Kill and Tell Page 28

“Later—Wanda believes it was because the pastor of that parish is a monsignor—the bishop asked the children if any of them knew what a monsignor is. And one answered that a monsignor is a cross that hangs around a bishop’s neck.”

  They laughed.

  “The old pectoral cross confusion, eh?” Koesler commented. Then, to Dr. Scholl: “You’ve never met Bishop Ratigan, have you? He should be home soon. Would you like to stay and meet him?”

  “I think that may not happen this evening, Father,” said Koznicki.

  “There’s more?”

  “Wanda did not see the bishop’s Oldsmobile anywhere outside the rectory, so after confirmation she offered to drive him here. He thanked her, but said that he was being picked up by the Chases for a late dinner.”

  “The Chases!” Scholl was impressed.

  “God never closes a door without opening a window,” Koesler murmured.

  “What was that?” asked Scholl.

  “Oh, nothing. It just occurs to me that as Hoffman is waved out of the game, Chase is sent in. And Mike Ratigan lands on his feet again.”

  “What do you think the future holds for him, Father?” Koznicki asked.

  “Mike? Well, I don’t think he’ll be Pope. But I’m sure he’ll get his own diocese. And soon.”

  Koznicki smiled. “And you, Father?”

  “Me? I’ll be right here at the old stand,” Koesler replied, forgetting, for the moment, that police headquarters was becoming a home-away-from-home. “Just leading the quiet, unassuming life of a simple parish priest.”

  Gratitude for technical advice to:

  Sgt. Roy Awe, Homicide, Detroit Police Department

  Rudolph Bachman, Ph.D., Clinical Psychologist

  Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University

  Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department

  Donald Grimes, Director of Pharmacy, Deaconess Hospital

  Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Pastoral Care Department, Samaritan Health Center

  Dr. Richard Hoffmann, Director of Pharmacy, St. Joseph Mercy Hospital, Pontiac

  Nancy E. Kelley, Management Consultant, Motion Picture and Advertising, ASIST Corporation

  Timothy Kenny, Principal Trial Attorney, Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office

  Marj Jackson Levin, Staff Writer, Detroit Free Press

  George Lubienski, Attorney, Probate Specialist

  John Malone, M.D., Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital Werner Spitz, U.M.D., Wayne County Medical Examiner

  Donald Worrell, Assistant Director, Mt. Clemens Public Library

  Gratitude to those priests of the Archdiocese of Detroit who have helped in the research of all my books thus far. For the sake of their ecclesial careers and by mutual agreement I shall not mention them by name.

  Any technical error is the author’s.

  With special thanks to my editor at Andrews and McMeel, Inc., Donna Martin, who has—figuratively—lived with Father Koesler through six volumes of murder and mayhem, and who deserves a Nobel Peace Prize for diplomacy, tact, and patience—and most of all, for caring.

  Kill and Tell copyright © 1984, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

  Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC

  an Andrews McMeel Universal company,

  1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

  This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4494-2363-6

  www.andrewsmcmeel.com

  William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.

  The Father Koesler Mysteries

  1. The Rosary Murders

  2. Death Wears a Red Hat

  3. Mind Over Murder

  4. Assault with Intent

  5. Shadow of Death

  6. Kill and Tell

  7. Sudden Death

  8. Deathbed

  9. Deadline for a Critic

  10. Marked for Murder

  11. Eminence

  12. Masquerade

  13. Chameleon

  14. Body Count

  15. Dead Wrong

  16. Bishop as Pawn

  17. Call No Man Father

  18. Requiem for Moses

  19. The Man Who Loved God

  20. The Greatest Evil

  21. No Greater Love

  22. Till Death

  23. The Sacrifice

  24. The Gathering

  Here is a special preview of

  Sudden Death

  The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 7

  “This reminds me of a cartoon."

  “What?”

  “I said, this reminds me of. . . " The band ceased playing, making shouting almost unnecessary. “. . . a cartoon.”

  “Which cartoon would that be?” Father Robert Koesler leaned toward his friend and onetime classmate, Father Patrick McNiff.

  “I can’t remember where I saw it,” said McNiff. “It was years ago. But it showed a couple of women sitting in the very top row of a stadium. Down on the floor of the stadium were a bunch of dots that represented football players. And one woman was saying to the other, ‘Their shoulders are really falsies.’”

  Koesler grinned. He and McNiff were part of a sellout crowd watching a football game between the Pontiac Cougars and the Chicago Towers in Pontiac’s Metropolitan Stadium, sometimes called PonMet, more frequently the Silverdome. By those attempting to enter or exit the parking lot, it was frequently called names never found in a family newspaper.

  In any case, it was billed as the World’s Largest Domed Stadium. Koesler and McNiff were seated in the next to the last row on the upper level.

  “Couldn’t you get anything higher than this?” McNiff's sarcasm was evident.

  “Pat, what you don’t understand is that these are among the best seats in the house.”

  McNiff snorted.

  “No, really,” Koesler insisted. “Wait till play starts again. From this vantage, you can see the pass patterns and the defensive alignments. It’s like watching all the Xs and Os on a coach’s blackboard, only they’re alive. It’s really an exciting place to watch a game from.”

  “You’re telling me that we’ve got the ‘overall picture’?” The PA was blaring; McNiff was forced to raise his voice. “Is that in any way like the ‘overall picture’ of the Archdiocese of Detroit that Cardinal Boyle keeps telling us he is the sole possessor of?”

  “A kissing cousin. Good grief, that PA is deafening! It’s a wonder the players can hear themselves think!"

  Hank Hunsinger, the Cougars’ tight end, stood toweling the back of his neck during the commercial timeout. He could hear clearly the taunts, threats, and imprecations being directed at him by several of Chicago’s defensive team. Through some acoustic anomaly, the public-address system did not affect the noise level at the playing surface nearly as much as did the racket made by the crowd as the teams approached the scrimmage line and throughout each play.

  The Towers’ defensive team roundly hated Hank (“the Hun”) Hunsinger. In that, they were joined by every other defensive team in the league. In one of the most violent games ever devised by civilized mankind, Hunsinger was notorious for his dirty play. If there was an unfair advantage to be taken, he took it. Always. If there was an opportunity to hurt an opponent, he hurt him. He was notorious in the league as a cheap-shot artist.

  Hunsinger didn’t care. He had not entered a popularity contest. Getting his job done, by whatever means, was his aim.

  That he did get his job done was duly noted by his teammates. The Cougars, even if they did n
ot much favor his methods, respected his skill and experience.

  Again, Hunsinger did not care.

  The referee blew his whistle and pumped his right arm, signaling the thirty-second period during which the offensive team must begin play.

  The team’s center stationed himself some ten yards behind the line of scrimmage, raised his arm, and cried, “Huddah!” Which was as close as he would come to “Huddle.”

  The players formed an uneven oval, with the team’s center as its focal point. The last to enter the oval, and the only one lowering himself to one knee, was the quarterback. Bobby Cobb was black. Notable only because, although blacks outnumber whites on most pro football teams, it is rare for one to be quarterback.

  As he knelt within the oval, Cobb was singing softly, “We shall overcome.” Such was his style.

  In addition to being an extremely violent game, professional football had become one of the most stressful of competitions. Split-second decisions were now the order of the day. Decisions whose outcome would involve, eventually, millions of dollars—in advertising revenue, gate receipts, concession income, television revenue, bets, and, finally, the value of the franchise.

  Of all the decisions made on the playing field, none was of greater significance than the quarterback’s. Bobby Cobb’s reaction to all of this was a studied nonchalance. He was good at what he did. He knew it. He intended that his attitude of relaxed confidence be contagious. Usually it was.

  “ ‘. . . Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome someday.’ Well, gentlemen, let’s eat ’em up. Or, as the experts in the booth like to say, We’re going to continue to establish our running game.” His tone became businesslike. “Blue! Right! Thirty-six! Let’s see some daylight! On two! Break!”

  With a communal clap of hands, the team ambled deliberately to its offensive position. The play called for the fullback to run through a hole cleared by the right tackle and the tight end, who, on this play, would align himself as the final lineman on the right side.

  As Hunsinger lowered himself to a three-point stance, he gave neither thought nor care to anyone’s assignment but his. He was to block the strong-side linebacker. Then, as the running back passed that spot, Hunsinger was to proceed downfield to take out the strong safety. For the moment, his attention was riveted on the linebacker, his first target.

  The crowd noise swelled. The spectators in the coliseum were eager to see the gladiators do battle. Bobby Cobb would shout the play again—or change it—first calling to the right, then to the left, to make sure all heard it correctly.

  “Set! Two—thirty-six! Two—thirty-six!

  “Hut! Hut!”

  The ball was snapped. Plastic shoulder guards popped; players grunted, yelled, and cursed; padded arms were flung out as weapons; huge bodies launched into each other. One side would win this isolated moment of combat, the other would not; that’s the way it always went. For even if there was no advance, that was a victory for the defensive team.

  It was a rookie-type blunder. Hunsinger knew it the instant he made contact. He had charged off the line of scrimmage and cut sharply to his right, eyes fixed on the numerals on the linebacker’s jersey. The initial contact was solid. For good measure, Hunsinger thrust his helmet at the linebacker’s chin. Butting an opponent was legal but extremely dangerous. The possible injury to his opponent did not trouble Hunsinger.

  But a split second after contact, he realized his feet were not properly placed. They were too close together to provide a solid base. Simultaneously, the linebacker, sensing Hunsinger’s mistake, stepped aside and, grasping the Hun’s jersey, threw him to the turf like an oversize ragdoll.

  Having disposed of the blocker, the linebacker tackled the ball carrier.

  A one-yard gain. Second down, nine to go. No one in the stands doubted whose blunder it was.

  In the TV booth, the announcer was informing those at home with the aid of instant replay that “old number 89 really blew that one. And cost his team some valuable yardage.”

  “Nice block, Hun,” the linebacker gloated over his shoulder. “Best goddam shot I’ve ever seen you throw."

  Hunsinger picked himself off the Astroturf, one part of him registering the boos that were cascading upon him from the fans, and returned to where the center’s “Huddah!” again summoned. In the huddle, the fullback, who, unprotected, had been hit hard, glanced balefully at Hunsinger, who continued to stare at the ground. Inwardly, the Hun was seething.

  Cobb slid into the huddle on one knee. He had received the next play from the coach through a substitute. “Gentlemen, neither I nor the bench is satisfied that we are establishing our running game. So we’ll try again. Slot! Right! Forty-six! Think you can take the ’backer this time, Hun?” Rhetorical sarcasm. “On three! Break!”

  Hunsinger assumed the three-point stance, his mind once again centered on the strong-side linebacker, the same player who had just humiliated him. It would be different this time: His opponent would pay for his small victory.

  But first, Hunsinger had to be certain that there would be no unexpected defensive formation that would force Cobb to call an audible—changing the play at the line of scrimmage.

  “Set!” Cobb shouted to the right. “Three—forty-six!”

  It was the agreed snap count. The play would be the one called in the huddle. Now that bastard would pay.

  Hunsinger was not sure in just what manner payment would be exacted. He would rely on his vast experience in foul tactics to improvise something appropriate.

  “Three-forty-six!” Cobb shouted to the left. “Hut! Hut! Hut!”

  The ball was slammed into Cobb’s hands. He pivoted and pitched it out to his halfback. Twenty-two very large men again moved from a tableau into violent action, one team endeavoring to tackle the ball carrier, the other trying to block that effort and advance the carrier. In the end, that was what this game was all about, blocking and tackling.

  Again, Hunsinger sprang from his stationary position and headed for the strong-side linebacker, not head-on this time, but slightly to one side. As he had hoped, the linebacker attempted to “swim” by the block. Swinging his right arm in a wide, over-the-head arc, he tried to brush past Hunsinger, pushing the tight end’s right shoulder back, much as a swimmer cuts through the water.

  Perfect. Hunsinger had maneuvered himself and his opponent so that no game official would have an unobstructed view of his actions.

  The linebacker’s upraised right arm left his entire right side exposed and unprotected. Even with all the padding players wear, ordinarily there is no protection for the chest area.

  Hunsinger planted his right foot and drove his fist into the linebacker’s upper diaphragm. The punch didn’t travel far. It didn’t need to. Indeed, it could not have, else the officials likely would have spotted the foul. But Hunsinger was a powerful man; as his punch buried itself in the linebacker, the Hun thought he felt the man’s rib snap. He clearly heard the sharp expulsion of air as the linebacker collapsed and rolled over in agony.

  Whistles sounded. The play was over.

  Hunsinger looked around. There was a pileup some fifteen yards upfield. The play had worked. He checked for penalty markers. Apparently no foul had been detected. The field markers were being moved upfield. The men carrying the sticks wouldn’t be moving them if the head linesman hadn’t beckoned them. And he wouldn’t have signaled them if there’d been a foul called.

  Perfect. Hunsinger moved to join his teammates.

  By now players, coaches, and fans were aware that only twenty-one players were up and about. The injured linebacker had curled into a fetal position. Several teammates hurried to his side, peered at him, but didn’t touch him. The trainer and an assistant ran across the field. They managed to move him onto his back. He could be seen now by the fans and TV viewers only from the waist down. He was not moving his legs to and fro in pain. He was not moving at all.

  The fans were hushed. Many relished the violence of this game, but
most shrank from the sight of serious injury.

  Even the TV commentators had missed Hunsinger’s blow. Nor had any isolated camera recorded the action. The TV people spent this official timeout running and rerunning the play as it was recorded on instant replay. Each time the halfback carrying the ball passed the point of the collision in question, one of them would call out excitedly, “There . . . there, see? You can see the linebacker go down, but the camera got there too late to catch the block that flattened him.” Then the film would be played backward and the linebacker would miraculously rise from the turf.

  No one on either team had seen what happened. The Cougars simply assumed that it had been one of those unfortunate accidents that happen when two strong people run into each other. Not that some of Hunsinger’s teammates did not harbor some suspicions, given his well-deserved reputation.

  The Chicago team, on the other hand, took it for granted that there had been a deliberate foul. Most of the Towers loudly cursed Hunsinger.

  Few fans could hear the curses. By now, the linebacker had been taken from the field on a stretcher, to the fans’ sympathetic and commendatory cheers. And the band was blasting over the superloud public-address system.

  For his part, Hunsinger noticed that one of his shoelaces was twisted. He bent down to straighten it. He was oblivious to the threats and curses being hurled at him from across the scrimmage line.

  “Hun, you bastard, you’re gonna pay for that!” The Towers’ middle linebacker was a formidable specimen.

  Hunsinger did not hear him. Nor did he notice that several of the linebacker’s teammates were physically restraining him from instant delivery on that threat.

  The referee’s whistle sounded. The Cougars had thirty seconds in which to get a play under way.

  “Huddah!”

  Bobby Cobb slid into the huddle. “It seems that everyone is convinced that our ground game is at least good enough so’s we can risk a pass. Red! Left! Seventy-three! Hun, give me a sharp post pattern. On three! Break!”