“How did you uncover it?” Koznicki brought her back to the present.
“Oh, Stewart found it,” Moore said.
“Stewart?”
“Uh, Patrolman Stewart, Judith.” Moore located the officer’ name on the report she was holding. “She’s a rookie. Hasn’t got anything to do with this investigation. She’s stationed in the First Precinct. She was reading about our case and she thought the name sounded familiar. Marie Monahan. So, she thought about it until the bell rang. She thought she’d seen the name in one of the old abortion files.”
“Isn’t that a bit contrived, Sergeant?” Koesler broke in. He was surprising himself that he was so actively responding to this charge against Sister Marie’s reputation. He couldn’t help himself. It didn’t seem right that a good person’s reputation could be so easily trashed. “Doesn’t the coincidence stretch credibility?”
Moore didn’t know whether to engage this outsider in a pedantic debate when there was the serious business of a homicide investigation going on. She glanced around and caught the affirmative if slight nod given by Inspector Koznicki.
“It’s not all that odd, Father,” Moore explained. “Our newer people especially like to visit the basement at headquarters where all these old records are kept.”
“Why would they do that?” Koesler asked.
“It’s just fascinating reading,” Moore said. “We don’t write up reports this way anymore. It’s the terminology as much as anything else. Often as not, they use terms like ‘thug’ instead of ‘criminal’ or ‘perpetrator.’ They’re very. . uh. . emotionally written. They’re fun to read. Sort of like an old Batman strip. So, especially the newer people, when they find where these records are kept, well, it’s not uncommon for them to spend a little spare time browsing through them.
“That’s what Stewart was doing recently, see? She was going through the records-just recreational reading-when she got into the abortion files. And today when she saw the name of the nun mentioned as part of our investigation-well, as I said, it rang a bell. She says she remembered it because it was so Irish. Stewart figured that back then, with a name like that, abortion would have been not only a crime, but a sin.”
“I still find it hard to understand why you would keep records that old,” Koesler said.
Koznicki had been quietly studying the police record of Marie’s abortion that Moore had handed him. “You see, Father,” he explained, “with the frequency of criminal appeals of cases, the police tend to hold on to all records, just in case. Just in case a civil lawsuit is filed, we will not be caught short. We throw nothing away. It makes for a cluttered basement, but it also ensures that we will not be caught needing a record that has been discarded.
“This record, for example,” Koznicki continued, “of an abortion performed on one Marie Monahan, gives the name of the doctor who repaired the damage caused by an obvious amateur, who, it seems, almost killed Miss Monahan. So there is a complete medical record. But no name of the person who botched the original abortion. Apparently, Marie Monahan refused to cooperate with the investigating officer-which, I should mention, was not uncommon. That is why there are so many old records of abortion investigations in these files. Very, very infrequently did the victim of an illegal abortion agree to testify. And without the victim’s testimony, there was no case.”
Koesler said nothing. Seemingly, he had run out of questions and challenges.
“Well, that ties it,” Tully said. He seemed satisfied that they would be delayed no more by Koesler. “That’s a full house,” Tully continued. “Each of these writers has something in his or her past that they didn’t want revealed. Desperately didn’t want revealed. The rabbi had betrayed his own people. The monk is an alcoholic. The priest was an adulterer. And the nun had an abortion.”
Somehow, stated so flatly, so abruptly, these sins-if such they were-seemed to Koesler to be best kept buried as they had been prior to this police investigation. Then he recalled that the police were only reacting to what had already been ferreted out by Klaus Krieg.
“And,” Tully continued, “Krieg discovered every one of their secrets and threatened to publicize them unless they signed contracts with him.”
“How do you suppose he dug up all these secrets, Zoo?” Moore asked.
“Right now, I don’t know. But with his money, just about anything is possible. I got the feeling we’re getting down to the bottom line. It feels right.”
“Just one more question, please,” Father Koesler said. “Doesn’t it seem peculiar to anyone but me that we suddenly know so much about everyone connected with this workshop with the exception of the Reverend Krieg? I mean, all of a sudden we know some of the deepest, darkest secrets of four very dedicated religious-secrets we wouldn’t even have guessed existed except that Krieg found out about them and because of him the police investigated and found them out. But Klaus Krieg-the one who started all this-Klaus Krieg remains in the shadows. Doesn’t this seem odd?”
In the silence that followed Koesler’s question, it seemed the detectives were quietly passing around the responsibility of answering. Sergeant Moore fumbled through the sheaf of papers she was holding. She extracted three of them from the file and handed them to Koesler.
“I guess we assumed that you knew Krieg’s background,” she said. “What we’ve got on him is no secret. Nor, with what we’ve got, is there room for many secrets. We weren’t trying to keep anything from you, Father. In fact, you know as much about this case as any of us. That’s the way Inspector Koznicki wanted it. But these,” referring to the background papers she had just handed Koesler, “should bring you completely up to date.”
Once again Koesler felt embarrassed. In the context of what Moore had just said, his complaint about Krieg sounded to Koesler himself petulant and pushy.
In mutual awkwardness the group was about to break up when Sergeant Mangiapane hurried into the room. Everyone could tell from the expression on his face and his abrupt manner that he had important new information. “We just got done searching their rooms-the three writers-”
Moore interrupted. “Did you get their permission again?”
“We got a warrant,” Mangiapane said.
“So soon?” Moore pressed.
“This morning,” Tully replied. “Remember, the mayor wants this one cleaned up in record time.” He turned back to Mangiapane. “What did you find?”
The beatific look returned to Mangiapane’s face. “In Benbow’s room, a gallon can with some gasoline still in the bottom. In Sister Marie’s room, several gas-soaked cloths.”
Tully looked thoughtful. “Maybe they got careless. Maybe one of them planted the evidence. Either way we get them together now and lay it on the line-the bottom line.”
“They’re already together, Zoo,” Mangiapane said. “We got ’em in a classroom on the second floor.”
The detectives left for the classroom without another thought about or word from Koesler. The priest was left in the dining room, holding, if not the bag, several papers outlining the life and career of the Reverend Klaus Krieg.
Koesler lacked the stomach to watch what was undoubtedly going to be an intense grilling of Augustine, Marie, and Benbow, perhaps Mrs. Benbow as well. He sat at a table and spread the papers out before him. The first page was a publicity release; the other two, the summary of what the police had discovered.
Born in 1950, Krieg was now forty years old. That surprised Koesler. He would have guessed Krieg to be somewhat older. Not that he looked or acted particularly ancient, but that he had accomplished so much, built so much, raised so much funding in a relatively brief time.
Koesler’s second major surprise was the fact-the boast, as Krieg put it-that the preacher had at one time been a Catholic. It was from the chains of authoritarian Catholicism that the minister had freed himself by being born again in the Spirit. A freedom from the bonds of sectarianism and sin that he offered to all who would join him in the baptism of the Spirit. However, make no mistake, the freedom P.G. Enterprises offered did not come cheap. The “initiation fee” was closely followed by special projects fundings, followed by good old-fashioned obligatory tithing.
Another surprise: He was born in Imlay City, Michigan. This from the police report.
Koesler had simply assumed that Krieg was a native Californian. Or, that if his origin were elsewhere, then certainly New York or Chicago. The assumption was based on the size of Krieg’s empire. How could such volume spring from little Imlay City?
Then, Koesler was reminded of Jesus Christ’s extremely modest home town. So modest, indeed, that the
