Body Count

acrimonious estate matter, and so forth. Among all these possibilities, which one? And why poison? One of those bizarre Mafia statements? It was unusual, and that’s what whetted Tully’s interest.

And the reporter? Not in Tully’s memory had a local news writer been murdered. As far as he could see, people took out their frustrations with the media by an angry letter to the editor. Or perhaps, at most, a lawsuit. Why would anyone kill a reporter-and a religion writer at that?

For his part, Tully could not quite fathom why the crowd was so unhinged over what was happening to that priest. Tully had only a surface knowledge of organized religion. He was aware that the Catholic clergy were not allowed to marry. In fact, he’d had quite a cram course in the Roman Catholic Church’s rules and regulations concerning celibacy. A bizarre case last year had highlighted that Church feature. But-okay-so a priest gets married, he breaks the rule, and, Tully supposed, he’s out. Maybe there’s an appeal possibility. But it’s all there in Church law; why should lay people get all worked up? Were those bullets intended for someone else? Tully thought not. When several rounds all hit the same target, it’s not likely the shooter missed what he wanted to hit.

All this Tully could have communicated to Inspector Koznicki in a plea to pursue the cases that were already his. But from long experience, he knew such an appeal was foredoomed. At best, he-or maybe the Bloomfield cops-would find this missing priest in a hurry and Tully could get back to his work.

Could that have been the reason Koznicki was dumping this business on him? Ol’ Walt was a crafty guy. He would be well aware that Tully wanted no part of a missing person investigation. And that Tully would do everything in his power to get rid of it. And that the only way to do that would be to solve it or bring it to a successful or otherwise conclusion.

In any event, Tully hoped that some of these intriguing cases would still be waiting for him when he got back to the real world of Homicide.

Tully gathered the files, tapped them neatly together, placed them on the far corner of the desk, and faced Koznicki squarely. For better or worse, Tully was now at Koznicki’s disposal.

“Okay,” Tully said, “let’s start from the top. It might help to know just who this ‘influential’ person is who got everybody to throw out the rule book.”

“Eric Dunstable.”

“U.S. Motors?”

“Chairman of the board.”

Tully nodded. “That’s influential. What’s he got to do with it?”

“He’s a parishioner at St. Waldo’s-make that an invoked parishioner. He is, in fact, president of the parish council.”

Tully reflected on that. “Well, now, Walt, my education on things Catholic hasn’t quite got that far. But it does sound impressive.”

Only Koznicki’s eyes smiled. “A parish council is elected by parishioners. The president, usually, is elected, in turn, by the other council members. Or the council member who gets the most votes becomes the president. Suffice to say that the position-”

“-is an ‘influential’ position,” Tully broke in. “Whatever this guy does is going to be influential, isn’t it?”

“So it seems.”

“Or he doesn’t play.”

Koznicki considered a further analysis of the council president’s role irrelevant. He moved on. “The housekeeper at St. Waldo’s was not overly concerned when Father Keating did not appear for dinner on Friday evening. It seems he is not only somewhat undependable in matters he considers of minor importance-such as a commitment to a meal-but he generally does not bother explaining.”

“Sounds like a real sweetheart.”

“Undoubtedly he has other virtues,” Koznicki said noncommittally. “Apparently, he did not return to the rectory Friday night. He was not there Saturday morning and nothing in his room was disturbed. The bed was not slept in.”

“Let me guess: still no concern.”

“Correct. But Saturday is another story. As you can well imagine, Alonzo, the weekend is a terribly busy time for priests, what with confession and the Masses.”

“Masses?”

“Services. At St. Waldo’s there is a Mass late Saturday afternoon, with confessions before and after, and four Masses Sunday morning.”

Tully was impressed. “Quite a load for one guy.”

It took a moment for Koznicki to realize that Tully thought that the same priest presided at all these Masses. “Oh, no, Alonzo, there is help. I do not know how many priests assist at that parish of a Sunday, but you may rest assured Father Keating does not carry that load alone. I believe he has a full-time assistant and I would assume he has secured another priest-perhaps more than one-to help from time to time. St. Waldo of the Hills is not the sort of parish that would be strapped for help.”

“Okay.” So far so good, thought Tully. “So the priest wasn’t there yesterday-or today.”

“Exactly. And this was unprecedented. Father Keating invariably supervised the operation on weekends, settling such questions as which priests would offer which Masses, compiling announcements; in short, making sure everything ran smoothly.”

“He didn’t call? No word?”

“None. Needless to say, everyone was and is quite concerned. Earlier this afternoon, Mr. Dunstable stepped in.”

“Or took charge.”

“Probably more accurate. He contacted the Bloomfield Hills Police, and they are already on the case. And then he contacted our mayor.”

“Cobb? He found Cobb? On a Sunday?” Tully snorted. “You did say he was influential.”

“Mr. Dunstable and the mayor are quite close socially.”

Tully shrugged. “I suppose it’s about time Dunstable got something in return for all those contributions. One last question, Walt: Why me? I mean, I know no mere question is going to get me out of this one, but just for the record, why me?”

Koznicki treated it as a rhetorical question. “The mayor promised Mr. Dunstable our best detective would head the investigation. And the mayor is aware of your record.” There was a note of barely disguised pride in Koznicki’s voice over the fact that the mayor recognized Tully’s accomplishments.

Koznicki rose slowly. “The mayor contacted the chief, who notified me. I think it best you call in the troops immediately. By the way, the Bloomfield Hills and other suburban police will be assigned to you for the term of this investigation. You will head up this task force.”

Koznicki left, knowing he had placed the matter in most competent hands.

The only silver lining Tully could perceive was that as missing persons go, a missing priest is at least a little out of the ordinary. Maybe he would learn something along the way.

In any case, this would, Tully vowed, be one of the briefest searches in the history of missing persons investigations. He would find the errant priest and bring him home safely. Then he would get back to serious business.

5

Pat Lennon sat alone at a small table in a far corner of the cafeteria on the second floor of the Detroit News.

She was by no means alone in the cafeteria. A large percentage of those who worked in the News’s downtown building began the workday in this spacious dining room. Some hit the cafeteria before their desks. Bleary-eyed, still in their coats, they would straggle in, knowing the day would not get moving until they had their coffee.

Most of them were creatures of habit, sitting at the same table each day, trading gossip with the same people.