engines rose to a whine, then a full-throated roar as the plane gathered momentum, raced down the runway, and pulled itself upward.
“I’m glad that’s over!” The color began returning to Koesler’s white knuckles.
“Yes,” said Koznicki, “they do say that takeoffs and landings are the most dangerous times in flying.”
“No, dear,” a smiling Wanda Koznicki corrected, “the most dangerous time in flying is the automobile trip to the airport.”
All three smiled.
A steward passed by, pushing a cart filled with small bottles containing a vast variety of potables.
“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Koesler asked. “I mean, we’re still climbing!”
“Well, Father,” said Koznickl, “this is a charter flight. It may prove to be more of a party than your usual flight.”
The prophesy was correct. Archbishop Boyle’s Irish-blooded relatives were the principal reason the liquor cart was not put to rest until the very early hours of the following morning.
“And you’re sure,” said Koesler, pursuing the conversation they had begun earlier, “that the young man who attacked Archbishop Boyle was acting alone?”
“As sure as we could be in an initial investigation. If it proves otherwise as the investigation continues, my people will notify me.”
“And he wasn’t attacking Mayor Cobb? The Mayor and the Archbishop were standing very close to one another.”
“Oh, no, Father. I, too, was standing close by, as you will remember. I saw him inching through the crowd and I followed his progress until he was standing directly in front of the Archbishop. When he arrived at that point, I was fortunate enough to prevent him from causing any harm.”
“I’ll say you prevented him. I don’t think the kid knew what hit him!”
Koznicki smiled. “No, he did not attack the Mayor, but he certainly got his attention.”
Wanda was served a chablis, Koznicki a Stroh’s, and Koesler a bourbon manhattan. He was slightly surprised—and pleased—that the mobile bar stocked bourbon.
“Were you able to come up with any motive? I mean, if the guy was acting alone, if he wasn’t part of a conspiracy, what possible motive could he have for attacking the Archbishop? He’d have to be insane!”
“No, I think not, Father. It is a phenomenon we are seeing more and more in America: Somebody who is nobody trying to become somebody by attacking somebody who is important. The people who made attempts on the lives of Presidents Ford and Reagan, the one who shot and killed John Lennon, were all people who wanted to be recognized. An act of violence gave them their moment of recognition. They are not in the same category with the assassins of President Kennedy or Martin Luther King, Jr.—people who killed with a purpose and after their attack tried desperately to escape.
“No, Father; I am quite sure that that young man saw Archbishop Boyle on the TV news. The TV exposure made it obvious that this man was important, that he was leaving for Rome, and that there would be a press conference at the airport. At that point, the young man decided it was time for the world to know his name.”
Koznicki paused. “You know, it is funny, but I cannot recall his name.” He shook his head. “No matter; with the publicity that will be given him, the world will shortly know who he is. Except that he will have to forfeit a great many years of freedom for his moment of recognition.”
“Probably. But only after batteries of lawyers and psychiatrists get done arguing over his sanity,” said Koesler, his tone betraying a tinge of cynicism. “Personally, I think the time has come to enact new standards. If the law can differentiate between first-, second-, and third-degree murder, why can’t they establish similarly relative degrees of insanity?
“First-degree insanity would mean that the defendant was insane at the time of the crime, did not know right from wrong, and was incapable of standing trial for the crime charged.
“Second-degree insanity would mean that the defendant was insane, but capable of distinguishing right from wrong, and was capable of standing trial.
“Third-degree insanity would mean the defendant was temporarily insane at the time of the crime.”
“An interesting suggestion,” commented the Inspector. “I wonder what our forensic psychiatrist, Dr. Fritz Heinsohn, would have to say about that.”
“Probably a lot, and probably all of it gobbledygook,” replied Koesler with a grin.
Dinner was served.
Delmonico steaks, each done medium, sculptured baked potatoes, french beans, spinach and mushroom salad, a lemon tart. Each tray held a small bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. Not bad, for an airline; but then, a party had been predicted.
After a perfunctory but nonetheless heartfelt, unspoken grace, Koesler fell to with gusto; the afternoon’s events had given him more of an appetite than he had been aware of. He was left with his thoughts of those events, as the Koznickis conversed in low tones throughout the meal. Later, after the steward had replenished their wine supply, Koznicki turned to Father Koesler. “By the way. Father, what was it that made you raise the possibility of a conspiracy?”
“Oh,” Koesler sipped his wine reflectively, “it was mostly that incident in Toronto. You know, the murder of Cardinal Claret.”
“Yes?”
“I suppose it was just the coincidence. Cardinal Claret was attacked suddenly and unexpectedly, at a time when the public could approach him freely and unrestrainedly. And he was killed by a young black wielding a knife.
“Plus, if I remember the newspaper account correctly, Father Ouellet, who was standing alongside Cardinal Claret at the time, described the young man as wearing his hair in a natural or Afro. And . . . well, those same conditions were present this afternoon when Archbishop Boyle was attacked. So, naturally. . .” Koesler allowed the sentence to remain uncompleted.
“Even if your hypothesis does not prove true in this case, it is a good analysis, Father. It never ceases to amaze me that you react to such situations in much the same manner as a police officer. Are you sure you did not miss your vocation?” It was not the first time the Inspector had kidded his friend with such a question.
“Oh, no.” Koesler laughed. “I’m where I ought to be. If, by some stretch of the imagination, I ceased being a priest, and someone asked me what else I was qualified for, I fear I would be forced to answer, ‘Nothing.’”
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Kamego. We are presently flying at an altitude of 42,000 feet, and are right on schedule. We should land at Leonardo da Vinci airport at 9:00 a.m. Rome time, which would be 3:00 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time.
“Now, for your entertainment, we will be showing a movie in just a few minutes. The name of it is . . .”
A slight pause.
“The name of it is,
“
Both Koznickis were smiling at their animated friend.
“The last I heard of that film, all the major TV networks and distributors had turned it down. It was a throwaway—dead on the shelf. I wonder whose idea it was to resurrect it for this flight?”
“Would you like another manhattan, Father?” an attendant interrupted.
“No, thank you. I want to be cold sober to see
It was undoubtedly a testimonial to the wretchedness of the film that by halfway through its showing, all in the cabin were either gathered around the mobile bar or asleep.
Father Koesler was snoring.
A massive black fist closed around the pole as the man swung himself easily onto the cable car. As long as
