trouble by granting Rid a Catholic burial given the fact he had AIDS. It was very thoughtful of you, Peter. You were concerned that once the Chancery became aware of that condition of Rid’s that they might come down hard on me because of . . . what? Because I gave Catholic burial to a public sinner?
“Well, as I explained to you, it doesn’t work that way. But you were deeply concerned that for some publicly known sin, Rid might have been denied Catholic burial.
“Now granted, every once in a while, the Church does deny burial rites to someone such as a notorious criminal because of the scandal it might cause. But that never happens merely in a case such as AIDS.
“However, there is a more ancient and historic reason for denial of Christian burial. It is so famous that it is seemingly well known by everyone, and referred to in fiction and in fact. The one sin that has been traditionally associated with the denial of Christian burial . . .”
“Suicide.” Charlie Hogan, who had been intently following Koesler’s reasoning, barely whispered it.
“Indeed,” Koesler said. “Suicide.”
“Remember, Peter? It was just after we had talked about the AIDS business. You were telling me, at some length, about Rid’s atrocious dining habits. You said something like, ‘He’s been killing himself lately. And then, this AIDS! Well, it was just a matter of time.’
“When I thought back on it, Peter, that’s when it all fell into place. It was just a matter of time. Rid’s condition was bad enough with the heart and the diabetes. When AIDS was added to that and he lost his immune defense system, he was doomed to practically disintegrate before our eyes.
“But, rather than let these diseases ravage him, he was, with his gorging and guzzling and his lifestyle, doing exactly what you said—he was killing himself. And he was doing it quite deliberately.
“If he had continued—if he had succeeded—it would have amounted to, at least in traditional Christian thought, the ‘unforgivable’ sin. In that view, he was condemning himself to hell.
“And you, Peter, his best friend—the one who would have died for him had you been able—could not let that happen. You could not let your friend condemn himself to hell.
“Yet you could not stop him. He was determined. You could find only one alternative. You had to intervene. It was the kindest thing you could think of doing for your friend.
“In a way, he was already under a death sentence. If one or another of his illnesses did not kill him, in all probability AIDS would have. But anything would have been better than the death he was preparing for himself— suicide.
“As Rid’s closest friend, you, of course, knew of the virtual war that had gone on between him and these four people. You knew all the details. So you invited them to play their trump cards. You were certain the cumulative effect of the threats would be a burden his system could not sustain.
“Either you hoped or you presumed that all four would leap at the opportunity—and that their letters would all be delivered to the office on the night in question, or that you could hold the earlier ones until all were there. You wanted your weapon to be potent enough. You made sure he ate and drank all the wrong things. After the concert, he wrote his review, you gave him the letters—and waited.
“It worked out just as you planned. He was dead before he could kill himself. Presumably he will be in heaven rather than hell because of what you did.
“Is that about it?”
Koesler was sure of his solution. The glue that would hold it all together was Peter’s typewriter. Of this, Koesler had not been certain until the telltale despair in Peter’s eyes at the mention of the typewriter. With that, there were no more doubts. The typewriter would be—what did they call it?—it was a metaphor in any case. Ah, yes: the smoking gun.
Harison was the picture of defeat. His head drooped. His shoulders sagged. And though the room was chilly, perspiration soaked his shirt.
Ewing stepped forward. “Mr. Harison,” he said, “you have the right to remain silent . . .” As the officer proceeded, Harison shook his head wearily.
“You’ve got one detail wrong,” he said at length. “I did not manipulate or control the way Rid ate and drank the night he died. He did it on his own . . . though I knew he would. He was doing the same thing almost every day by then. He took some sort of smug satisfaction in that for the first time in his life he could eat everything he wanted and more and still lose weight. I guess AIDS or stress or something dissipated the calories as fast as he took them in. It was killing him, of course, but he didn’t care. I cared.”
A long silence followed.
Finally, Valerie Walsh stood and faced the officers. “May we leave now?” Her gesture included Palmer, Mitchell, and Hogan.
“What do you think,” Papkin asked, sotto voce, “are they coconspirators?”
“I don’t think so,” Ewing replied in the same soft undertone. “Even if they are, I doubt they’re indictable.”
“You may leave,” Inspector Koznicki said audibly. “We may have more questions for you. If we do, we will call you in.”
The four left the room with a new, and as yet undefined, attitude toward Peter Harison. Till now, not one of them had taken Harison seriously. They, and most others familiar with the twosome, had considered Harison to be at worst a toadie to Ridley Groendal or at best his paramour. But a murderer? It would never have occurred to anyone.
After the others were gone, Harison asked, “What’s . . . what’s to happen to me?”
“We’ve read you your rights, Mr. Harison, and now I’m going to book you.” Ewing had his man. There was no longer any reason to play a role. He spoke gently.
“What does that mean—that you’re going to book me?” The panic in his eyes seemed to overflow.
“We’re going to get your prints, picture, take a statement.”
“Lock me up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Does this mean I’m under arrest?”
“’Fraid so.”
“But the funeral! Tomorrow is Ridley’s funeral. I’ve got to attend his funeral.”
“Especially since you’re the cause for the funeral,” Papkin contributed.
“Sergeant,” Koesler addressed Ewing, “would it be all right if I stayed with Peter—for a while at least? Maybe I could help him compose himself.”
Ewing, looking to Koznicki, found no support for this unusual request. The sergeant was saved from refusing Koesler when Harison said, “It’s all right, Father. I’ll be okay. Thanks for thinking of me. But it’s not your fault. I’ve got no hard feelings. It’s better that it’s out. They would have found my typewriter anyway. So don’t blame yourself.
“I just wish I could have attended Rid’s funeral. You’ll take care of everything, won’t you, Father? Just the way we planned it?”
“Just the way we planned it, Peter.” Koesler turned to Koznicki. “Isn’t there any way . . . ?”
The Inspector shook his head, “It’s not likely. Come along, Father. Perhaps we could stop somewhere for a nightcap. It has been a long evening.”
Koznicki started to usher the priest out of the squad room. Then the Inspector seemed to have a second thought. “Ray, this is by no means one of our run-of-the-mill cases. Perhaps you would be good enough to check with the prosecutor’s office after you have processed Mr. Harison.”
“Sure thing, Inspector.”
22
Inspector Koznicki followed Koesler out to Norman’s Eton Street Station in his own car, so they arrived at about the same time. Norman’s was a restaurant in what had once been a railroad station. Koesler had selected it because it was managed by a parishioner, so they would be able to order very little, enjoy privacy and, at the same time, not vex the staff.
Once inside, Koesler introduced the inspector to James McIntyre and explained the purpose of their visit. The personable manager showed them to an out-of-the-way alcove table and gave instructions to their waiter.
