Man Who Loved God Page 14

  “I may be wrong, but I think that people who enter his life in special ways—in everything from police work to marriage—cannot comprehend what it is they are getting into.

  “Let me repeat: he expects his fellow officers to be as single-minded as he. That seldom happens. But it does explain why his squad completes more investigations and has a higher conviction rate than any of the other six squads in homicide. He expects anyone who wants to share his life, in marriage or not, to grasp how total, how complete, is his dedication.

  “No one, yet, has been able to do that. So far, Anne Marie is coping marvelously.

  “In this regard—Alonzo’s intense fidelity to his work—I know him better even than a wife could.

  “And you must know this also: if you are going to stand close to him as the brother you are, you must realize, as his wife must, that his work comes first in his life—even ahead of his wife and children.” He looked at the priest meaningfully. “Even ahead of you.”

  They sat in silence. Finally the priest spoke. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Inspector. And it’s something I must think through. I thank you most sincerely.”

  Koznicki smiled as he nodded. He watched as the priest left the car and entered the rectory. When he was safely inside, the inspector drove away.

  Maybe tomorrow there would be brunch.

  Maybe.

  Father Tully checked the answering service. Four calls for Father Koesler, none of them urgent. A few calls regarding the time of weekend services. No emergencies, thank God.

  He dug out the sacramentary wherein he found the Scripture readings for this weekend’s Mass. With a notepad and pen and readings, he was sure to come up with some thoughts for a homily. He always did.

  Settling into a comfortable chair, he reflected on Inspector Koznicki’s parting words—the part about the total involvement of a police officer in his work … being constantly on call.

  Earlier, when his brother had made practically the same statement, Father Tully had compared police work to the priesthood. Now, on second thought, he saw differences.

  Back in Father Koesler’s heyday, there had been a similar totality of time and service.

  It was a different world then—at least a different Catholic world. Pre-Vatican II priests were the deputed “holy men” of parochial life In addition to administering sacraments, which priests of Tully’s time continued to do, Koesler’s priests heard endless confessions, forgave countless sins.

  Today, few people die at home. They tend to expire in nursing homes, hospices, and hospitals. Places where institutional chaplains: have anointed them—at the first sign of illness—not with the dreaded extreme unction, but with the more encouraging sacrament of the sick. Offering one answer to the question: what’s in a name?

  No longer was there the sense of urgency that had accompanied a 3 A.M. call to the rectory, and the dash of the race with death.

  Those two sacraments alone, confessions that would not quit, plus the summons of unschedulable death, had yesterday’s priests on a par with police and with an open-ended call to service at any time, day or night.

  Additionally, pre-Vatican II priests had had all the answers to all the obvious questions. Which kept parishioners calling on the phone or in person. Most parishes could guarantee the presence and availability of a priest anytime one was needed for anything.

  Today’s shrinking numbers made the rectory priest an endangered species.

  But not Father Zachary Tully. The parishes he served were so poor that no one was standing in line to take a departing pastor’s place.

  Strange what problems most of today’s Catholics could solve on their own. And strange what poverty can create in terms of dependency.

  But this was not getting the required homily thought out. He would have to get some serious work done. One never knew what might interrupt—and brunch would be served in just a few more hours.

  Fifteen

  Barbara Ulrich, a bit numb from all that had happened today, sat in her living room. The blinds were closed. She wore only a half slip and a bra.

  Frequently she wore nothing at home. It was part of a peculiar game she and her late husband had played. She would try to tempt him and he would resist temptation.

  God! Now that she looked back on it, how sick they had been. The more Al lived in and for the bank, the more she had pulled their relationship apart.

  Was he really gone? She had to keep reminding herself that he would not be coming home—ever again. The games were over.

  The sound of the phone seemed unreal. Who would call her at a time like this? Telemarketing, probably. She reached over the arm of the couch and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said absently.

  “Barbara, this is Marilyn … Marilyn Fradet.”

  For a second, it didn’t register. “Oh … yes, Marilyn. What is it?”

  “Did you hear the news? Do you have your radio or TV on?”

  “No. What news?”

  “They got Al’s killer!”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Turn on your TV. Channel Four. No, wait; it was a bulletin. It’s over now.”

  “I can’t focus, Marilyn. What is this all about?”

  Marilyn forced herself to speak calmly. “Babs, evidently the police got some leads and followed them. They led to a young man—I didn’t get the name—I was so surprised.

  “Anyway, he was barricaded in a house on the east side. I guess he decided to shoot it out. It was more like suicide. The police had their sharpshooters there. They killed him. They think he must’ve been on drugs.”

  Barbara made not a sound.

  After a few moments of silence, Marilyn said, “I’m sorry if I bothered you with this call. I just thought you’d want to—that you ought to—know.”

  Slowly, Barbara comprehended what Marilyn had said. The facts settled in her consciousness. “No. No, I’m not putting reality together very well just now. Was there anything else? I mean, was anyone else involved? Just one kid? No idea that he might’ve been hired to kill Al?”

  The question puzzled Marilyn. “No, Babs … not that I heard. And I think I caught the entire bulletin.”

  “Can you remember anything else at all? Anything more than you’ve told me?”

  A hesitation. “Well … the pictures. They had film showing the guy charging out of this house. He looked crazy … wild. He had guns in both hands. He was firing, firing. And then he was shot, killed—dead. It was godawful. They shouldn’t show things like that. It was more violent than some of the movies. You’d think—”

  “That was it? Nothing more?”

  “Well, um … the news reporter—Mike Wendlahd, I think—was interviewing a policeman. The name was familiar. I couldn’t place ever meeting him. But he was the only one I saw being interviewed. He seemed to know everything that had gone on.”

  “You can’t remember his name?”

  “He was a lieutenant. A homicide detective. He was black. His name … his name was … Tully, I think. Yes, I’m sure that was it: Lieutenant Tully.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all I can think of, Babs. I’m sure they’ll repeat the news at eleven.”

  “Yes. Well, thanks, Marilyn. It was good of you to call. I really appreciate it.”

  “You sound so tired, dear. I think you ought to unplug the phone. Everybody and his brother will be calling you.”

  “Good idea.”

  As soon as they hung up, Barbara followed Marilyn’s advice and pulled the plug.

  But she did not rest.

  This was not playing out the way she had expected. Her version of Al’s death was that one of the VPs had contracted for the killing to keep Al from replacing him in the bank’s hierarchy. The only question was which VP.

  The information that Marilyn had reported simply made no sense. Some punk kid? Acting on his own? Stoned senseless? That was what had ended Al’s life? A bank robbery that had no hope of success
? One shot at point-blank range?

  That was not the way anyone, especially Al, should exit this life.

  She had to have more information! But where could it come from? Not from the police. They would be polite once they knew they were talking to the widow, but they wouldn’t open up. And you couldn’t trust the media; they would have little more than she herself could glean.

  That name … the one that Marilyn had finally remembered. Lieutenant Tully. It had a familiar ring. Why? Why would the name be familiar?

  Tully. Tully. Tull—of course! The priest she’d met at the award dinner. The one who Fred Margan had told her would be presiding at Al’s wake.

  Yes, that was it: Father Tully!

  Was this a coincidence? Could they be related? In either case, definitely a coincidence.

  She plugged the phone back in. A few calls, several blind alleys, and then bull’s-eye. St. Joseph’s parish, downtown. Taking some other priest’s place for a week or two. Lots of other interesting things to tell, but no time. She had to place another call immediately.

  Father Tully was in the final phase of developing an idea for his homily. For a moment, he considered letting the answering device take the call.

  Then he asked himself, “Would good old Father Koesler answer his phone?” Tully didn’t even know Father Koesler well enough to give an educated guess at the answer. But from the brief time they’d spent together, plus all that he’d heard, he knew what his absentee pastor would do. Slowly he lifted the receiver. “St. Joseph’s.”

  “I want to speak with a Father Tully.” There was eagerness in Barbara’s voice. “Is he in?”

  “This is he.” Tully was taken aback. Outside of his local relatives and the occasional connection from Koesler hardly anyone had called for him.

  “This is Barbara Ulrich. We met the other evening … you know, when you presented that award to Tom Adams. Do you remember me?

  Did he ever!

  “Yes, I remember,” he said, instantly collected. “Please accept my sincere condolences.”

  Why would the widow call him? Well, Adams, through a spokesman, had asked him to say a few words at the funeral. Probably Adams had mentioned it to the widow and …

  “Thanks,” she replied dispassionately. “What I’m calling about, Father, is what happened, I guess sometime this afternoon. The police caught—and killed—the kid who shot my husband. I know this is a long way from firsthand knowledge. But a friend called me a little while ago and said she’d seen a bulletin on TV. She said the person being interviewed was named Tully—Lieutenant Tully. Any relation?”

  He smiled. He was so pleased to claim that relationship. “Yes. That was my brother.”

  So far so good, thought Barbara. “By any chance did you talk to him about what happened?”

  “Better than that. I was there.”

  She felt that she’d hit the jackpot—or, more to the point, that she held all but one number to win the lottery. “Can you talk to me about it?” She hesitated, but her voice gave every indication that she intended to continue. “What I mean, Father, is that my husband left home this morning headed on a new direction in his life. And then—just to become another statistic. I’m finding it so hard to adjust to it all. Tell me I’m wrong in thinking there must be more to it than this.”

  Father Tully didn’t quite know what to make of it. Every indication, everything he heard, all that he’d observed about the relationship between Al and Barbara Ulrich contradicted the concern she suddenly showed toward a husband with whom she had not gotten along—to say the very least.

  Was it idle speculation? Genuine concern?

  He felt uneasy. Shouldn’t she be calling the police? Shouldn’t she be talking to his brother? By her questions and her statements, she seemed to indicate she was not satisfied with the “official” findings in the case. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that one young crook could have caused all that damage. Well, in truth, he didn’t believe it either. And, bottom line, she was the widow, and thus deserving of special treatment.

  In any case, she’d asked a direct question and, he thought, deserved an honest answer. “Mrs. Ulrich, I don’t know exactly what to tell you.” He pushed the books and notepad off his lap, stood and, holding the phone in one hand, began to pace. He frequently did that during lengthy and/or demanding phone conversations.

  “I happened to be with Inspector Koznicki at police headquarters when he got notice that a man, who was suspected of being your husband’s killer, had barricaded himself in a house with a hostage.

  “I went with the inspector—he’s the head of homicide—to the scene. There was indeed a young man holed up there. He had a woman hostage. The police negotiated as long as the young man let them. Then he came out shooting. The police had no choice.”

  “And they think this kid did it all by himself?”

  “They retrieved a gun the young man had used. It was the same caliber as the one that killed your husband.

  “When I left my brother there—at the scene—it looked as if they had lots more work to do … things to check. But they seemed certain that this was the man who killed your husband.”

  Silence.

  Father Tully could think of nothing more to say. She had asked a direct question. He had answered it to the best of his limited knowledge.

  She wasn’t sure where to go from here. “Look, Father, the other night at the dinner, if I remember correctly, you were sitting next to Joe—you know, Joel Groggins, Nancy’s husband? Well … I don’t know how to put this politely, but Joe has a habit of talking about things.”

  Somehow she made it seem there was a character defect in Joel Groggins because he had talked all evening to the priest. Whereas Father Tully had been grateful for the conversation. If there were a character flaw on anyone’s part at the dinner, it surely belonged to her, one among others who had shut him out that evening. She had sat next to him through the dinner and never once even looked at him. This, the priest thought, was a. small insight into her character.

  “Joe pretty much knows where all the skeletons are buried in our little bank. Being married to Nancy, he’d have to.”

  She must be aware that Groggins had undoubtedly painted a rather lurid outline of her by no means housewifely personal life. But she couldn’t afford to be concerned about that right now. “What I’m interested in, Father, is whether Joe filled you in on our executive VPs—with regard to the spot they’d be in depending on who was chosen as the new bank manager.”

  The priest almost replied in an uncontested affirmative. Groggins most assuredly had suggested that at least one VP had plenty to fear from whoever was named new manager. Tom Adams’s gratitude was going to cost somebody his job.

  But Father Tully pulled up short. Mrs. Ulrich had used the word “depending.” That a VP would be displaced “depending” on which of the two candidates was selected.

  “Well, I was given to understand that, yes, one of the VPs would have to be displaced after a successful branch bank management. But I thought that was the case whether the selection was your husband or Nancy Groggins. You just said that the VPs need fear only one contestant.”

  “My husband, of course.” Her tone was one of genuine surprise. “Don’t tell me Joe is so far outside the loop that he thought his wife could be named an executive vice president! Or, what’s even harder to conceive, that Nancy didn’t know the score.”

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Ulrich? It made sense to me the other night when Joel Groggins revealed this pecking order.

  “This new branch of Adams Bank was a practical testimonial to the city of Detroit—an act of faith in a city that’s trying to get its act together. To emphasize this commitment, the branch is located in one of the toughest areas in a tough city. This act of faith would have to be duplicated by anyone named manager.

  “I take it there were few applicants. But, of those who applied, top contenders were Nancy and your husband.

  “Then the thinking was, again
if I’m not mistaken, that once the branch was functioning nicely, whoever made a success of it as manager would be rewarded. The reward would be a step up. And that would be next to the top—an executive vice presidency.

  “But since there are only three such positions, one present VP would have to go. And I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Ulrich” —in his pique he released information that otherwise he probably wouldn’t have—“the front-runner, at least at the beginning of that award dinner, was not your husband.”

  “Tom told you that?” Her tone was almost playful.

  “Yes, he did. He asked that I give him my evaluation after the evening was over. And, to be frank, I agreed that Nancy was the more appropriate choice.”

  “Well, she’s got it now. And the VPs are happy now. For the most part,” she added, almost meditatively.

  “But why should there be any difference in the way Tom Adams would treat Al and Nancy?”

  “As the French say, Vive la difference. The overlooked difference is due to Tom’s appreciation of men and women. Leaders are men, not women. Top movers and shakers are men, not women. Executive vice presidents are men, not women. At least according to Tom Adams’s Bible.”

  “You’re saying …”

  “I’m saying,” Barbara insisted, “that if Al had been named manager—which, in the end, he was—yes, someplace down the line he, not one of the bean counter vice presidents, would’ve been named an executive VP. And one of the sitting execs would probably have been eased out with a golden parachute.

  “Now that Nancy’s manager of the new branch, she can look for a reward if she makes a go of it. I hope she doesn’t think it’s going to be the executive spot. Remember, Father: executive vice presidents are men, not women. That’s the Gospel—at least according to Tom Adams.”

  “Then, Nancy … what?”

  “Likely one of the run-of-the-mill vice presidencies. Or, perhaps her pick of any branch she wants to manage. Maybe a significant financial bonus. But not—I repeat, not a job reserved for men only.”