The Sacrifice (24 page)

“Next,” Koznicki continued, “your brother—who is already in contact with the police—is given a Police Report Number. He may be required to sign a release form—”

“My brother,” Tully said firmly, “will not need to sign such a form.”

“The police will suggest,” Koznicki said after a moment, “that your brother call the Ameritech Annoyance Call Bureau. The police will see to it that he has that number.

“Armed with this information and documentation,” Koznicki continued, “the AACB will put a trap on the line.”

“If,” Tully said, “the AACB prefers to do all this sometime tomorrow during business hours, the police will convince the AACB it would be better done tonight.
Now,
as a matter of fact.”

“Of course,” Koznicki proceeded with his explanation, “it is always possible the operation will require a court order. Just to be on the safe side, whichever police officer is closest to being friends with a judge will phone him or her first and then pick up the court order.”

“In this particular case,” Tully said, “I would probably get the warrant because the only local elected official who doesn't owe me a favor is one of the Drain Commissioners. But a court order has already been obtained, or I would have received word.”

“You mean,” Koesler said, “that these steps you're explaining have already been initiated?”

“Uh-huh.” Tully smiled. “The judge and the warrant—that's merely belt-and-suspenders. It could be messy when we catch this guy if the whole thing were to fall apart at that crucial moment. We could fool around with Ameritech Security or a Subpoena Group. But we wanted something foolproof.”

“So the process,” said Koznicki, as he took over the explanation once again, “is just about in place. The customer—again, the lieutenant's brother—phones the AACB, located in Redford, requesting that a trap for all future calls be placed on the line.

“Father Tully gives the Police Report Number to the AACB and follows the instructions he is given to log calls for the investigation.

“Finally, the AACB provides specific call information to police for the investigation. The police will contact Father Tully as soon as the next threatening call is made.”

Koznicki was inwardly pleased that he could still rattle off the details of an investigation “by the numbers.”

“Do you think,” Anne Marie directed her question at her husband, “this will do it? Are you positive? It's Zack's life we're talking about.”

“Right now,” Tully responded, “it's our best shot. I'd bet my last buck that the guy will call again. He's called so many times in the past. And the important thing is, he's been getting away with it.

“He may or may not send another pasted-up letter. If he does, we'll be ready to use every means we've got to identify him: fingerprints, the type paper used for the letter and envelope, and so on. That'll take more time. But we'll do it.” He looked at his wife reassuringly. “Don't worry, hon; we'll get this guy one way or the other. But my money's on the telephone trap.”

“How about my father?” Rick asked.

“Your father,” Tully said, “is another thing entirely. He hasn't received any threatening mail or phone calls—or so he says. The only contact we know about is that one call he got earlier this afternoon. The one that delayed the procession. But he says he couldn't identify the caller.

“What I'm hoping is that the guy who's been harassing my brother is the same one who's responsible for today's bomb. If that's so, and we catch the guy who's been calling and writing my brother, we'll also get the guy who's after your dad.

“Meanwhile, we're going to do everything we can to protect both men. As I said, neither of them is going to stand for being locked up and treated like a household plant. But we'll do our best.”

Wanda rose from her chair and took the towel from Anne Marie's now dry hands. The two women headed back to the kitchen. Wanda had paid little attention to what was said after Anne Marie asked about the effectiveness of the phone trap. From long experience as the wife of Walt Koznicki, she already knew the answer.

Wanda and Anne Marie were no strangers to each other. Before Zoo Tully married his first wife, he had been like a son to the Koznickis. That affiliation repeated itself after his first wife divorced him, as well as later, after his significant other left him.

Then he married Anne Marie, and he seemed to finally be doing what the Koznickis hoped he would do: learning from experience. One of the major changes of lifestyle Wanda had noticed was that Zoo apparently no longer shared the details of his work with his wife.

It was just the reverse of Wanda's relationship with Walt. They shared quite totally with each other. It was more than a merely matter-of-fact nonholding back; rather it was that each wanted the other to know what was going on.

They shared the dangers as well as the triumphs. Thus, were Walt to mention a phone trap, Wanda would immediately know what was involved and the chances of success. Whereas Anne Marie had been pretty much in the dark until a few minutes ago when the impromptu team of Walt and Zoo had explained it all.

Now the general feeling was that this dinner gathering was over. The guests shifted in their chairs, and references were made to what a busy day tomorrow would be.

In the midst of the valedictories, Anne Marie's voice took on an urgency that was, at that moment, unique. “Zoo, honey, can you take a look at the disposal?”

Tully chuckled. “That's about the best I could do: look at it.”

“I thought you were good at this sort of thing. We've known each other long enough so I was sure you were good with your hands.”

For one fleeting moment, an off-color remark rose to Tully's lips. He caught himself. “You weren't paying that much attention, sweets. My MO for fixing things is to discover that the machine or appliance is out of gas. Or that the plug is out of the socket. But a disposal? Out of my league.”

“That must be why you're such good cops,” Wanda said. “Your job requires no mechanical aptitude whatsoever.”

“Stop picking on me,” Walt joked.

“Isn't there anybody here who can help our hosts?” Anne Marie pleaded. All eyes turned to Father Koesler.

“Don't look at me,” Koesler protested. “We learned in the seminary that that's why parishes have janitors.”

“I think I might be able to fix it,” Rick Wheatley said in an unassuming voice.

Koesler was reminded of the biblical account of the feast at Cana. Before Jesus had worked any of His miracles, He, His disciples, and His mother were invited to a wedding. The hosts had served their wine generously. So much so that the supply was running low. Noticing this, Jesus' mother simply stated the fact: “They have no wine.”

Jesus explained that His time had not yet arrived; it was too early for Him to intervene in such a situation.

His mother was not one to take no for an answer. She told the waiters to do whatever her son commanded.

There followed the first of Jesus' miracles—and one of His most famous. He told the waiters to fill six large stone jars with water, then to take them to the chief steward and await the steward's judgment.

The steward's comment after tasting the water-turned-to-wine: “Most people serve their good wine first. After the guests have had an abundance of that special wine then anything would suffice. But you have saved the best wine until last.”

Or, as the late Fulton Sheen put it figuratively, “The water saw its creator, and blushed.”

From the unlikeliest guest came the solution to a nagging problem. Rick probably was not going to make the disposal whole by means of a miracle. But it was in this company at least a minor miracle that someone with know-how could step forward to help.

“I am afraid this is my fault,” Walt said. “That disposal has been acting up since we returned from our trip. I should have called the plumber.”

“Just give me a couple of minutes,” Rick said. Then, feeling he might be perceived as cocksure, “I didn't mean to give the impression that I can fix
any
thing. There are a few things that stymie me. Or I may not have the right tools. But I'll know once I take a look at it.”

Those at the kitchen door stepped aside, creating a path for Rick. Koesler, thinking he might learn something of future use, took a step to follow him into the kitchen. “If you don't mind, Father,” the boy said, “I work better if nobody's looking over my shoulder.”

The priest backed off. Good-naturedly he patted the young man on the back. “It's all yours, Rick.”

Those in the living room had time to engage in the briefest of small talk before Rick stuck his head through the kitchen door. “I need a hammer and a screwdriver, please.”

“I'll get them,” Wanda said. “Poor Walt here doesn't even know where they are.”

Everyone laughed but Walt Koznicki, who reddened and smiled ruefully.

Now armed with the basic tools, Rick disappeared again into the kitchen, followed by no one. In just a few moments, the sound of the faucet going full blast was heard, followed by the clear hum of the happily purring motor. Everyone was duly impressed.

“Mrs. Koznicki, have you been missing a bone?” Rick appeared, holding up a fair-sized, circular bone that had once been part of a generous cut of rib-eye steak.

Wanda looked embarrassed. “It must've fallen down the disposal—”

“And lodged in there,” Rick said. “I just fished around till I felt it. The disposal should work okay now.”

“I can't thank you enough,” Wanda said. “On top of everything, you've saved us from a repair bill much bigger than that bone.”

Rick grinned. “You fed me tonight … and very well, too.”

“It must be nice,” Wanda said, looking pointedly at her husband, “to have somebody around the house who can take care of such emergencies.” She smiled at Rick. “I assume you inherited your talent from your dad. It must've been handy for your mother to have him around … before the three of you children arrived, I mean. Or is it your mother who has the mechanical ability?”

Rick grinned again. “Neither. We kid Mom and Dad about it from time to time. We tell Mom that we can understand how she could've brought the wrong baby home. But … three?”

“You mean …”

“My parents are like all of you. Oh …” Now his was the face that reddened. “I'm sorry: I didn't mean to sound so smart-assy. Please excuse me.”

His hosts and the other guests all laughed heartily.

When the laughter died down, Rick said, “If you think I'm good with my hands, you should see my brother and sister. They can build or fix anything. I'm learning from them all the time.”

“So,” Wanda said, “your folks are lucky … or at least they'll stay lucky till you move out. Then they'll be back on their own. Have they learned anything from their talented children?”

“I don't think so. They're like …” He was about to add insult to injury, but he caught himself. “They're like so many people who give up too easily But, yes, when I move out they're going to be right back where they were before we three came along.”

With that, the guests donned their outerwear and headed toward the front door. “Come on, Rick,” said Anne Marie, “we'll take you home now.”

“We'd better,” Zoo said to Rick. “Walt and I are the only ones who could get you through the surveillance team.”

F
IFTEEN

“
Don't change the channel. I wanna see this.”

The bartender shrugged and took his hand from the remote control.

It was late Sunday evening. Besides the man on the bar stool, there were only two other customers. The couple, at a table in the far recesses of the room, seemed to be having an odd conversation: The man was steamed; the woman appeared disinterested.

The bartender studied the couple almost clinically. Chances were that tomorrow a newspaper headline would announce yet another homicide in a city that once had the distinction of being known as the Murder Capital of the United States.

If such were to be the case, if the newspaper headline was valid, cops would shortly be in here rounding up facts and witnesses. Just as well for him if he cooperated and gave the officers better than average information based on careful observation.

From long experience—how many similar scenes had he witnessed over the years?—he figured she was the guy's ex-wife or his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. He was trying to reconcile. She was having none of it.

The bartender mentally constructed a likely outcome. She walks out on him. He follows her out. She starts walking nonchalantly down Washington Boulevard. He shouts after her. She continues to walk, without looking back. He pulls out a gun and fires several times. He is no marksman. He's lucky—or unlucky—that one of the bullets hits her in the head, fatally.

The bartender calls 911. The EMS gang gets here in a jiffy. They cart her off. Receiving Hospital pronounces her DOA.

The bartender ends up being the prime witness. He accepts the role; it's part of the price of admission.