Shadow of Death

The door opened.

But instead of his henchmen, two homicide detectives entered, guns drawn.

“Louis Licata, you are under arrest for the attempted murders of Ramon Toussaint, Walter Koznicki, and Father Robert Koesler. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

2.

“No doubt about it, it was a real coup,” said Father Koesler.

“I mean, everybody wanted the Cardinal as a guest speaker the minute he returned from Ireland. Not only was he a new Cardinal, but there was all that publicity about those attempts on his life and all. But it was old Eddie Breslin who got him first as guest of the Detroit Economic Club.”

“You don’t suppose,” said Wanda Koznicki, “that could be because Mr. Breslin is Chairman of the Board of General Motors, and is, with bonuses and stock options, perhaps the wealthiest man in town, do you?”

“Wanda,” Koesler replied, “I would wager that Mr. Breslin is at least the wealthiest Catholic in town. And yes, I imagine that might have had something to do with it.”

Mary O’Connor brought in a fresh pitcher of iced tea. Ordinarily, she would not have been at St. Anselm’s on a Sunday afternoon. But, since Koesler was entertaining special visitors, the parish secretary had volunteered to return after the morning Masses to serve refreshments. And the refreshments were welcomed by all on this sunny afternoon in late July.

“What surprises me, Bob,” said Emerenciana Toussaint, “is that you were at an Economic Club luncheon. Economics was never your strong suit. Why, if it were not for Mrs. O’Connor here, you wouldn’t know whether you were within or without a budget. You have said so yourself.”

Mary O’Connor blushed.

“You’re so right, ‘Ciane,” said Koesler. “And in fact, I wasn’t there. But a friend in PR at GM told me about it. Mr. Breslin had reserved a table for six. And after the luncheon and the speeches, Mr. Breslin signaled his people to come up and meet the Cardinal.

“Well, it turned out that the first five in line happened to be Catholic and the sixth was not. So each of the five tried to genuflect and kiss the Cardinal’s ring—which, as you all know, the Cardinal would rather people didn’t do. So, each one ended up going halfway down toward the floor with his right knee before the Cardinal gave his hand a tug. It looked as if they were doing a sort of half-curtsy, my friend said.

“And then he said that when they had all gone through the line, the non-Catholic came up to the others and said, ‘What in hell were you guys trying to do?’

“‘We were trying to kiss the Cardinal’s ring,’ one said.

“‘That’s crazy,’ the man said, ‘I kissed Breslin’s!’”

Everyone laughed.

“The Cardinal . . . and how is the Cardinal?” asked Ramon Toussaint. He winced as he shifted slightly in the upholstered chair. Even after a convalescence of two months, he was still partially crippled . . . and would be for some time to come. But the doctors in London had decided—and Toussaint had concurred— that the rest of his healing could be better done at his home. Now, on their way back to San Francisco, the Toussaints had stopped off to visit Koesler and the Koznickis.

“He’s fine, as far as I know,” said Koesler. “Busy as ever, they tell me. Though some say he’s a bit more reflective. But, I suppose that’s to be expected after what he’s been through.”

“After what he’s been through!” exclaimed Wanda.

Koesler chuckled. “On second thought, I don’t suppose what he’s been through could hold a candle to what we’ve been through.”

“If what he has experienced has rendered him more reflective,” Toussaint commented, “the three of us ought to be in a Cistercian monastery!”

“The three of us,” said Inspector Koznicki solemnly, “are very fortunate that we are not in a cemetery.”

His comment transformed what had been a lighthearted gathering into a serious group forced to face the sobering, recent proximity of death.

“The Inspector is correct,” said Toussaint, after a brief silence. “If you had not found the real cause of our being attacked. Bob, we would most certainly have continued to watch out for Rastafarians while we would have been picked off from an entirely different direction. How did you figure it out?”

“Several suspicious incidents and a healthy dose of luck.” Koesler picked up the pitcher of iced tea and offered refills to his guests.

“First of all, the Haitian who spoke to me in Dublin—the one who claimed to be your friend, Ramon. When he told me there would be no Rastafarian attack in Ireland, he was either telling the truth or lying. If he were lying, the only possible reason would be to lull us into lowering our guard during that ecumenical service in St. Patrick’s. Such a lie would certainly not be aimed at lowering my guard as far as my own safety was concerned; none of us had any reason to expect me to be attacked, in any case. But it was, indeed, I who was attacked.

“So, in retrospect, I was willing to assume he was telling the truth. But if my assailants were not Rastafarians, then who? And why?

“The Rastafarians definitely were involved in the attacks against the Cardinals. And—presumably—the attacks against the two of you. But now me. Why?

“Well, what if we crossed out the ‘possibles’ and counted only on the ‘certains’? This point of view was strengthened by the changing of the symbol from a fist to an open hand. That would put the Cardinals in one category and the three of us in another. And, it could mean that none of the three of us had been assaulted by the Rastafarians. But, again, by whom? And why?

“The only time I could think of that all three of us were linked was during the investigation of that series of beheadings on Detroit criminals. Inspector Koznicki was in charge of the investigation and”—he hesitated a split second, then chose his words carefully— “you, Ramon, were under suspicion of being somehow involved. While I, in addition to taking some small part in the investigation, am a very close friend to both of you.”

The faces of Koesler’s friends were a study. Wanda Koznicki seemed engrossed; her husband professionally interested. Toussaint’s expression was unfathomable, while, strangely, Emerenciana seemed almost detached. Her face reminded Koesler of the statues of the far-seeing sibyls of old; it was as if she were listening to a tale she not only knew but had always known.

Koesler picked up the thread of his explanation.

“If that was the connection, then whoever was after us had to have some connection with someone associated with that series of murders—the most logical someone being one of the victims. But which one? A Mafia chieftain, a head pimp, an unconscionable abortionist, a bilking auto mechanic, a similar construction man, or the kingpin of a drug ring?

“Then I thought back to when, on our flight to London, Ramon, you told me you were not sure where that black fist symbol had come from, but that it possibly had been adapted by the Rastafarian militants from the Black Power movement in the States.

“It was the weak link. It was the only ‘probable,’ the only ‘uncertain.’ So then, what if it were not a Rastafarian symbol? After all, they had no known sign or symbol other than their dreadlocks.

“I pursued that line of reasoning: If it was not Rastafarian, then what? Was there another group that used the symbol of a black hand?”

All present seemed to grasp Koesler’s explanation. Indeed, several of his listeners appeared to be ahead of the explanation. They were, of course, familiar with the notorious Black Hand Society, which had been one of the pseudonyms of the Mafia, or Cosa Nostra, in earlier days. The black hand had become an almost universal symbol of terror as people had first become aware of it and then instilled with the fear of it.

“The Black Hand, of course,” said Koznicki. “If only we had thought of that possibility early on. The whole concept is perfect for an organization such as the Mafia. The purpose of a syndicate murder is not profit—although that occasionally may be a byproduct. And such killings are frequently meant as a message, not just of revenge, but of punishment and intimidation.

“No, the syndicate cannot chance the possibility that such an execution might be mistaken as an accident or as a murder perpetrated by anyone else for any other purpose; they must make their message clear, or else the