“Are you going to take care of the bill for all this?”
“Quit kidding.”
“All right, what’s the name?”
“Krieg.”
Silence. Then: “What is this, a run on that family this week?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the second call I got this week on the Kriegs.”
It was Koesler’s turn to be taken aback. “Who else?”
“I forget the priest’s name. Said he was with the tribunal in Windsor.”
Koesler did not know what to make of this. It was completely unexpected-and was certain to require more phone calls. But, sufficient for the moment the mystery thereof. “Well, John,” he said, “let’s get with this before it’s time for the World Series.”
“Say, Bob, what about those Tigers? Things look pretty bleak for them this time around. Puts one in mind of ‘The score stood six to five for the Mudville Nine that day. .’”
Casey at the Bat! Well, it was small enough price to pay for finding Father Dunn at home and able to take nourishment.
23
When Father Koesler reached the classroom that was being used for the interrogation, he found it cordoned off by uniformed Detroit police. Evidently they had been instructed to allow him entree because, even as he hesitated, they opened a path for him.
He halted at the door of the classroom. A large two-way glass in the door permitted him to see into the room even if he could not hear what was being said. Whatever was going on must have been deadly serious judging from the expressions of those whose faces he could see. Sister Marie and Martha Benbow seemed to be in tears. The men looked as if they would be if it had been socially acceptable. He had arrived none too soon.
His knock at the door caused a look of surprise to supplant the intense grim expression everyone had been wearing. Lieutenant Tully appeared annoyed at the interruption. It was Inspector Koznicki who opened the door to Koesler.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your proceedings,” Koesler said.
“Quite all right, Father,” Koznicki said. “I fear we forgot you in the rush to begin this interrogation. Come right in.” He stepped back to let Koesler enter.
“If it’s all right with you, Inspector, instead of my coming in, I’d like to invite you to come out.”
Koznicki was clearly startled. “Come out? You want me to leave this interrogation?”
Koesler took a deep breath, then forged on.
This select subcast of characters did consent-after some hesitation- to assemble in the office opposite the classroom. The police guards would ensure that the others, suspects all, would remain in their present classroom.
There was an air of expectancy in the office. Tully, Moore, and Mangiapane, as well as Koznicki, had, to a greater or lesser extent, worked with Koesler before. All knew that it was not like him to go out on a limb without good reason. It had better be considerably stronger than merely good to justify interrupting an interrogation that could and should close this investigation. Or so, at least, Tully thought.
Koesler easily dismissed the temptation to open with, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.” Instead. .
“Something occurred to me,” the priest said, “that may make a considerable impact on this situation. It happened when you”-he nodded at Moore-“gave me Reverend Krieg’s-what shall I call it? — his curriculum vitae, as it were.”
Krieg, to this point, had appeared politely interested, even amused. Now, for just a split second, a look of apprehension crossed his face. The expression was noted by both Koznicki and Tully.
“Allow me to recapitulate,” Koesler said, “not because any of us is unaware of what’s happened, but because, to suit my purpose, I have to separate the facts-what we know happened-from an interpretation of those facts.”
Tully, particularly, felt this unnecessary, but said nothing. He had gone this far in including the priest in this investigation; he could see no reason not to humor him one more time.
“We began,” Koesler proceeded, “with four writers and a publisher invited as an ad hoc faculty for this workshop. The writers specialize in mystery novels cast in a religious setting. The protagonist in their books, in each case, is an extension of the author of each one: an Episcopal priest, a rabbi, a Trappist monk, a religious Sister. The publisher specializes in religious books. All five of these people are successful, in varying degrees in this general field.
“Now, it’s been established that Reverend Krieg wants-covets might be a better word-these four writers for his stable. And, to this end, he has offered each of them a contract to be published by RG. Press. . all right so far?”
No one had any objection.
“I can well imagine,” Koesler continued, “that it would be flattering for a writer to be pursued by a publisher. But it’s a free country, and in keeping with that truth, there is nothing that says a writer must sign a contract with any specific publisher. All one need do is say no. Which, we are told, each and every one of these writers said to P.G. Press.
“On the other hand, it is nowhere written that a publisher need take no for an answer. And this, we are told, also happened. P.G. Press hounded-I think that’s the word-all four writers.
“Still, nothing terribly unusual going on. We’ve all had the experience of being pestered by salespeople who simply won’t give up. In fact, what we consider ‘pestering,’ to the dedicated salesperson is just a good salesperson doing his or her job.
“In this case, P.G. can say please. The writer can say no. P.G. can say pretty please. The writer can say a thousand times no. To some extent, just about everyone in this country has gone through this sort of verbal exchange at one time or another in one context or another.
“What startled every one of us on the outside looking in on this crossfire between writers and publisher was the vehemence of the writers in rejecting the publisher, and their evident antipathy-one might even say loathing or hatred-toward Reverend Krieg.
“Why, was the obvious question-why was everyone so emotionally riveted in his or her refusal to sign with P.G.? We are, after all, dealing with rational, dedicated religious people: a monk, a rabbi, a nun, and a priest. Here are people whom we should suppose have much more than average patience at their command. Here are people we would expect to be capable of politely refusing an offer-even if that offer were repeated too frequently. Yet even if we were to encounter one or another of the writers who might be lacking in a sustained ability to refuse politely ad infinitum we would not be terribly surprised. But, all of them?
“Then we learned that each of these writers had at least one deeply embarrassing episode in life that could spell ruin for career and/or vocation if the secret were to be revealed. You police suspected the existence of such skeletons. Your investigation uncovered these embarrassing secrets. It was then you discovered why the writers were so angry and why they were having such difficulty in making their rejections of P.G.’s overtures stick. The Reverend Krieg had uncovered these secrets and was threatening to reveal them unless the writers signed. He was making them an offer they could not refuse: blackmail.”
“Now, just one minute, Father Koesler,” Krieg said. “Praise God! Blackmail is a strong word. You can’t prove-”
“Hear him out, Krieg,” Tully cut in. “I think he’s getting to the good part.”
“I surely hope so,” Koesler said. “Anyway, we now have the reason why the writers are so angry with P.G.
