Koesler looked at him with some asperity. “You’re not going to get back into that confession again, are you?”
“Now, I know you’re not thrilled to talk about it. But between us, we’re not violating the seal. We’re talking about a confession we both heard. Actually, I think we’re talking about whether there is some way we could help the police without breaking the seal of confession. Isn’t it something like a consultation between doctors? I know the weight of the secrets is not equal-the professional versus the sacramental secret. But the doctors are not violating the patient’s right to privacy. They are professionals trying to help the patient … no?”
Koesler had to admit to himself that there was merit to Dunn’s argument. They were doing nothing to make Vespa’s confession odious or difficult for him. As long as they kept their remarks between the two of them, there seemed to be no violation of the seal. It was just that in Koesler’s many years as a priest, he had never discussed in any way any confession with anyone. It was the unique character of this situation that pushed Koesler toward reticence.
“Okay,” he said finally, with some reluctance, “but let’s tread very gingerly. We’re on dangerous ground.”
“Fair enough,” Dunn agreed. “Didn’t Guido’s name come up at all?”
“Yes, it did, at one point. There was even the mention of gambling.” Koesler smiled. “I gave ESP my best shot, but it didn’t seem to work.
“Now, can we get around to all those papers you pushed aside here?”
It was Dunn’s turn to smile. “They represent a busy day for me. A morning spent at the Detroit main library and, once I convinced a sympathetic managing editor at the
Koesler sighed. “If only you got that wrapped up in your studies …”
“I will. I will. All in due time. First things first.”
Being a detective is not your first-or second or third-priority, thought Koesler. But he let the admonition pass unspoken. It would have accomplished little or nothing. “So then, what was the object of all this research?”
“The Mafia, or, more properly, La Cosa Nostra. Know much about it?”
Koesler gestured toward the stack of notes. “Not as much as you do now,I’ll bet. Shoot!”
Dunn began assembling the notes. “It may come as no surprise to you that the Mafia is only a shadow of its former self.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Dunn looked at Koesler to try to discern whether he was joking. Apparently not.
“Well, then,” Dunn proceeded, “it will come as a surprise to you: Almost everybody involved in the war against the Mafia seems to agree that La Cosa Nostra is declining. They’re not quite in agreement as to the reason. However, there’s a guy named …” Dunn consulted his notes. “… Blakey, from Notre Dame, who was chief developer of something called the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act that worked pretty good in court. He’s quoted here in a
“Just what is this … act?” Koesler checked his watch. He didn’t want to be late, especially since Dunn’s information could be delivered anytime.
“It was …” Dunn searched for the pertinent note. “Ah … here … it was a courtroom tool that allowed the Justice Department and the FBI to concentrate on enterprises rather than individuals. And that helped them remove the highest leaders of the Mafia by means of convictions and long prison sentences. So that now, this one guy says, ‘Outside of New York and Chicago, the Mafia is an anachronism.’
“Now here is an interesting part. A couple of experts say that certain changes in society contributed to the Mafia’s decline. One: white flight from big cities lessened the Mafia’s political influence and also lessened the protection they used to get from the police and their political machines. That’s got to be true in Detroit … no?”
“Sure it is,” Koesler said. “I can remember the big Italian parishes, the heavily Italian neighborhoods. All gone now. Dispersed throughout the suburbs. I was surprised to find the Costellos still living in Detroit.”
“We’re going to get to that,” Dunn promised. “But here’s another change: As the leaders were convicted almost wholesale, the ones who took over were less competent than their predecessors.
“And another: When the Mafia loyalties disintegrated, some of the members broke the code of silence and became informers.
“And finally: Rival crime groups sprang up. Some of them Asian, Colombian, and black Americans. These new groups pretty well control crime in the inner cities, where the Mafia’s power used to be.
“Now, get this one, Bob: There’s a Mafia defector who said his crew could no longer find reliable assassins in its own ranks and they were forced to issue outside contracts. Now that’s going to have something to do with our Guido Vespa.”
“But how-?”
“Let me finish.” Dunn checked his own watch. He wanted very much to complete his presentation before Koesler was forced to leave for his appointment.
It occurred to Koesler that during Dunn’s rather carefully planned presentation, the young priest had served this entire warmed-over meal while he, Koesler, had done little but eat and first talk and then listen. Dunn had even served the drinks. Koesler had contributed nothing to the dining experience. It didn’t seem fair. “I’ll fix us some coffee.”
“No!” Dunn realized he’d been more emphatic than the occasion warranted. But the prospect of having to endure another unique Koesler brew was more than innocent humanity should have to suffer. “I mean, I’ve had quite a lot of coffee today. None for me, thanks.”
“Okay, okay.” Koesler thought the vehement response a bit excessive. Perhaps Dunn was simply keyed up over all he’d accomplished this day. “I’ll get some for myself, if you don’t mind.”
Dunn wondered about the lining of Koesler’s stomach. How, he puzzled, could Koesler tolerate that acid? Maybe it was in the same category as the ugly baby who everyone except the parents knew was homely.
Dunn raised his voice as Koesler went into the kitchen to blend freeze-dried coffee with hot water to somehow produce hemlock. “When you get back in here,” Dunn called, “I’d like you to look at this chart that I got photostated at the
“Oh, I vaguely remember that. When it was first published, I couldn’t figure out how the law enforcement agencies could do that without a trial. It seemed to be a denial of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ I couldn’t figure how the police could get away with that, unless it was factual and the people identified there simply didn’t want to go to court with-what? — a defamation of character or libel suit.”
“The interesting thing,” Dunn said, “is that back then there were six families that ran the Mafia in Detroit. And Carl ‘Double C’ Costello was the boss of one of those families.”
“The gentleman we visited today,” Koesler said. “I guess I wasn’t paying much attention back then … that or I’ve just forgotten.” He returned with his coffee-black.
Funny, thought Dunn, it smells all right.
“Look here …” Dunn turned the chart toward Koesler. He pointed to two pictures side by side far down the list. One was Remo Vespa; the other was Guido Vespa. They were in the category of “soldiers.” In the accompanying article, they were further identified as “made men” and “buttons.” Meaning they had been solemnly inducted into La Cosa Nostra and, in addition, they were assassins-“hit men.”
“They look like choirboys in these pictures,” Dunn observed.
“They probably were,” Koesler replied. It was quite beyond him how members of the Mafia families squared the kinds of things they did, particularly vicious crimes, with an easy familiarity with religion. But he was aware, in some imperfect way, that the inception of the Mafia concept had little to do with its eventual development.
“See this article?” Dunn pushed another photostated news story toward Koesler. “It talks about how the mob made its money from labor racketeering, gambling, loan-sharking, extortion, prostitution, smuggling, and narcotics trafficking. And see this story?” Dunn moved another sheet toward Koesler. “It says that in Michigan, the mob’s major activities are illegal bookmaking, labor racketeering, and loan-sharking.” Dunn looked at Koesler expectantly. When Koesler did not respond, Dunn said with an emphatic Dont’-you-get-it? tone: “Illegal bookmaking! Don’t you see, Bob?
Obviously, Koesler was not getting it.
