Ewing, smiling benignly, approached Koesler. “I suppose you’re wondering what happened.”
“I certainly am.”
“Well, you broke this case. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be among the first to know. My friend the prosecuting attorney got out his law books first thing this morning.
“And, briefly, the prosecutor has denied our request for the issuance of a warrant.”
“That means . . .?”
“Harison walks. He skates. For all intents and purposes, he’s free.”
“They’re not going to prosecute?”
“The determination is that, at most, it’s a civil cause of action. The charge would be Intentional Infliction of Mental Distress. So, in theory, Harison could be sued for soliciting those letters. But there’s no one left to sue him. Groendal is dead, survived by no one. No one close. No one who cares. The only one who cared was Harison and he killed the guy.”
“Then Peter will not be tried?”
“Without a warrant—no. There is no criminal charge.”
“But those letters did it. Reading them, as Rid did, killed him.”
“Father, I guess the moral is, if you’ve got a weak heart—diabetes, whatever—and you’re expecting some inflammatory mail, you’d better get someone to open your mail for you.”
“Well, I must say, nothing much surprises me anymore. But this is surprising.”
“It sure as hell is. The most the prosecutor said was that he’d have to face a higher judge. But I don’t operate on that level. If they get by a judge and jury in the city of Detroit, they’re by me.” Ewing turned and walked away.
“Thanks,” Koesler called after him. “Thanks for taking the trouble to explain it for me.”
Without turning, Ewing nodded and shrugged.
Koesler was alone in the marble vault. Alone with the mortal remains of Ridley C. Groendal.
The priest returned to the casket. He placed his hand against the metal. It was wet. Beads of holy water still clung to it.
As if a videotape was played at fast-forward, Ridley’s life, as Koesler knew it, passed before his memory. He and Ridley were children making their way through Holy Redeemer grade school in the good old days. There was the ill-fated concert when Rid took on Dave Palmer and lost. The treasured days of the seminary during which Rid tried to compete against a more talented playwright, Carroll Mitchell, and felt himself compelled to plagiarize. The friendship with Charlie Hogan that turned into a different lifestyle for Rid and got him expelled from the seminary. His awkward and fateful evening with Jane Condon that produced a doomed child and, eventually, an unexpected enemy in Valerie Walsh. His lasting love of Peter Harison and the one infidelity that cost Rid what little health he had left.
Koesler thought of what Sergeant Ewing had said: that the prosecutor had left those involved in Rid’s death to a higher than earthly judge. The matter now rested between God—the just judge—and the consciences of five people.
It was impossible for Koesler to crawl inside those consciences and learn what their individual judgments might be. But, if he had to bet on it, he would have wagered that their consciences would have told them that they had done God’s will at best or a good deed at worst. Peter Harison was convinced he had saved his friend from suicide and the fires of hell; the others that they had righted the scales of justice and insured that Ridley would ruin no more lives.
Koesler was brought back to the present with a start when the casket moved. He had been so lost in reverie, he had not noticed the attendant who came to take the coffin into a holding room. “Done here, Father?” The attendant was surprised the priest was still there. Usually, everyone cleared out immediately after the final rites.
“Oh . . . oh . . . yes. Sorry.”
“Gotta get ready for the next funeral. Just turned in the gate. Gonna be here in just a couple of minutes. Life goes on, y’know.”
Koesler watched as the casket was wheeled from the room. Life goes on? For some of us, yes. For others, no. You did not fit too well into this life, Rid. Be at rest now. Rid. Be at peace.
Gratitude for technical advice to:
Sgt. Roy Awe, Homicide, Detroit Police Department
Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University
Detroit Free Press:
Lawrence DeVine, Theater Critic
John Guinn, Music Critic
Neal Shine, Senior Managing Editor
Detroit Symphony Orchestra:
Cathy Compton, Viola
Oliver Green, Personnel Manager
Gunther Herbig, Music Director
Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department
Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit
Timothy Kenny, Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division, Wayne County Prosecutor’s Office
Walter D. Pool, M.D., Medical Consultant
Wendy Schulte, Modeling Consultant
Hal Youngblood, Host of “Hal Youngblood’s Nighttime Report”
Any technical error is the author’s.
Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
Excerpts from the English translation of
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
