“Yes. Each had a secret-and a deep-seated fear that he would be ruined if that closet skeleton were to be revealed. That fear haunted both Krieg and Winer, and, sadly, motivated Krieg in his fatal decision to murder the rabbi.”
“Hmmm. .” Koznicki murmured, “. . and yet we learned that a few of the rabbi’s fellow Jews did find out what had happened in the concentration camp and they had been understanding-forgiving even.” He looked at Koesler questioningly. “Could that not have been the case with Reverend Krieg? Might his followers have been unconcerned about his Jewish heritage?”
Koesler shook his head. “I don’t know, Inspector. I don’t think anyone can tell for sure. The rabbi’s forced collaboration with the Nazis was certainly not common knowledge. A rare few discovered it and those few loved and admired him enough to understand the impossible pressure he’d had to endure at Dachau. Would his entire congregation have been as understanding? Would his literary fans have found it easy to overlook, or to forgive and forget?
“The same thing with Krieg. We don’t know that anyone knew his secret. I guess we’d just have to assume that he concealed his mother’s ethnicity and religion.
“But what would have been the effect on his congregation, his millions of TV viewers, had they known? Would they have continued to support him and his ministry in the lavish manner to which he’d become accustomed?
“It would be nice to think,” Koesler warmed to his speculation, “that the rabbi’s congregation as well as his readers would have put themselves in his shoes. My Lord, he was only a kid! But, congregations do fire their rabbis-as well as their ministers.” He smiled. “Fortunately, it doesn’t work that way with Catholic parish priests.
“But”-he grew serious again-“people can be fickle. By and large, they want their men of the cloth to be without blemish. If they find a chink in the armor, they can become disenchanted quickly-and cruelly. Besides, Rabbi Winer guarded that secret so carefully he didn’t even confide in his wife. He must have been deeply ashamed. So, quite independent of any practical consequence to his ministry or his career as a writer, he feared his secret being revealed for more personal reasons.
“And the threat may have been more intense for Krieg.”
“Oh?” Koznicki invited further comment.
“I think so. No television preacher can forget what happened a couple of years ago. Oral Roberts said God would call him if he didn’t meet fund-raising goals. And he became a laughing stock. Jimmy Swaggart bought some private voyeurism and lost more than half his flock. Jim Bakker’s sexual episode with a church secretary stung him badly and opened the door to a financial investigation that ruined him. Ever since those disasters, preachers have had to be extremely careful not to muddy the waters.
“Of course, Krieg broke no law. But, then, neither did Oral Roberts. He just made himself play the fool. Krieg had to weigh the possibility that vast numbers of contributing Christians would be uncomfortable, to say the least, at being led by someone who-technically but indeed in fact-was a Jew.
“Now, I know you’re going to say, ‘But Jesus was a Jew.’ Of course he was-but few Christians think of Him in that light. Obviously, it is rare, if not unique, that a Jew would become a Christian evangelist as popular and influential as Klaus Krieg. And obviously, Krieg thought it a serious problem or he wouldn’t have guarded the secret as he did. Could his ministry have survived the revelation that he was Jewish?
“Remembering the thin ice Roberts, Swaggart, and Bakker found themselves skating on, I think it a good bet to speculate that Krieg might well have not survived. In any event, the possibility that he would have been ruined was strong enough to make him plot and carry out a murder.
“So, there we are.” Koesler looked at Koznicki thoughtfully. “Would Krieg and Winer-or Sister Marie, David Benbow, and Augustine, for that matter-have lost their reputations, their vocations, their careers, had their secrets been disclosed? We don’t know for sure. What we do know is that that’s the way they perceived it. They believed in the worst-case scenario. And, in the end, that’s what counted: Each and every one believed that he or she would be ruined. Each and every one was so embarrassed over the events of their past that they reacted in fear and dread.
“In the end, that’s what counted,” Koesler repeated. “They believed they would be ruined. Whether or not that actually would have happened doesn’t matter as much as the fact that they believed it would.”
“And now,” Koznicki said, “the Reverend Krieg has been arrested and charged with murder in the first degree. Although I think it would be much more difficult to prove had Lieutenant Tully not thought of the chauffeur. And if Mr. Taliafero had been more intelligent, we might have had to work on him longer than we did. When we noted that his gloves reeked of gasoline, his excuse was that those were his work gloves and that they always smelled of gas and/or oil. But when we found the vial of cyanide in the limousine’s glove compartment,” he shook his head, “the end was not far off.”
The Inspector grew more thoughtful. “The biggest complication the Reverend Krieg faced was time. Time to plan his strategy and time to carry it off. Actually, given those limitations, in very truth, he did quite well. It is not all that easy to find and purchase cyanide. I think Taliafero would never have found it, left to his own devices. It was Krieg who steered him toward a jewelry repair shop. That direction, plus all the money necessary to make an illegal purchase, was all he needed.” Koznicki chuckled. “For their sake, it is a pity Krieg took it for granted that Taliafero would dispose of the remainder of the cyanide after poisoning the Frangelico.” He looked a bit more thoughtful. “I wonder if he planned to use it on the Reverend himself eventually. .”
“And, refresh me, Inspector; he was promised. .?”
“In exchange for agreeing to testify against Krieg-who had planned and plotted the entire affair-the chauffeur will be allowed to plead to second-degree murder. He will face a sentence of from ten to fifteen years. Otherwise, he would face the same sentence as Krieg: life in prison with no parole.”
Koesler felt a slight shiver. He didn’t know whether it was the chill weather or the prospect of a man like Krieg being behind bars without hope for the rest of his life. “There is no hope for Krieg? None at all?”
“In his sentence? Michigan is firm in life without parole for murder one. His only hope would be a pardon either from the governor or the president.”
“Now that you mention that,” Koesler said, “I wonder whether he might pull it off. Did you see him on the local and national newscasts the other night? His tears would make Jeremiah envious. If anyone is looking for a contrite sinner, he need look no further. What difference does it make that it’s all an act? There are few politicians who do not highly value and carefully practice the art of acting.
“You know,” he said, pensively, “at one time Klaus Krieg had everything he needed to lead an exemplary life. His father cared enough to go through all the rules and regulations and conquer all the obstacles for a Catholic marriage. His mother showed her love and devotion for her Jewish heritage as she taught him to respect noble Jewish traditions. He had the best of two great faiths. He became a respected religious leader. But none of that made him a good or holy person. Greed became his god.
“Oh, and that brings up one last question I meant to ask: What about Marie and David and Augustine? What about the skeletons in their closets?”
Koznicki hesitated for a moment. “I think they will be safe. Yes, I think they will. The writers and their secrets are no longer of any value whatsoever to Krieg.
“And perhaps-just perhaps-he may feel that his holding back might carry some needed weight when and if he applies for his hoped-for pardon. As we know-and the writers found out-his kind never stops manipulating-and never gives up.”
“And,” Koesler pressed, “was what he did to them-the blackmail-a crime? I heard one of your officers mention that if they hadn’t nailed him for murder, at least they could have gotten him for extortion. And all the time, I thought money had to be involved in such cases.”
“The officer was correct, at least technically. The crime of extortion is one of compulsion. The victim is compelled to do something he or she would not ordinarily do because of the threat made. It is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison. But it is easy to understand why the crime is not frequently prosecuted. In this case, which of these writers would have felt strongly enough about the blackmail to voluntarily reveal the secret in order to prosecute the case?”
There was another brief silence.
“Well,” Koznicki observed finally, “it was a short week.”
Koesler nodded. “Not quite two full days. Marygrove refunded the students’ tuition. Which I thought was more than generous, seeing the students got more instruction and information from the real-life events than they
