Sergeant Papkin failed to suppress a sardonic smile. He could recall a few times this priest had been wrong. He would not be at all surprised if Koesler were wrong again.
Sergeant Ewing, on the other hand, kept an open mind. Confident and self-assured, he was willing to take a chance on an amateur. He did not feel at all threatened by Koesler’s hypotheses.
“I’ll try,” Koesler proceeded, “to approach this logically, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s.” Not far from him on the table was a legal pad with a few unused sheets. He pulled it to him and began making notes. It would help keep him on track.
“The status of Ridley’s health, particularly over the past year, was no great secret,” Koesler continued. “Partly in the gossip columns and partly on the entertainment pages of the newspapers, we could read both rumors and facts about Ridley. So, anyone interested in knowing how he was doing—or, more pointedly, how badly off he was—could find out easily.
“All of us, for varying reasons, were linked to Rid. All of us, particularly you five, were affected by him. So, it is quite likely—probable?—certain?—that we all knew his health was delicate and deteriorating.
“We knew he was a diabetic, that he had high blood pressure, that he had suffered heart attacks and was prone to having more. We might even have known—or guessed—that he had contracted AIDS. There was a popular rumor to that effect.
“In any case, it would have been simple for any of us to guess that he would not likely survive a serious emotional strain.” Koesler continued to make notes. And he spoke more slowly, seeming to choose his words ever more carefully.
“Now,” Koesler continued, “before he died just a few days ago, Rid had gone to Orchestra Hall. Afterward, he went to his office, where he wrote a review of the evening’s concert. Then he went through his mail. And in that particular batch of mail were letters from four of you—Mitch, Charlie, Dave, and Valerie.
“Ridley read each letter, one after the other, growing more furious and agitated as he did so.
“Now I read these letters just before you came tonight, and I must admit they are provocative. The information you threatened to make public was no secret to Ridley. In fact, due to my association with Rid and the rest of you, it was no surprise to me.
“But these were all old, old skeletons. Why would you all pick this particular time to threaten Rid with their revelations? For there is no doubt—am I correct, Inspector?—that Rid died of a massive coronary as a result of reading those letters?”
Koesler looked toward Koznicki for corroboration. The Inspector nodded.
“By no stretch of the imagination,” Koesler continued, “could this be a coincidence. All these letters dredging up the very worst of Rid’s past at the same time. Either you all got together and agreed to do this now—in which case you would have counted on the cumulative effect of your letters to cause Rid’s death. Or—and I tend to think this is the case—some outside agent prompted each of you individually to get it off your chest. Did you all, indeed, get some sort of invitation to strike back at Rid? Did you get some sort of letter that prompted you to write?”
He looked expectantly from one to the other and was more than mildly surprised that each of them readily nodded. Koesler was even more startled that each likewise wore a combined bewildered and bemused expression.
“We’ve already been through this, Father,” Papkin said.
Koesler knew he had blundered. He tried not to blush. But the more effort he put into it, the more he reddened.
“Each of these four claims to have received a letter inviting him or her to threaten to reveal their charges against Groendal.” Sarcasm was evident in Papkin’s voice. He began to pace restlessly, one hand deep in his pocket rattling change.
“We’ve got the letters these people received, Father.” Ewing’s tone was conciliatory. “Each of them is identical with the others. They don’t appear to be copies; each seems to be a typed original. And, of course, there’s no signature. The letters just end with the words
“The presumption is that one of these four sent the invitation to all four, including himself—or herself.” Papkin’s tone clearly implied that they were wasting valuable time that might have been used in the continuing police investigation.
“The type in the invitation doesn’t match the type in any of the hate letters sent to Groendal. So whoever wrote the invitational letter used another typewriter. We haven’t found it yet. But we’re looking.” Again the implication that the police would find “the smoking gun” if only they were left to do their job.
“Well . . . I’m sorry,” Koesler fumbled. “I should have known that you would have investigated that. How stupid of me!”
“Not at all, Father. You were only trying to be helpful,” Koznicki said. “But I’m curious; tell me: What made you think there had been an invitation? It might just as easily have been the result of an agreement between the letter writers.”
“Well . . .” Koesler pushed the legal pad away; from now on he would wing it. “. . . A number of things, really. I kind of had my suspicion bolstered tonight when I had a chance to read the letters sent to Rid.
“There was a recurring phrase in each of the letters. Something about ‘the time has come.’ Each letter contained that phrase. As if someone had suggested that Ridley had overstayed his welcome and was overdue for revenge. As if someone had programmed the response ‘the time has come’ by stating forcefully that the time, indeed, had come.
“If these four had conspired among themselves in sending their letters to Ridley, they surely would have taken pains to make sure each letter was entirely different from the others. Editors, politicians, and I’m sure, the police, when they get more than one letter regarding a specific issue, are on the lookout for repeated phrases that indicate a form letter or, at the very least, collusion. These are intelligent people. If they had conspired, they certainly wouldn’t have let that phrase—‘the time has come’—appear in each and every letter. No, somebody had to have invited them to write.”
“Interesting, Father.” The Inspector nodded. “And that’s exactly the conclusion we ourselves had reached.” Ewing’s face registered no emotion; Papkin seemed bored. “However,” the Inspector went on, “you said that reading the letters sent to Groendal merely bolstered a suspicion . . . a suspicion that you already held. Is that not correct?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
There was a good deal of shifting about in chairs. Koesler knew he’d better get to the point soon. “Well,” he said, “I was sort of subconsciously aware of that suspicion when I selected the first Scripture lesson that will be read at the funeral Mass tomorrow.
“Go on, Father.” By now, Koznicki was playing straight man for his friend, who seemed to be zeroing in on his target at his usual, gradual, systematic pace.
“When I selected the reading,” Koesler continued, “it seemed appropriate. But I didn’t know why it felt so right. It must have been something deep inside me dictating. Actually, it wasn’t until after we recited the rosary tonight for Ridley that everything sort of fell into place. And the first thing to tumble was my less-than-conscious reason for selecting that first reading.”
“What was—or rather—what is that first reading going to be?” Was the normally placid Inspector becoming impatient?
“I was getting to that. The reading is from the Second Book of Samuel in the Old Testament. I scarcely ever select that reading for a funeral Mass. It seldom seems appropriate. But for some, as I say, subconscious motive, I picked it for tomorrow.
“It tells the story of how King David mourned at the loss of his son Absalom. Now, even though David was reluctant to admit it, Absalom had to be killed. Even so, David became inconsolable when he was finally informed that his son had been killed. And David says, ‘If only I had died instead of you.’”
Koesler paused. The others looked from one to another. No one seemed to be able to make any sense out of what the priest had said.
Koesler looked intently at each of the guests seated in this barren squad room and very deliberately repeated the quotation, directing it at each of them in turn: “If only I had died instead of you.”
There followed a painful silence.
“Well, don’t look at me,” Charlie Hogan said. “He ruined my life. I wouldn’t have died instead of him.”
