usual, sniffed at everything, paying special attention to trees, streetlights, and the fire hydrant. Foley, watching the dog’s breath emerge as vapor, wondered why they were all still up here in the Winter Wonderland, as the Chamber of Commerce would have it. The dog at least had a coat that seemed to insulate it from the cold. But what of humans? Particularly those with skin that was thin and bones thai were brittle?
He walked slowly, far too deliberately for the little dog, who covered twice the distance by running ahead and then returning, diving into snowbanks and finding his stubby legs too short for reaching the ground as he scrambled out of the drifts.
Foley smiled as he contemplated his dog and lost concern over nearly everything else. Maybe there was something to say for having all the seasons, as Michigan very definitely did.
He was feeling fairly carefree as they turned the final corner heading back to the condo. That was when the dog stopped and began to growl.
“Come now, you vicious puppy,” Foley said in a gentle tone. “It’s too late to go chasing cats.”
That was when he noticed movement behind the large blue spruce. Whatever was back there was far too large to be a cat, or a dog for that matter. The motion continued as a man stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing dark clothes, and his hat was pulled low on his head. As he advanced toward Foley the streetlight picked up his features. John Paul, now barking furiously, appeared about to snap at the man’s shins.
“Stop it!” Foley commanded. “Keep quiet! Come here! Sit! Stay!”
The little dog, obediently hushed, came and sat on the sidewalk next to Foley. The archbishop peered into the shadows, “Why … what are you doing here?”
There was no answer. The man continued to gaze at Foley.
Without explanation it became clear to Foley. “You … you’re the one, aren’t you?”
Silence.
“But, why me? Whatever can this mean? What would I-?”
Still, silence. But as the man raised his arm slightly, the glimmer of the streetlight reflected sharply on the gun’s metal surface.
“May I … at least let the dog inside? He’s done nothing.”
The hand continued its steady motion upward.
“Give me a moment, please.” Foley turned his back and knelt on the sidewalk next to his dog, who looked at him wonderingly. The archbishop murmured one of the closing prayers of compline.
The quiet air was shattered by the roar of the gun. Foley pitched forward. He lay motionless. His years speeded the process of dying. It was over before he could reflect on another thought.
The dog, who had sprung straight up in the air at the gun’s blast, barked furiously, then tentatively. Then he began to whimper, stopping only to lick the body of his master, who would never again reach out to comfort the small animal.
Later, much later, a night-owl resident of the condominium spotted the dog sitting near what seemed to be a pile of laundry. After a closer look, the resident raced to phone 911.
In order to remove the body they had to almost peel the dog from its master.
By then, the assassin was long gone.
24
The general reaction of the public to archbishop foley’s murder could not have been foreseen. At the very least, it was not anticipated by Detroit’s city government.
In death, the undeclared affection in which Foley was held during life overflowed. Messages of sorrow, disbelief, horror, and anger poured into the chancery. Condolences came from both the powerful and the ordinary of Florida, Cincinnati, Detroit, other parts of this and other countries as well as, of course, the Vatican.
Detroit’s Mayor Cobb was forced to face yet another crisis.
Detroit’s citizens, generally, were titillated by the murder of a hooker mistaken for her nun sister. They were puzzled and drawn into the speculation that accompanied the murder of a Catholic leader. Was there, as the police investigation seemed to indicate, a connection between the two killings?
But in these two murders, there was no consensus of emotional involvement on the part of the public.
That changed with the murder of a warm, kindly, harmless old man who had, in his own quiet way, charmed a frequently jaded city.
Editorials in the press, on radio and television typically excoriated the city that could not protect even the most gentle of its citizens, The movers and shakers demanded a speedy wrap-up to this investigation.
A decree went out from Maynard Cobb: Sew it up-now! Use whatever manpower necessary, but solve it- now!
Cobb’s directive trickled through the chain of command, sometimes increasing, sometimes diminishing, the creative vulgarity of its original form.
Eventually, the order and commission reached Lieutenant Alonzo Tully. It was not the first time he had been picked to lead a special task force. He didn’t like it now any more than he ever had.
It wasn’t the department; it was city government. If you’ve got a pesky problem, throw money at it. If you’ve got a particularly offensive murder case, throw a large bunch of homicide detectives at it.
There was comfort in numbers. But a case like this was not cracked because it got buried under tons of cops. It was a lucky break, dogged police work, mainly the investigative know-how of a seasoned and dedicated detective.
But, no matter; the message was clear: The mayor wanted a show of force to indicate to his constituents that the city was doing all it could. Now the mayor could claim, in effect, It ain’t my fault. Now the spotlight was on the department: You’ve got top priority; go get yourself a lucky break.
Mostly because he could trust them to do precisely what was required of them, Tully chose as his closest assistants on this, Angie Moore and Phil Mangiapane. Also-and of equal importance-they had been in on the case more or less continuously from its inception to date.
Moore, Mangiapane, and Tully were at a table in a Greek-town restaurant near police headquarters. Tully had just gotten the word from Inspector Koznicki about the task force and the lieutenant’s role in it. The special force was being assembled at this moment but Tully wanted-needed-a quiet moment with two of his most trusted associates.
“Are they sure?” Moore asked. “I mean, did it go through ballistics?”
“You got doubts?” Mangiapane was being sarcastic.
Moore slowly shook her head. “Not really, I guess.”
“There wasn’t any doubt,” Tully said. “But, yeah, it did go through. Ballistics is under the same kind of pressure we are, A.38 caliber wad cutter; same marks, same gun.”
“Really rips my theory to hell and gone, don’t it?” Mangiapane said.
“What theory was that?” Moore wanted to know.
Tully explained the discovered connection between the distant cousins-Fred Stapleton and Sister Joan-and their dotty aunt at Lourdes Nursing Home. “We were going to draw you in on this theory this morning, Angie. But, last night …”
“Sounds good to me,” Moore said. “Like the kind of break we wanted. What’s the matter with it?”
“Well,” Tully said, “the orginal theory had it that Fred Stapleton was aware of the small fortune he was about to inherit and so was his cousin Joan Donovan. Only he wanted the whole fortune, not just half of it. He tried to kill the nun, but made a fatal error-literally-and got the hooker instead.”
As Tully sipped his coffee he seemed to drift into his private stream of consciousness.
“The problem,” Mangiapane explained, “was why would Stapleton go and kill the Hoffer guy.”
“To cover his tracks,” Moore replied. “And to throw us off the track. He would get us thinking that there was a plot to knock off officials of the Detroit Catholic Church. Our investigation would go off in that direction, while Stapleton could double back and get Donovan.”
Mangiapane grinned. “Great minds …”
