Body Count

“That’s what happened here. A private citizen reported this car had been parked in his neighborhood. That neighborhood is a better-than-average location, so a current Lincoln Town Car is not out of place. But this car has been standing there for the past four days. They checked it out with the CAT section-that’s Commercial Auto Theft-but it hadn’t been reported as stolen. Then an ABAN officer-that’s Abandoned Auto officer-checked it through LEIN-and there we have it. Keating’s car. So, no miracles. Just standard police work … well, here we are.”

Here they were, indeed. Tully had not adequately prepared Koesler for the scene. Not only was there a bumper crop of cops around and in the car, but a large number of curious bystanders were trying to get a good look at what was going on. Some of the onlookers were being questioned by police; others were being interviewed by TV, radio, and print reporters.

Tully’s car-followed by that of Mangiapane and Moore-was waved into the inner circle.

“This is it, Zoo,” a lieutenant from ABAN said with a hint of pride. Then he noticed Father Koesler, the sole civilian in this coterie of cops. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s with me. Be nice. Let him look, but not touch.

“Gotany prints?”

“Lots. All over the car-except for the steering wheel. Wiped clean.”

“Interesting.”

“And guess what, Zoo: Guess who lives on this street, just three doors down from here?”

Tully merely looked at the officer.

“Carl ‘Double C’ Costello.”

“Now that is interesting.” Tully thought for a moment. “Carl’s a little long in the tooth now, isn’t he? I thought he was out of the business. I haven’t heard his name mentioned in years.”

“Me neither. But it is a coincidence, isn’t it? I mean, the priest’s car found just a few yards from the front door of the Mafia. Maybe Costello ain’t what he was. But maybe he put his hand back in-one for old time’s sake?

“Or, maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

“Coincidences don’t have any explanation; that’s what makes ’em coincidences, I think I’ll just take a short walk and check this one out.”

Then Tully remembered: He had Koesler in tow. What to do with him? Leave him here to feel like a fifth wheel? Or take him along? They were too pressingly involved in this investigation to break off and take him home. Tully felt responsible since it was he who had involved Koesler in the first place. Besides, if Costello was anything, odds were that he had to be Catholic.

Tully stepped close to Koesler and spoke softly. “Father, have you ever met a Mafia don?”

“Once.” Koesler shuddered. The memory was not one of his favorites.

Tully didn’t pursue the subject. “Well, let’s go meet another one. Then we’ll take you home.”

Home would be most welcome. Images of the Godfather movies with their dark, disturbing, threatening interiors, the potential for grave bodily harm, even death, as a constant backdrop alternated in Koesler’s mind with the memory of the time when he, Koesler, with a recorder taped to his body, had been ushered into the presence of a Mafia don who was prepared to add Koesler’s blood to that already on his hands. And who would have, had not the police burst in.

Then another even more disquieting thought: Guido Vespa! What if Guido Vespa were there? If Koesler showed up on his doorstep with the police he would be certain that Koesler had violated the seal. Would Vespa strike out at them? At him? The man had killed before; he’d told Koesler that in confession. He would have even more reason for violence now, thinking he had been betrayed, than he had when he was merely paid to kill.

This, Koesler concluded, was far and away above any call of duty.

But for the life of him-maybe literally! — he couldn’t think of any plausible way out of it. Maybe he was overreacting; after all, there must be any number of residences in Detroit inhabited by Mafia members. Why should this one, as opposed to all the others, be the one that housed Guido Vespa? Koesler shook his head as he followed the lieutenant. His imagination must be getting the better of him! But where there was Father Keating’s car, could Father Keating’s killer be far behind?

Tully, Mangiapane, Moore, and Koesler mounted the steps to the front porch. Koesler carefully looked the house over. This house, at least, bore no resemblance to Marlon Brando’s Godfather mansion.

That was reassuring.

While the movie’s mansion seemed never to quit with its security features, ample parking space, spacious yards, and. gigantic size, this seemed a modest home, especially in comparison.

Here was a large, two-story, but quite conventional house. Well kept up in a well-kept up neighborhood. It was homey, with the lived-in quality that suggested that many generations had grown up and moved on. Koesler hoped everything inside would be as quiet and peaceful as the outside.

Tully rang the doorbell. The little group waited in silence.

It seemed longer, but it was only a few seconds until the door opened. A dark-browed young man stood just inside the screen door, which he made no move to open. He wore Sansabelt slacks and a T-shirt that emphasized an expansive torso and muscular arms. Without moving his head, his eyes scanned the four visitors. “So?”

Tully showed his badge and identified himself, as well as his companions. The young man seemed unimpressed. “So?” he repeated.

“Mr. Costello,” Tully said, “Carl Costello in?”

“I’ll go see.” The door was resoundingly closed.

Tully looked around, evaluating their surroundings. He noticed Koesler’s inquiring expression. Tully smiled. “Don’t let it bother you. That’s Remo … Remo Vespa. We all know each other pretty good. Remo likes to pretend he’s never met any of us. The old man’s his grandfather and he’s probably home. Remo will make us wait a little while, just to show he’s in charge. Or so he’d like us to believe. When push comes to shove-and it has more than once-we have to let him know who’s really in charge. Meantime, he likes to play this little game.

“It’s probably the most innocent thing he does,” Tully added.

Oh, my God! Remo Vespa! Of course; the Sunday paper that pictured Remo and Guido Vespa. Oh, my God! What now? The last, and only, time Koesler had seen Remo Vespa was in that photo. And then Koesler had not been focusing on Remo but on his brother Guido-Guido the Confessor.

Koesler gave serious consideration to offering his regrets and trying to find a cab.

In the midst of his inner debate, the door reopened.

Remo was there again, but he was standing behind another man.

“Carl, long time no see,” Tully said.

At one time Carl Costello must have been a very large man. His face was heavily lined. His oval head was crowned with wispy white hair. His glasses were bottle-bottom thick, magnifying the tired-looking eyes behind them. His rumpled trousers were topped by an unbuttoned sweater over an open-collar shirt. He held himself barely erect.

Costello looked at Tully for several long seconds as if to focus on a blurry image. “So what is it, Lieutenant, you gonna read me my rights?” He began to chuckle deep down in his chest. The chuckle quickly became a cough so violent it worried Koesler.

When the coughing finally stopped, Tully said, “No, Carl … not yet, anyway. Just some questions. You gonna invite us in?”

Costello did not appear eager to reply. He peered at the group on the porch one by one, studying each unhurriedly as he had studied Tully earlier. Then he got to Koesler. Costello pulled up short, “Hey, you a father? You a Catholic priest?”

For the first time in his life Koesler was reluctant to identify himself. He had no idea what would follow the admission that he was, indeed, a priest. Was the whole family in on the killing of Father Keating? Probably. Did the whole family know that Guido had confessed the murder to him? Probably not.

“Wassamatter,” Costello said good-naturedly, “you forget if you’re a father or not?”

Koesler reddened. “No … of course not. Yes, I’m a priest, a Catholic priest. Father Koesler.”

“You should watch the company you keep, Father.” Costello chuckled again, and again it developed into a coughing spasm. He turned his head slightly to address his grandson standing behind him, “Wassamatter with you,