The Sacrifice (23 page)

From that point, traveling backward in time, Koesler regaled the diners with anecdotes he had amassed from personal memories and hearsay tidbits.

During a break in Koesler's reminiscences, Wanda invited everyone to take his or her coffee to the living room so she could remove the table dishes. The first dish she reached for was a bowl still half full of spaghetti and meatballs.

“I don't know how you do it, Wanda,” Koesler said. “You had precious little time to prepare to feed this small army. You weren't expecting anyone other than your husband.”

“Oh, I got used to this years ago.” Wanda smiled. “Walt used to bring home his police buddies and they would go on and on and on. They'd discuss their cases, their work, law enforcement in general.

“Actually, I was lucky that I had planned on spaghetti for dinner tonight. You can add to that forever.”

“And you even have leftovers …” Koesler gestured toward the bowl Wanda was holding. “This is almost as good as the miracle of the loaves and fishes.”

Everyone laughed except Zoo Tully, whose brow knitted as he tried to find some relevance between such a miracle and a police investigation.

“Wanda … everybody,” Koesler said as he looked around the group. “I must apologize for running off at the mouth. I haven't given anyone else a chance to say anything.”

“Don't feel bad, Father,” Wanda reassured. “Your stories are much more appealing than Walt's used to be. Body parts all over the place,” she mused in reminiscence, “heads separated from necks, extremities hacked off … and all of this while our kids were trying to eat!” She shook her head.

“Now you folks move out of here and let me get to work.”

“Wanda,” Anne Marie said, “please let me help.”

Some wives are adamant in wanting to work the kitchen area alone. Wanda was not of that number. “Sure, Anne Marie. You come along. I'll appreciate your company. The menfolk can cluster around the living room and tell their stories.”

And so things began to move. Dishes from the table and three men and a teenager to the living room.

Young Richard Wheatley was not particularly impressed by Father Koesler. After all, he was just another priest. And Richard, what with his father and his brother and his sister and their extended circle, usually felt he was being smothered in priests.

But Inspector Walter Koznicki and Lieutenant Zoo Tully … well, they were another species. They were
cops.
Granted, the inspector was retired … but everyone seemed to treat him as if he were still on the force.

Rick had never been this close to cops before. He hardly ever saw a cop outside of TV or the movies. He wondered if these cops were carrying real guns. He had the impression that police officers kept their “rods” under their pillows when they went to bed and in the shower when they were bathing. He wondered if he could be bold enough to ask to see them.

He decided against that. Too presumptuous.

“Any word from the church?” Koesler asked.

“No,” Tully responded. “They'll still be gathering evidence. I don't expect to hear from anyone till later tonight. But they'll check in. They're good officers.”

“The best!” Koznicki agreed. He had once headed the Homicide Division and, with understandable loyalty, was still proud of its officers, many of whom he himself had trained.

“Do you think,” Koesler asked, “there is any possible chance that poor Father Farmer could have been the intended victim?”

Tully shook his head. “All things are possible, as the saying goes. But no, that idea is as close to impossible as you can get.”

“There was a timing device controlling the bomb,” Koznicki continued. “While the bomber could put a time value on the explosion, there was no chance the perpetrator could know, or even guess, that Father Farmer was going to be at the altar. In fact, he should not have been there. He was not in the procession. He was not taking part in the Liturgy. He had a place down front—his Roman collar got him preferential treatment in this instance—he should have remained there.”

“Then …” Rick spoke up tentatively; he wasn't sure his participation in this conversation was welcomed. “… does anybody have any idea who the victim was supposed to be? Father Tully? My dad? Or both?”

“That is the question,” Koznicki said. “No doubt about it.”

“That will be determined as the investigation moves along,” Tully said. “It should be among the earliest facts we uncover. This much seems certain: Either our perp wanted to kill both men or he wanted one of them bad enough to wa—“ Tully pulled up short, suddenly all too aware that he was talking to the young son of the man who could have been the intended victim. Under the circumstances, the verb “waste” did not seem appropriate. “—uh, to target both of them to get the one he really wanted.”

Wanda entered, carrying a steaming coffeepot for those who wanted refills. As she made her way around the room, she said, “This must be a terrible shock to you, Richard … and also to you, Zoo. If it hadn't been for an accident, your father, Richard—and your brother, Zoo—would be dead now. And our dear friend, here, Father Koesler, could be badly injured. I'm sure the rest of us will pray for Father Wheatley and Father Tully as well as for Richard and Zoo.”

“Amen to that,” Koesler affirmed. Rick directed an appreciative smile at Mrs. Koznicki.

“Thank you. Thanks a lot,” Tully said. “But I doubt very much that the delay was an accident.”

“Yes,” Koznicki commented, “it stretches credulity too much. I believe that to be too convenient to be a coincidence.”

“Uh-huh,” Tully agreed. “The phone call came just in time to stop the procession. That delay saved lives and limbs.”

“And,” Koznicki said, “the person who requested Father Wheatley to hear his confession never showed up.”

“That call could be one of the most important features of this case,” Tully said. “It opens up the possibility that the perpetrator might have had a coconspirator,” he added.

“Why is that?” Rick was spellbound at being in on an investigation of murder and attempted murder. Even—or especially—since his father was part of it.

Koznicki smiled. He was amused that the young man was so obviously fascinated by a real-life major felony.

“That scenario”—Koznicki was like a careful teacher—”rests on the assumption that—let us call him Perp One—that Perp One and Perp Two collaborated on this venture. Perhaps they cooperated on making the bomb. Or perhaps not; the bomb was such a simple device that one person could easily have assembled it alone.

“But whether they cooperated on that or not, they were in this together. Maybe one planted the bomb at the altar while the other was a lookout.

“Now you may wonder why the police would posit the involvement of at least two people. It is that phone call, and only that phone call, that may indicate a conspiracy.

“This way Perp One plants the bomb and waits for the timing device to set off the bomb. Meanwhile Perp Two is having second thoughts. He knows, of course, what time the bomb is set to explode. He also knows when the procession is slated to start.

“As the time draws nearer to the planned assassination, Perp Two becomes frightened, or—in any case and for whatever reason—is getting cold feet. He wants to call it off. But how? He cannot march up to the altar, tuck the bomb under his arm, and nonchalantly walk out. By this time, the congregation is settling down. He would be grossly conspicuous. There were ushers, possibly even security people all over the place. Surely one or more of them would stop him to ask why he was removing something from the altar.

“He couldn't just run into the church to hold up the procession until the bomb exploded: How could he explain knowledge of the device without incriminating himself?

“Actually, according to this scenario, he proved himself very clever. He put a call into the rectory, asked for and got Father Wheatley. Counting on the good Father to respond affirmatively to what he termed an emergency, he was able to stall the procession until it no longer was in harm's way.”

With that explanation, Koznicki spread both hands, palms up, indicating he'd finished.

Rick closed his mouth, then opened it just enough to whisper, “Wow!”

It was Lieutenant Tully's turn to smile. He recognized the voice of the officer who had been his own mentor. And, in fact, the scenario just outlined by Walt Koznicki was under investigation even as Koznicki's guests sipped their coffee.

“Of course,” Koznicki observed, “this is but one theory about what had happened in St. Joe's church just a few hours ago. It could just as well be the work of one perp working alone. But that hardly lends itself to an easy explanation for the phone call.”

Father Koesler was once again impressed by the deductive powers of this man who had spent the better part of his lifetime solving real-life mysteries.

Of course, the police would have to solve the question of the phone call that saved the day—that saved everyone, except, of course, poor Father Farmer.

As far as Koesler was concerned, Inspector Koznicki's explanation made sense. He had noticed the smile on Lieutenant Tully's face during Koznicki's exposition. Koesler correctly guessed that the police who had been on crowd-control duty outside the church, as well as those who had been rushed to the scene after the explosion occurred, were even now checking things out exactly as Koznicki had just detailed.

Wanda and Anne Marie entered the room. Each was drying her hands with a small towel.

“What about your brother, Lieutenant?” Rick asked. “Is he safe?”

At mention of his brother, Tully's jaw tightened. “As safe as we can make him. A lot of this he brought on himself.”

“Dear,” Anne Marie said, “don't be too hard on Zachary. He knew we'd get involved if we found out about the threats. He was only thinking of us.”

“It's not that simple, honey. He's got a brother who's a cop. I'm not an untrained do-gooder who wants to meddle in stuff that shouldn't concern me. I'm a professional. Checking out threats is part of a cop's job.

“Even if I'm in Homicide, I'm still a police officer. It was just plain stupid to keep those letters and calls to himself. He's gonna hear from me about this. He will not do this again.” He nodded grimly. “I can guarantee that.”

“What about Richard's question, Zoo?” Wanda asked. “About the safety measures?” She herself knew the answer from the numerous times her husband had explained the standard procedures of similar situations, to her and to others.

“Safety?” Tully repeated. “We'll make Zack—and Father Wheatley—as safe and secure as we can. But it'll be minimal protection. The only way we could come close to maximum security is to confine them—in a hotel room or even a specially outfitted cell.

“But,” he addressed Rick, “neither my brother nor, I'm sure, your father would stand for a procedure like that. So we've got a couple of surveillance teams, one stationed outside my brother's rectory and one outside your father's house. Bottom line: I hope your dad and my brother will get a good night's sleep.” He paused, reflectively. “I'm not sure they will … after all they've been through today … even with the security.”

“Perhaps,” Koznicki suggested, “it would be good for you to tell everyone, as I'm sure they are interested, what you expect will happen now.”

“What I expect?”

“What happens,” Koznicki prompted, “when a, police officer or those near to him are involved in something like this.”

“Oh …” Tully cleared his throat. “I was sure you'd all know; it's one of the rare things that movies and TV get right.

“Well,” he proceeded, “cops tend to close ranks, circle the wagons, whatever, when one of their own is in trouble. You must have seen packed church services for funerals of policemen—firefighters too—who've died in the line of duty.”

Heads nodded.

“It's pretty much the same when someone close to a cop is threatened or killed. In this case a lot of Detroit and neighboring city cops will do everything they can, from actively investigating to keeping their eyes and ears open.

“That's why Walt and I expect a pretty fast resolution to this case. But I'm still sore at Zack for keeping all that pressure to himself. There's nothing much we can do about the past phone calls. They're gone. But to throw away all those threatening letters … well”—his jaw tightened again—”that's just incredible.”

“So have we begun to work the phone?” Koznicki asked. “I mean, in case the calls start up again in the wake of the bombing?”

Tully nodded. “It's one of those things I was just talking about,” he explained for Rick's benefit. “About how my friends on the force—and even a lot of the guys and gals who just want to help out—will get on this thing and ride it.

“Ordinarily, we would have started the ball rolling on this phone business bright and early tomorrow. Now, normally, it would be the responsibility of the complainant to cut through a lot of the red tape. Nothing special one way or another about that. The victim, of course, wants everything done yesterday. But, for our own sanity, if something can be set in motion within a reasonable time, we want to handle things during what passes for business hours.

“But not with this case.” He looked to Koznicki. “You tell them, Walt.”

Koznicki nodded. “If I can guess where you intervened—at which point you became involved—I will just begin at the beginning.

“There is,” he proceeded, “a series of steps that the customer would take if threatening calls are received. The customer—in this case your brother—contacts the local police and files a report.”

“Of course in this case,” Tully interjected, “there's no problem: Several of my squad
are
the local police.”