No Greater Love (39 page)

Twenty-nine

Lieutenant Zoo Tully was “on the street,” meaning simply that he was on duty but away from headquarters. Because the officer who answered knew the priest, he had the call patched through to Tully.

Bishop McNiff's life was threatened; immediate action was called for. Fortunately, the lieutenant was cruising not far from the seminary. He trusted Koesler's perception of the seriousness of the situation and shoved the red tape aside.

Koesler gave the lieutenant the bishop's room number and its location. He also urged Tully to be on the lookout for Cody's son, a seminarian who had put himself in the middle of this thing.

The lieutenant called for backup, slapped the flasher to the roof, and, siren blaring, headed for the seminary.

Though Tully had been nearby when Koesler contacted him, Cody, with his head start, reached the seminary first.

The parking lot was unattended. Security began just inside the heavy Gothic door.

Bill Cody stormed through the entrance. His eyes were wild, his face reflected fury. Struck by Cody's demented expression, the guard, rather than staying in his protective cage, stepped out into the foyer and into Cody's path. Only then did he catch sight of the rifle.

The guard was unarmed and too elderly to be agile. Cody said nothing. He brought the rifle butt up with as much force as his right arm possessed, catching the guard just under the chin.

The blow broke several of the guard's teeth. But he would not know that for a couple of hours as he dropped unconscious to the floor.

Without a glance at the fallen man, Cody headed for the bishop's suite.

As Tully rushed through the seminary door, his trained eye instantly took in all. He didn't stop to check on the guard's condition; that would have to take its turn. He was either dead or alive. If he was dead, there was no hurry to bury him.

One thing was clear. Somebody—undoubtedly Cody—had done this. Judging from the small pool of blood forming around the guard's head, the perp had been here only minutes ago.

And, following that, Koesler had been right: Cody was determined and dangerous.

On the surface, Tully appeared cool, but inside, adrenaline was sending shock waves through his body. His heart was pounding, his blood was pumping at fever pitch. Movie and TV cops did this sort of thing all the time. In real life, even in the busiest precincts such a chase was rare.

Tully drew his gun as he raced down the tiled corridor, hoping the directions Koesler had given him were correct. He had no time now to look out for Al Cody. Besides, Tully had no idea how the young man figured in this case. All that was on his mind, all his training, his years of experience, his discipline—all converged to keep him focused on one objective: reaching the bishop's suite as quickly as possible.

That, and being ready for anything.

Bill Cody arrived at the bishop's suite. Having made his threats, he'd half expected to find some sort of security or protective barrier here. Nothing.

A guard inside with the bishop perhaps?

But Cody was not concerned with any possible confrontation. To hell with confrontation! This was a time for action, for retribution.

He turned the knob and the door swung open.

There he was, not twenty feet away, seated at his desk. Cody wasted not a second. He raised the rifle, aimed at the red zucchetto just above the back of the chair, and fired.

From the lower corridor, about halfway between the front door and the bishop's rooms, Lieutenant Tully heard the crack of the rifle. There was no way he could increase his speed. He was already at full throttle.

Leaving caution aside, he raced up the steps, turned the corner, and reached the open doorway. The odor of gunsmoke was strong. The rifle had been fired only inches from where he stood. Now with caution, he let his gun lead him around the doorway and into the room.

A rifle lay on the floor where it had been dropped, seemingly haphazardly. Farther into the room but this side of the large desk a chair lay on its side. Nearby, was a scene similar to those Tully had observed too many times.

A kneeling man clutched a younger man to his chest.

The older man? Very probably Bill Cody—the object of Tully's pursuit. Cody allegedly was intent on causing great bodily harm to or killing a bishop—Patrick McNiff.

Tully had seen the elder Cody during a Folk Mass at St. Joe's when Tully had been a reluctant member of the congregation and Cody had been one of three observers in the choir loft. That had been at a considerable distance. But this seemed to be the same man.

It was not the scene Tully had expected, especially when he'd heard the rifle shot. He expected to find Cody, certainly. But the victim Tully anticipated was a much older man. As he continued to inhale the crime scene, it seemed obvious there had been a tragic mistake.

The initial impression: The young man was William Cody's son. As the elder man rocked back and forth, he moaned repeatedly, “My son! My son! I didn't mean it to be you.”

Tully stepped forward. He leaned down to check for signs of life, while not taking his eyes off the elder man, who offered no resistance as Tully felt the victim's neck for a pulse. He couldn't find any.

Tully stepped back. Cody Senior, still in a kneeling position, seemed to have turned to stone, his eyes glazed. Tully stood between Cody and the rifle, fixing the scene in his mind.

The victim was garbed in a black cassock with red buttons and matching piping. The ill-fitting cassock seemed too small for the victim; it gapped in spots where it was unbuttoned. A red skullcap lay nearby, a darker crimson staining its original shade.

Judging from the position of the blotter and the books on the work surface, the chair was on the wrong side of the desk.

Tully guessed that the younger Cody, masquerading as the bishop, had been sitting with his back to the door. He had gambled on his father's impulsiveness and had won—or lost. Instead of coming around the desk to confront the man he thought was the bishop, the perpetrator had fired upon entry.

But where was the bishop?

And where, as Tully impatiently tapped his foot on the carpeted floor, was his backup?

The latter question was answered as a commotion in the corridor grew louder, and police of various disciplines poured into the room.

Father and son were separated; the father, virtually in shock, led into an adjoining room.

Arriving next, almost simultaneously, were Bishop McNiff and Father Koesler. Each had questions, but first there was Al Cody. They both started toward the inert body, then Koesler looked to Tully, who nodded. “Just don't touch anything.”

McNiff and Koesler knelt by Al. They prayed for the young man whose life had held such rich promise and who was now far beyond the pain and sorrow of his death.

As the two clergymen stood, Tully approached. “What happened here?”

After a brief moment during which each waited for the other to speak, McNiff proceeded to recount how Al had come to him with the decision—out of nowhere—to resign, though he had only a few weeks till ordination.

McNiff's voice was flat as he went on to tell how all his efforts to persuade Al to change his mind were for naught: Al would not be budged.

Then there was McNiff's well-intentioned call to the Codys and William's off-the-wall reaction to what he thought was McNiff's role in this. Then came the threats of murder.

From that moment on, McNiff related, Al simply took charge. It was the most amazing transformation the bishop had ever witnessed. Al all but physically steered the bishop to the chapel and told—ordered—him not to emerge from there until he was summoned by Al or someone else—anyone else except Bill Cody.

Apparently the young man had then put on the bishop's zucchetto and one of his cassocks, then offered his own back as bait for his father. It had worked. Too well. It had cost Al his life, and his father might just as well have lost his too.

Koesler filled in the missing pieces. Al's phone call telling of his father's intent and the rifle his dad must've taken with him.

At that point, Tully gestured toward the desk, where two pages from a yellow legal pad lay. “Apparently the victim was writing a note to the perpetrator: The message may be more clear to you two than it was to me.”

“May we touch it?” Koesler asked.

Tully nodded. “The techs are done with it.”

Koesler made room for McNiff alongside the center of the desk. But McNiff shook his head. “I can't, Bob. I'm afraid my eyes are watering. Read it out loud, would you?”

Koesler picked up the sheets. His problem was similar to McNiff's. But he resolved to fight his way through it.

Dear Dad
,

If you are reading this, I am probably dead. If, somehow, I survive your coming here tonight, I will destroy this note. If I do not survive, this will be my farewell to you.

Koesler was amazed that Al's handwriting was so legible.

Dad, I think you misunderstood—or, let me be plain—I think you refused to understand that leaving the seminary was my choice, my initiative. Bishop McNiff had absolutely nothing to do with it. Neither did anyone else. It was my decision alone
.