Man Who Loved God Page 24

  From firsthand, Barbara knew that Tom’s sexual appetite was voracious. While that could be a problem, particularly after her delivery when she would again be fertile, it was a situation she thought she could handle.

  For one thing, she was beginning to believe that while she definitely was not heterosexual, she might very well be bisexual. Jack Fradet had brought that possibility to the surface. Upon reflection, she thought she might lead Tom Adams to the same techniques perfected by Fradet.

  All in all, life with Tom Adams was looking more and more attractive. Perhaps even compelling.

  By this time she was sure of herself. At least as sure as she could be. She had, as Tom put it, seen the light: she would accept his proposal.

  How to tell him?

  He had left in a huff only minutes ago. Bad timing to pick up the phone. No, give him a little time to cool off.

  A note. A letter. Yes, that would be perfect.

  She’d have to word this carefully.

  And besides enthusiastically accepting his proposal, she would add an item that she had picked up on when she had screened the other three. It was a tipoff Tom ought to be aware of. She would present this as gossip overheard during the award dinner. Telling him what she’d heard would create a new image for herself: not only a wife, but a collaborator. He would appreciate her interest and her help with the business.

  She completed the letter, addressed, stamped, and sealed the envelope. There was just time for the last mail pickup. With any luck, it would be delivered by tomorrow afternoon. She could hardly wait for him to get this letter.

  She began to anticipate her coming marriage with delight.

  Twenty-Four

  He did seem a bit sheepish about it. And I don’t blame him.” Father Tully had checked things out with his brother and had been invited to visit police headquarters. The topic of conversation was the vacationing pastor of St. Joe’s.

  Lieutenant Tully shook his head, chuckling. “How long’s he been gone now?”

  “Just a week today. For the love of Pete, he could’ve stayed a month if he wanted to! But he’s been visiting his classmate up there in Canada. He says there’s just so many stories of the Good Old Days he can relive and retell.”

  Zoo grew serious. “What does this do to your stay here?”

  “I don’t know. Father Koesler’s decision came out of the blue. He called first thing this morning—must’ve been about seven. When I heard his voice, my immediate thought was, It’s way too early to take the pulse of this parish just to see if I’m tending it all right. But all he said was that he was packed and ready to come back. There was no way I could talk him into staying a little longer.”

  One of the Tully’s squad members handed him a phone message—a death the Homicide Division had to check out. Zoo scanned the message and nodded an okay. “So Father Koesler will be back later today?”

  “I guess it’ll take him four or five hours. He said he’d probably stop for lunch. So he should be pulling in sometime early to mid-afternoon. But yeah, the essence of his message was that he’d be back today.”

  “Does that mean you have to vacate today?”

  The priest laughed. “You mean like a relay team: I pass the baton to him and he takes it from there?”

  “Look, little brother, all I want to know is what to tell Anne Marie. ‘There’ll be an overnight guest … oh, and by the way, he’ll be staying several overnights.’“

  “Sorry, Zoo. I know there’s a common sense side to all this.”

  “It’s just that it didn’t take long for us to fall in love with you. We don’t want to see you leave. If it means putting you up at our place, fine. We want to do everything we can to keep you here as long as possible”

  “The feeling is the same, Zoo. But I don’t know what to tell you—except don’t have Anne Marie fix up the guest room. I’ll probably stay at St. Joe’s until I leave—whenever that is.

  “As far as that goes, I could stay at almost any parish in the diocese: the resident pastors would think they went to heaven without having to die. The rectories have plenty of room for priests; they just haven’t got enough priests to fill the rooms.

  “Take St. Joe’s, for instance. There’s plenty of room for three resident priests. Bob Koesler and I make only two.

  “So, no difficulty staying over. I even made sure before leaving Texas that my substitute’s availability was open-ended. There’s no immediate hurry. But for the long run … well, I’ve got some more thinking and praying to do.”

  As, Father Tully was speaking, the bulk of Sergeant Phil Mangiapane loomed. Zoo noticed him but waited till his brother had finished, then beckoned.

  “’Scuse, Father. Zoo, a precinct cop just called this in.”

  “Yes?”

  “Apparent suicide.”

  “Okay. You and” —Tully scanned the roster—” Angie take it.”

  “Uh … Zoo: you might want to take a look at this one …”

  “Oh?” Zoo read the message, then whistled softly. He turned to his brother. “Father, you may want to come with us.”

  The priest’s unspoken reaction was, Yes, of course. He wanted to stay in contact with his brother and sister-in-law. His eyes widened as he read the message his brother handed him.

  “That’s right: Barbara Ulrich’s dead. An apparent suicide.”

  “Let’s go,” Father Tully said. En route, to the Ulrich apartment, the priest did little more than shake his head and murmur over and over, “I don’t think so.”

  By the time Zoo and his party arrived, the police technicians with their plastic gloves were busy at their professional duties.

  Barbara’s body lay next to her desk. The phone, receiver off its cradle, was on the floor, where it apparently had fallen after being knocked off the desk as she fell.

  Barbara was wearing a frilly nightgown. She seemed so fragile. Not unlike the doll her daddy had broken when he was doing bad things to her … or the “broken doll” the doctors had wrenched from her body. Of course those who were investigating her death would have no knowledge of those incidents.

  Father Tully found an out-of-the-way spot that held no interest for either technicians or detectives. The priest scrunched into the empty corner and quietly observed, his attention focused mainly on his brother, who was in charge.

  Without touching it, Zoo squatted near the weapon. “Thirty-eight caliber.” The dead woman’s hand cradled the revolver, handle in her palm, index finger against the trigger.

  Tully stood. “Who found the body?”

  “The manager.” The patrolman who had responded to the original call opened his notepad. “A Mrs. Marilyn Fradet tried to call the deceased this morning. She was concerned about the deceased—” He looked down at his notes. “A Barbara Ulrich—”

  “I know.”

  “Well, Mrs. Fradet was worried because Mrs. Ulrich is a recent widow. She” —he inclined his head toward the body—” just buried her husband a couple of days ago.” Zoo nodded, almost impatiently.” Anyway, she called several times and didn’t get any answer. So she asked the manager to check on the Ulrich woman. Which he did. This” —he gestured to include the living room and its contents—” is the way he found it. No one touched anything until the techs got here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Zoo slowly walked around the room scrutinizing the area and the furnishings. He stopped at the desk where a photographer was snapping pictures with near reckless abandon. “Was there a note?”

  “None that we’ve found so far,” one of the technicians said. “We’ve been over the top layer of the desk and the floor. No note. I don’t think we’re gonna find one. It’d be a first in my experience that somebody writes a note explaining everything or saying good-bye and then hides the note before committing suicide. If there’s a note, the writer wants it found and read.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zoo returned to the body, looked at it searchingly, then squatted again. From that position, he beckoned his brother.<
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  Father Tully joined him near the dead woman’s head.

  Not for the first time the priest found it difficult to associate the finality of death with someone so young, so vital, and with so much of her life before her.

  “You know that mantra you’ve been whispering over and over—the one that’s been driving me nuts?”

  “You mean about I didn’t think this was a suicide? Sorry, I didn’t mean to bug you.”

  “You didn’t. Not all that much anyway—not really. But why, sight unseen, did you think this wasn’t a suicide? I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time a widow threw herself on the funeral pyre.”

  “Not this widow. Not from what I’ve heard and seen. Not unless the pyre wasn’t going to be lit … not unless this widow could walk away anytime she wanted.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not saying that she wanted her husband dead, or even that she was glad he was killed. But … I do think that both parties to that marriage would have felt better apart. As it was, they managed to live apart as much as possible without actually breaking their union publicly. I don’t know why—and I doubt that anyone else knows either—they didn’t just get a divorce.

  “That’s why I don’t think it was suicide. Her life and her future must’ve looked pretty rosy once Al Ulrich was out of the picture permanently.”

  “Well, brother, I tend to agree with you.”

  “You do?” The priest was surprised that his brother would agree with any conclusion respecting police business.

  “Not for the same reason you gave—though that is supportive. But look at that wound.”

  The priest looked, although he didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for.

  “Notice anything strange or odd?”

  Father Tully studied the wound more carefully, trying to remain objectively detached. It was difficult. He was a priest; caring for and about people was in his marrow, even if most of the time that care was for their souls rather than their bodies. It was hard for him to try to look at the bloody head of the lifeless Barbara Ulrich as a mere technical puzzle to be solved, when all he could think of was the living, breathing woman—a woman with hopes, joys, and fears. “I don’t notice anything,” he said finally. “What am I supposed to be looking for—or at?”

  “No powder burns around the hole.”

  “No powder burns! I remember now,” the priest reflected. “I think it was on one of the episodes of ‘Hill Street Blues.’ A corpse was supposed to have powder burns and didn’t. What’s that all about, anyway?

  Zoo sighed softly. “The closer the gun is to the victim when the bullet is fired, the more likely it will leave a gunpowder residue. Look carefully. See anything like a powder burn?”

  Father Tully tipped his head back to get a better view through his bifocals. “Just a few specks, I think.”

  “Exactly. Of course we’ll have to wait till Doc Moellmann rules on it. But I’m tentatively classifying this as a homicide.”

  “Homicide!”

  “Why so surprised? You said from the beginning you didn’t think it was a suicide …”

  “Yes, but …”

  “She didn’t die of old age.”

  “But why call it murder just because of an absence of powder burns?”

  “Brother, it’s this way: when somebody is going to take his own life with a handgun, he doesn’t want to miss. See, the suicide is nervous; his hand is probably shaking. Try it. Pretend you’re holding a gun and you’re going to shoot yourself. If you hold the gun a foot away from your head, you can’t be certain you’re going to hit dead on. You’re not going to be able to control the weapon that well at that angle, or without a firm surface to steady it.

  “Now, you don’t want to blast your nose or your ear away or just give yourself a painful flesh wound. No, you want to kill yourself with one shot.

  “Now, to do this, the suicide holds the gun right up against his head. That way he’s got a good idea of just where the bullet is going. Or, he may stick the gun in his mouth and fire … another sure way he’s going to accomplish what he set out to do.

  “So, my tentative label is homicide … uh, excuse me a minute.” He beckoned to Sergeant Moore. “Angie, work this case as a homicide for now. Make sure the techs dust everything—everything. Is the body ready to go?”

  Moore nodded. “They were just waiting for you to finish with it.”

  “Okay. I’ll call the morgue and see if I can get Moellmann on it. There’s something here and I’m betting Doc will find it.”

  The priest and the detective left the room with Zoo’s arm around his brother’s shoulder.

  “Where to?” Zoo asked, as they entered the unmarked police car. “I’ve got to get back to headquarters. This has all the marks of being an extra-busy day. You’re welcome to come with me, but I don’t think I’ll be much company.”

  “Thanks. But I’d better head for the rectory. Bob should be getting in any time now. It’d be good if I were there with a hearty welcome.”

  “Okay.” The lieutenant smiled broadly as he set course for St. Joe’s. “Well, Sherlock, got any idea who done it?”

  His brother smiled in return. “I’ve got no idea … unless it was Moriarty.”

  “Who?”

  “The archvillain of the Sherlock Holmes series.”

  “Oh … yeah. But seriously: you’ve been a witness to what’s been going on with the Adams Bank people. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? We thought we’d closed this book when we got the kid who killed Ulrich. Now, we’re opening another chapter. We’ve got a murder one on the guy’s widow—”

  “Murder one?”

  “Murder one,” Zoo repeated, “because anybody who tries to make a murder look like a suicide didn’t stumble onto the idea. It had to be carefully planned.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, you’ve pretty well been in the thick of this thing … you’ve talked to just about everybody who’s mixed up in this. So, brother, what do you think?”

  The priest was silent for some moments. Then, “There are a couple of things that I wondered about at the time. They’re probably nothing … they just seem a bit odd in the light of what’s happened since. I’m a little reluctant to even tell you because they probably don’t mean a thing, and they might throw you off the track.”

  “No … no.” Zoo’s tone was earnest. “This is exactly what we’re looking for. Just tell me about it. Let me judge whether it’s relevant.”

  “Okay. Well, the first incident was just before the award dinner. Right after Barbara Ulrich made her entrance, she sort of worked the room. I noticed something curious: she seemed to be slipping notes to four men—well, at least four that I saw; I didn’t watch her all evening. Anyway, the four were Tom Adams and his three executive vice presidents—Jack Fradet, Lou Durocher, and Martin Whitston.

  “That seemed peculiar. Then, at the wake service for her husband, she took extra time talking individually to each of those same four men. I have no idea what they talked about … only that it seemed something was going on between them.

  “And,” he concluded, “that’s about it.” He turned to Zoo. “That’s probably not going to help you much.”

  Zoo shook his head. “It’s a start. We’ll be asking questions and we’ll definitely include those guys.” He pulled into the parking lot of St. Joe’s. “Well, here we are.” He didn’t bother putting the car in park.

  As he exited the car, Father Tully said, “I’ll see you later, eh?”

  “I’ll keep you posted. I know you’re interested.”

  “Great!”

  Father Tully was conscious of being pressed for time. Just inside the rectory he encountered a concerned Mary O’Connor. “I was just about to try to find another priest for noon Mass,” she said. “Did you get lost?”

  “Too much to tell you now, Mary. After Mass. Father Koesler back yet?”

  “Good Lord, is he coming back today?”

  The priest chuckled. �
�He can’t stay away from you, Mary.”

  The faithful few who frequented daily Mass were in their places. In the brief time he’d been offering daily as well as weekend Masses, Tully had gotten used to the same faces occupying the same pews in the vast church.

  He was not surprised that his nagging distraction during this Mass was the image of Barbara Ulrich lying like a discarded doll. He recalled that neither she nor her husband had been affiliated with any church or religious body. He might well be asked to deliver another eulogy.

  Meanwhile, he would pray that she had already entered the new life. He had no idea whether his prayers were needed or wanted. He offered them anyway.

  After Mass, Father Tully returned to the rectory and lunch. He had barely wolfed a sandwich before Mary O’Connor caught up to him with two phone messages. One was from his brother, the other from Tom Adams. He decided to return his brother’s call first for more reasons than chronological order.

  Zoo picked up at the second ring. On hearing his brother’s voice, he asked, “I haven’t pulled you away from something?”

  “No. I haven’t done that to you?”

  “Well … we’re a bit pushed,” Zoo admitted. “But I thought you’d want to know what’s happened since I dropped you.”

  “Absolutely … and thanks.”

  “I’ve been on the horn to Doc Moellmann—the medical examiner. He put the final nail in the homicide premise.”

  “Congratulations … I guess. Exactly what was it you wanted him to discover?”

  “The gunpowder … remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “The Doc saw the same thing we did. There were only a few specks some inches away from the entrance wound. And no muzzle imprint on her skin. So, there was good reason to suspect this was highly doubtful as a suicide.

  “But what I was concerned about was that maybe the residue—the black soot—might’ve been blown inside the head. That would argue for the gun’s firing at point-blank range. In other words, instead of the powder showing up on the external skin around the wound, that the force of the shot had simply blown the soot inside her head.