Body Count

“I remember. But it seemed a natural slip, especially since Homicide was investigating.”

“As long as you were asking for background information on the various characters-Keating and his associate priest-we were on neutral ground,” Koesler said.

“Looking back on it,” Tully said, “you weren’t your usual self. You did seem to be holding back. But of course that’s hindsight.”

“Well, I’d like to get in on it now,” Koesler said. “You are going to reopen the investigation, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Koznicki said. “We have the murder of Guido Vespa to solve. And thanks to the information you have now given us, we will reopen the investigation regarding Father Keating. In all probability, whoever issued the contract to Vespa in turn murdered Vespa and will be sought for conspiracy in the death of Father Keating.”

The two officers rose to leave. But before leaving, Tully said, “As far as getting back into this investigation, you’d better not count on that. You’ve got some recovering to do.”

“But-”

“Tell you what we’ll do,” Tully said. “We’ll try to keep you updated on our progress. We owe you that much.”

“And,” Koznicki added, “it may seem quiet in this room. But outside, in the corridor, there are lots of newspeople who are champing at the bit to get to you. And they will as soon as the doctors give permission.”

“What’s keeping them out there now?” Koesler asked.

“I’ve got a couple of uniforms on duty,” Tully said. “And we’ll keep one, at least, on duty around the clock. Whoever killed Vespa may have wanted you dead too. May have thought when you fell he’d got you both. In that case, he might try to get at you again. As long as you’re in this room, we can provide protection. So take it easy. And by the time you’re released, we may have this thing wrapped up.”

“The media,” Koesler said, “what should I tell them? Or what shouldn’t I tell them?”

“Good question,” Tully said. They had not anticipated the confessional material. He looked to Koznicki. After a moment’s thought, the inspector spoke. “It would be better if you did not mention the confession. Perhaps you should state only that Vespa called last night and asked you to meet him. Say that he made mention of the contract and then someone you could not see fired the shots.

“In other words, tell the truth, but not all the truth. There may never be a necessity to mention the false confession. It is enough that we know that you are not bound by the seal. It would cloud the matter if you had to explain this over and over again to the newspeople.”

Koznicki then promised that he would return soon for a visit, and the two officers said goodbye. Koesler could hear the clamor in the hallway as the door opened and they left his room.

The conversation had distracted Koesler from the pain. Now he was all too aware of it again. It was not as sharp as it had been. That was encouraging; he wanted to use the morphine as sparingly as possible.

There were so many things to think about. He was certain his mind would be too occupied with ancillary questions to pay much attention to this dulled pain.

His first thought was of Nick Dunn. Even so, Koesler considered it a belated reflection. After all, Dunn was in this as deeply as he. They had both been privy to the same confession. They had both been keeping the same secret. The difference was that Koesler had been shot and Dunn had not.

Of course in the balance of things, Koesler had only been wounded, whereas Vespa had been killed.

Vespa. Vespa and his simulated confession. I should have tumbled right off the bat … or at least lots earlier in this game. There was something rotten about this right from the start.

The confessional stalls were clearly marked. A child could have told the difference between the side that allowed a face-to-face visit and the side that provided anonymity. Why had Vespa entered the open side? It guaranteed Koesler’s seeing and recognizing a penitent who, having announced that this was his first confession since childhood, would naturally choose the screen. But before he entered the screened-off side, he had to be seen so that Koesler would know whose secret he was keeping.

Then why hadn’t he been able to quiet Vespa down? Why had Vespa insisted on talking so loudly? So loudly that he could easily be heard by anyone in the otherwise quiet church. Did he know the church was not empty? Did he know that Father Dunn was out there? No, how could Dunn have been there; he hadn’t known that Koesler had seen Vespa. He must’ve come in afterward. Or, had he …? Was Vespa’s loud voice for Dunn’s benefit?

So convenient that Dunn should arrive at just that crucial moment.

What did Koesler know about Dunn anyway? Nothing official, that’s for sure. A letter from a Minneapolis priest requesting residence at St. Joe’s while studying at U of D Mercy. Was he really a priest from Minneapolis? Was he really a priest? Was he in on this somehow?

The door opened. The media people were getting louder. The door had been opened by a police officer, probably the one guarding his door. “There’s a Father Dunn here to see you, Father.”

So this is how it was going to work. Koesler had never before had a secretary who packed a gun. He felt safer. “Show Father Dunn in, by all means.”

Again the babel in the corridor as the door was opened, the cop leaving, the priest entering.

Nick Dunn was the soul of concern. How sincere was this concern? Had Dunn known all that was going to happen ahead of time? Was he as surprised as Guido Vespa when the contractor decided to end the deal with a gun?

“How are you?” Dunn asked. “God,” he continued, without waiting for a reply, “what a shock! I was waiting up for you. I couldn’t figure out what was keeping you. Then the call from the hospital! I came right away. Do you remember: I gave you the Sacrament of the Sick. Do you remember?”

If Dunn was in on this, it was an award-winning performance. “Now that you mention it,” Koesler said, “I do seem to recall your being here.”

“They let me into the recovery room after they operated. You were unconscious. But I was here in this room with you afterward. Do you remember? I kept falling asleep. You told me to go home before I fell off the chair and hurt myself.”

“I said that?”

“Actually, you were kind of funny. At one time when you woke up and I was falling asleep, you said, ‘Can you not watch one hour with me?’”

“I said that?”

Dunn nodded.

“Well, thanks for the vigil, anyway-even if I don’t remember it all that clearly.”

“So how are you? How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better-lots better. But speaking of home, how’s everything at the parish?”

“Bob, you haven’t been gone that long. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything that needs taking care of. What the hell, I can stick around the rectory and take seriously that reading list the university handed out. Don’t worry, it’s not that big a deal. What’s the prognosis? How long’re you going to be here?”

“Haven’t seen the doctor yet. But I’ve seen the police and I’ve got something very important to tell you.”

Koesler related what Vespa had said about the nature of the confession they had both heard. The story was punctuated with “no kiddings” and “I’ll be damneds” from Dunn. All the while Koesler wondered how much of this was really news to him.

Nick Dunn seemed to digest this new information as quickly as Koesler could dish it out. Dunn asked many questions regarding the simulated confession and proposed some theories to attempt to explain the weird incident. But no matter who proposed the hypothesis, Koesler or Dunn, it could be no more than speculation-at least on Koesler’s part. Was it an attempt at silencing Koesler-and Dunn-or was it Vespa’s invention, like the disproved double burial?

“So,” Dunn concluded, “we were released from the seal by Vespa, only to be silenced again by the police.”

“That’s the way it looks. And, speaking of an investigation, we never had one.”

“What?”

“Well, not an investigation as such, but any kind of check into your background.”

“Huh?” Dunn appeared bewildered.

“I don’t want to seem less than a gracious host … but what do I really know about you? Somebody sent me a