“I don’t think so, Zoo. We’re getting the knack. The team’s sort of in the groove; they’re doing a great job. We’re gonna break this one, I just feel it.” With that, Moore hurried back to her troop.
Tully turned to leave and check the progress of the others on his team. Before he could go, Koesler spoke.
“One thing puzzles me, Lieutenant.”
Tully stopped, one eyebrow raised.
“It would seem to me,” Koesler said, “that Reverend Krieg would be the most cooperative person in this whole investigation. After all, it’s his life that’s being threatened. In fact, if it hadn’t been for an unforeseeable fluke, he’d be dead now. Yet he seems to be more an obstacle than a help.”
Tully thought for a moment. “It’s odd, but it’s not unique. You’d naturally expect somebody whose life is on the line to be scared sh. . uh, stiff.” Apparently Tully discarded one word and chose another in its stead. “Ordinarily that’s the way it is. Now somebody’s trying to kill Krieg. You’d assume he’d want to leave town. Or, better, so we’d have a chance to catch his assailant, to at least hole up in his apartment with security while we investigate the case and come up with the perp. You’d assume he’d be the most scared and cooperative guy possible.
“But it doesn’t always work out that way. Sometimes it’s macho bravado. The guy doesn’t want to admit that anything could scare him. I think there’s a little of that here. That might explain what’s goin’ on, at least to some extent.”
“Yes,” Koesler said, “that could explain it. Just in the short time I’ve known him, he strikes me as one who would not want to admit to any weakness or fear. It would compromise his professed confidence in God and God’s alleged commitment to protect him. It might wipe that perpetual grin off his face. It would compromise. And. .” he grew more thoughtful, “something that occurred to me while you were explaining this. I’ve met a few people over the years who never give up. When they want something, nothing stands in their way. They simply don’t understand ‘no’ and won’t take it for an answer.”
“Sounds good,” Tully said.
“Applying that theory,” Koesler continued, “Reverend Krieg probably considers Rabbi Winer a lost commodity rather than a murdered human being. And even if one of the three remaining writers wants him dead, he’s probably still counting on signing the other two. Probably he is constitutionally incapable of conceiving that he could be killed along the way.
“As I say, I’ve met his type before.” Koesler shook his head. “But I still can’t comprehend such bullheadedness, especially in the face of betting one’s life on the outcome-” He looked startled. “Well, speak of the. .”
A small entourage was making its way down the corridor. At its center was Klaus Krieg. In his retinue were a few steely-eyed men and women, who, Koesler correctly surmised, were police officers. The others were students. Though he didn’t know their names, Koesler recognized their faces.
The company passed Tully and Koesler seemingly without noticing them. The police were on the lookout specifically for any danger. The students were hanging on each of Krieg’s words. And Krieg, a smile on his lips, was happily pontificating. As he passed, he exclaimed, “Praise God!”
In their wake, Koesler sniffed. “Cigars?”
“Krieg,” Tully said. “Didn’t you get the odor in the residence hall?”
“Yes, now that you mention it. But I didn’t know who was smoking. Now that I think of it, the odor wasn’t there yesterday, but it was there strongly this morning. And the only difference was that Reverend Krieg stayed here last night while he spent the previous night downtown at the Westin.
“Funny,” Koesler added, “I haven’t seen the Reverend smoke. Not in the classroom or the dining room.”
“Somebody said he doesn’t smoke when there’s a chance anybody’d be offended by it.”
“Not a common virtue, that bit of abstinence.” Koesler was impressed-for the very first time-by Krieg’s apparent thoughtfulness.
“Gotta see how the troops are doing.” Tully turned abruptly and left.
Koesler stood for several moments reflecting on all he’d just heard. Then he remembered it was time for the scheduled morning Mass. Celebrating it remained Koesler’s responsibility. He had offered the service to Father Augustine, who declined with little civility. Apparently, he was carrying a grudge from the altercation he himself had caused in the sacristy yesterday morning.
No one else was in the sacristy. By now Koesler knew where everything was, so he vested quickly. Even at that he was a few minutes late. Pretty good crowd, he thought as he entered the sanctuary to begin Mass. The congregation by no means filled the large chapel, but it was substantially more numerous than yesterday’s skeleton group. He wondered if all these pious souls would have been in attendance were it not for what had happened. There are no atheists in a Catholic college, especially with a murder investigation going on, he thought, and almost chuckled.
Mass began. Buried in one of the clusters in the congregation was Father Augustine. In black trousers and an open-neck white shirt instead of his religious habit, he went largely unrecognized. He seemed deep in thought as Koesler began the opening prayers.
Mechanically, Augustine joined the others in prayer:
No longer was he a sixty-year-old man, fully formed, with most of his life behind him. In recollection, he was a young man whose future seemed limitless.
19
He was in college. If anyone had told him then that one day he would become a Trappist monk, he would have laughed himself silly.
His name was Harold May. He was the son of a career Army man, so his family had lived in many, many places, on military bases throughout the United States and many other countries. So far, it had been an interesting life, filled with excitement and adventure.
As he grew up, he watched his father climb the military ladder and he listened as his father explained to his mother, and sometimes to him privately, the carefully made plans for advancement.
Harold admired his father and was terribly proud of his accomplishments. Harold loved the dress uniforms, the decorations, each more splendid than the previous with each new promotion. Harold was determined to follow in his father’s footsteps. But not in the military. It would be a major disappointment to the father, but the son wanted wider horizons than the military could offer.
And that was why Harold May was at UCLA, achieving. He was heavily into various Liberal Arts courses, with great emphasis on Journalism and English. His goal was advertising, but not the bottom nor even the comfortable middle rungs of the business. He knew where he wanted to go and he knew what it would take.
He also knew enough not to waste time in pursuits that would prove to be dead ends. Thus, slight of build and not particularly well coordinated, he participated in no organized sports. Oh, he fooled a bit with pick-up games of Softball and touch football. But his interest in these was no more than social and, worse than being no good at them, he was likely to be injured playing them. He found he could socialize as well or better on the sidelines. For recreation, wisely, he walked, often, far, and rapidly.
There was no way he could know it then, but this era during which he was attending college would later be known as “The Golden Age of Television.” And he happened to be where the action was.
Harold was among the first to realize what television would mean to the advertising world. That TV would turn the ad business upside down and inside out.
A very quick study, he required minimum time hitting the books. He also cut as many classes as he could get away with. A good part of the time he appropriated from studies he spent at the TV studios doing anything and everything he could on the technical side of the lights. So many of the young people who worked with him planned careers in television, but not in the coolie labor demanded of them now. They were going to be dramatic or comedy stars or directors or producers, or in charge of one or another of the technical facets of the business. One day
