The letters had been smoothed out and flattened in clear plastic binders. But Koesler could tell by the creases in the papers that Ridley had crushed them rather forcefully before casting them in the wastebasket or on the floor. His final fury was almost palpable.
Later, Koesler would remember only salient segments of the four letters.
David Palmer:
. . . Groendal I find it hard to believe that any adult could hang onto and nurture a childhood grudge the way you have. You played a trick on me. I played one on you. We were kids, for God’s sake! All these years, you’ve imagined that I took something away from you—Interlochen.
Nothing could be further from the truth. You had no talent You were a fourth-rate musician. You turned into a fifth-rate human being. But because of our childish pranks you have shit on my career over these many years. And I’ve taken it. All I’ve done is gripe and grouse over your unfair treatment. It occurs to me that you’ve done all you can to me. The time has come to return the favor. You’ve been sitting in the critic’s chair untouched and untouchable for too long.
I wonder how artistic America would react to the fact that its premier critic is an unpunished and, to date, undetected arsonist. You were not alone when you set that fire in the auditorium. I was there with my camera. I’ve got the photograph. You and the fire.
It happened a long, long time ago. But not long enough for your ego to be free of the shame of it. I know you, Groendal. You’ve built the irreproachable image of the impeccable commentator who feels free to tear everyone else apart, confident that your seamless garment will never be rent or soiled.
I promise you this, Groendal: Beginning with arson, I will find out all your evil from peccadillos to capital sins, and make sure the artistic world, especially your many victims, knows what a prick you are. Groendal, the world lost one of its great assholes when God decided to put teeth in your mouth. . . .
It continued in the same vein. Koesler shook his head. He wondered how Dave would feel if the media got hold of his letter. Undoubtedly he had never thought of that when he sent it. Koesler went on.
Carroll Mitchell:
. . . It seems to me that your function is to be the constant judge of competition. Actors competing with each other, competing with actors of the past. Playwrights in competition with each other. Which is the best play on Broadway; which is the worst? Constant competition. And you are the judge, the acknowledged chief judge. The judge of all this competition.
You have judged my work over all these years and always found me sadly wanting. You have been a harsh and cruel judge of many other adequate to fine playwrights. You have been the supreme Judge for all these years. Yet, the only time you were in actual competition with me, you were so frightened by that competition that you committed the most heinous crime possible to any writer: You stole. You plagiarized!
The time has come for the public to know what sort of individual has been setting standards for America. Fortunately, you won that contest. Or rather, Emmet Lavery won it with his “The First Legion.” So your “winning” entry was published in The Gothic. I have had several copies made of that and will offer it as proof when I give this story to literary publications.
I hope you know, Rid, how dearly everyone out there wants to “get” you. Needless to say, they will have a field day with this story. Your credibility is all you have going for you. Say goodbye to it. In a little while, it will be gone. . . .
Koesler did not know in which order Groendal had read these letters, but he himself was beginning to experience the cumulative effect they must have had. He continued.
Charlie Hogan:
. . . Some people know you’re gay, others don’t. I’ve got to hand this much to you, you’ve been discreet. You’ve been living with this Peter Harison for years now. And yet you‘ve never come completely out of the closet. Nor has anyone made a publicized statement about your homosexuality. That seems to be the way with you gays. You either flaunt it or keep it decently quiet.
I don’t know why the hell you’ve bothered, but you evidently want to keep it private. Well the time has come to let people know what kind of a bastard you are. I think the public would relish knowing that not only are you gay, but that you were kicked out of the seminary not just for being gay but for a homosexual attack.
At this point, you probably think I can’t prove this, because, in return for your leaving quietly, Monsignor Cronyn allowed you to quit. What you didn’t know is that, so you could never go back on your decision, Cronyn made the notation in your permanent record, along with the reason for your dismissal.
I’m sure the gossip columnists—dung beetles that they are—will appreciate clearing up the mystery of your sexual preference along with that juicy tidbit from your younger days.
Further, no one could have been so vengeful against me all these years without slipping up himself. That much meanness can’t have been contained. So I pledge myself to finding and exposing every fault and failing of yours I can uncover. And I’m confident I can find plenty. . . .
Koesler had a quizzical look. There was something in these three letters that disquieted and at the same time intrigued him. At the moment, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Instead of going back to find the source of this feeling, he decided to complete the cycle.
Valerie Walsh:
I think I will never forgive or forget what you did to me. What baffled me was why you’d do it. You worked overtime keeping me off the stage. You were grossly unfair, cruel and rotten. I would never have discovered the reason if I had not confided in my mother. She clarified it all. Why would you sabotage my career when we had never met? To get even with my mother. Even with my mother! You certainly had reason to get even! You left her pregnant, homeless, and unemployed. She certainly treated you shabbily! She didn’t give you away, or take you to court for child support, but stayed out of your life.
Over the years, you’ve built a reputation of being above and beyond any sort of disgraceful affair. You’ve been welcomed into the homes and parties of the movers and shakers. You are above all criticism.
Well the time has come to burst your pretentious bubble. Mother is making an affidavit concerning your responsibility. Just imagine how titillating all your former friends will find the delicious gossip about you and your one-nighter. Yours is not the conduct of a noble critic. Yours is the behavior of a scoundrel and a fraud.
I know, from being on the New York scene, that people laugh behind your back at the combination of your gay lifestyle and your thin reputation of self-righteousness. Think of the fun they’re going to have with this new scandal. It will be a marvelous season for the critics of the critic. We’re going to enjoy it. We are all going to enjoy very much seeing the modern-day Grendel monster skewered. . . .
While Koesler had been reading the letters, Sergeants Charles Papkin and Ray Ewing, the investigating officers, had been speaking quietly with Inspector Koznicki. As Koesler completed his reading, the first of the five summoned people arrived. The others appeared within minutes. Lynn Mitchell and Red Walsh, who had accompanied their respective spouses, were asked to wait in an adjoining room.
There were more than enough chairs around the several tables in the squad room. After all were seated there was an awkward silence. No one seemed to know who should begin. The guests looked expectantly at the police, who, in turn, gazed at Father Koesler. Following the officers’ lead, the others began to stare at Koesler. It was he, after all, who had requested this gathering.
The first thought that crossed the priest’s mind was the bromide, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here?” He dismissed that. Instead, he said, “I may be wrong, but if a couple of hypotheses are correct, I think we may be able to clear up the matter of Ridley Groendal’s death.”
