all done with Mass.”

“Sorry. Silly question.”

“That’s okay. I know how you feel. As I told you before, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing that’s come up is the shooting of Al Ulrich.”

“Al … Ulrich?” Koesler couldn’t place the unfamiliar name.

“He’s
not
one of your parishioners. I told you about him: the one who was slated to be manager of that new branch of Adams Bank?”

“Oh yes. Tom Adams—the one you gave the award to—his bank. That’s too bad. Poor man.” Koesler had no reason to know Ulrich and, indeed, had never met him.

“I’m supposed to give a eulogy for him at ten this morning.”

“Hey, I’d better get off the line and let you get going.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got some time.” Better now rather than having Koesler call back later in the day with some newly remembered detail. “Wasn’t there anything about the murder in the Canadian media? It was big here ….”

“No, not a word. I’ve been through that before though. Lots of times when we think we have a major story, the foreign press doesn’t give it any coverage at all. But you were involved in this one, as I recall.”

“I thought I was. I met Ulrich at that award dinner party. The rest of the cast of characters were there too. And I got to meet them.”

“The rest of the cast, of characters? What characters?”

“The upper echelon of Adams Bank. Especially the three executive vice presidents who stand to gain from Ulrich’s death.”

Koesler started to chuckle. ‘“Stand to gain’? Are you developing a list of suspects? You really don’t have to play cop just ’cause you’re at St. Joseph’s, you know. It doesn’t come with the territory.”

Tully bristled, partly because he had already been made to feel an intruder in this investigation. And now Koesler seemed to be making fun of him. “I know. I know. I know. I’ve been through all this with my brother. I’ve backed off and I intend to stay backed off. Besides, the thought of being of service to the Detroit Police Department never would’ve occurred to me if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Me?! What did I have to do with it?”

“Just that when my brother learned that not only was I on the scene, but that you were gone … far, far away in a distant land” —Tully made Koesler’s vacation spot sound like the prelude to an episode of
Star Wars
—well, I was only trying to reassure the lieutenant that we belong to the same outfit, you and I … that he shouldn’t consider suicide simply because you had left town for a little while.”

“Well, I am surprised,” Koesler said. “I didn’t realize I’d had that sort of impact on your brother. I’ve just helped out a little from time to time—usually when there was some Catholic ingredient in an investigation. But you and I went over that when we first met—”