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  “Indeed.” Koesler seemed to have expected Harison’s explanation. “But the coincidences go on.

  “We all know that Rid’s health was failing. Even for those of us who don’t read gossip columns, we could see it for ourselves in his dramatic weight loss and in just his general appearance and demeanor. His condition, particularly the diabetes and high blood pressure, was common knowledge. But far from being in any sort of fit or even adequate condition for the onslaught he would absorb from the threats in those letters, he was in the worst condition of his life.

  “Now, according to what I read, the medical examiner stated that Ridley had ingested large quantities of extremely rich food and, in fact, had had enough alcohol to be legally drunk. Peter, you were his only companion at dinner that evening. The same person who presented him with what turned out to be lethal mail also undoubtedly encouraged him to eat and drink things that would help measurably to prepare the way for a fatal seizure.”

  “That’s not true! That simply is not true!” Harison tugged at his tie, but did not loosen it. “You can ask the waiter—what’s his name?— Ramon. Ridley ordered his own food. If anything, I tried to discourage him from abusing himself with all that food, and those drinks.”

  Harison turned to face the three officers, who, seated near the door of the squad room, were paying careful attention to this exchange. “Do I have to go through this?” Harison was almost pleading. “Do I have to answer these charges? The imaginings of some priest?”

  No one replied for a moment. Then Inspector Koznicki said, “Not really, Mr. Harison. You are under no obligation to continue this conversation with Father Koesler. However, if he stops asking questions of you, we will begin. Of course, if you would prefer an attorney be present . . . ?”

  “Uh, no. No, of course not. I have no need of an attorney.”

  Harison turned back to Koesler with a defiant look. All three officers silently agreed that Harison should have opted for an attorney.

  “All right,” Harison challenged, “you who think you are Father Brown, you have brought up the fact that it was I who handed the letters to Ridley and it was I who dined with him. Both of those things we always did together. But it is obvious, is it now? Somehow, in your fatuous clerical mind you have made me responsible for the death of Ridley Groendal. If that isn’t the most ridiculous supposition! Why on earth would I do such a thing? We were not having any sort of ‘lovers’ quarrel.’ We were the best of friends. He was—”his voice faltered—“my best friend.”

  “Of course he was.” Koesler’s sympathy was evident. “And that’s why you did what you thought you had to do. Because he was your best friend.”

  “That’s ridiculous! It’s silly! It’s absurd! I don’t have to listen to this!” Harison was close to panic.

  “Calm down, Peter. I’m sure the police would eventually have checked your typewriter and found that it was the one used to type the letters all four of these people received.”

  It lasted only an instant, but Koesler noted despair flit behind Harison’s eyes. “It’s impossible! Why would I do such a thing?” Still Harison struggled.

  “You told me all about it this evening at the funeral home, Peter. But it was only after I left, after we said the rosary, that it all fell into place. That was when I called Inspector Koznicki. He called Sergeants Papkin and Ewing and they called the other four.”

  “But, how . . . ?”

  “For all your avant-garde ways, Peter, you and Rid were very traditional Catholics,” Koesler explained. “For instance, the liturgy you and I worked out for tomorrow’s funeral Mass is as traditional as it could be short of it all being in Latin. Even then, you requested the “In Paradisum” be sung in Latin and in plainchant.

  “And this traditional penchant of yours also prompted you to ask me this evening whether I might get in trouble by granting Rid a Catholic burial given the fact he had AIDS. It was very thoughtful of you, Peter. You were concerned that once the Chancery became aware of that condition of Rid’s that they might come down hard on me because of . . . what? Because I gave Catholic burial to a public sinner?

  “Well, as I explained to you, it doesn’t work that way. But you were deeply concerned that for some publicly known sin, Rid might have been denied Catholic burial.

  “Now granted, every once in a while, the Church does deny burial rites to someone such as a notorious criminal because of the scandal it might cause. But that never happens merely in a case such as AIDS.

  “However, there is a more ancient and historic reason for denial of Christian burial. It is so famous that it is seemingly well known by everyone, and referred to in fiction and in fact. The one sin that has been traditionally associated with the denial of Christian burial . . .”

  “Suicide.” Charlie Hogan, who had been intently following Koesler’s reasoning, barely whispered it.

  “Indeed,” Koesler said. “Suicide.”

  “Remember, Peter? It was just after we had talked about the AIDS business. You were telling me, at some length, about Rid’s atrocious dining habits. You said something like, ‘He’s been killing himself lately. And then, this AIDS! Well, it was just a matter of time.’

  “When I thought back on it, Peter, that’s when it all fell into place. It was just a matter of time. Rid’s condition was bad enough with the heart and the diabetes. When AIDS was added to that and he lost his immune defense system, he was doomed to practically disintegrate before our eyes.

  “But, rather than let these diseases ravage him, he was, with his gorging and guzzling and his lifestyle, doing exactly what you said—he was killing himself. And he was doing it quite deliberately.

  “If he had continued—if he had succeeded—it would have amounted to, at least in traditional Christian thought, the ‘unforgivable’ sin. In that view, he was condemning himself to hell.

  “And you, Peter, his best friend—the one who would have died for him had you been able—could not let that happen. You could not let your friend condemn himself to hell.

  “Yet you could not stop him. He was determined. You could find only one alternative. You had to intervene. It was the kindest thing you could think of doing for your friend.

  “In a way, he was already under a death sentence. If one or another of his illnesses did not kill him, in all probability AIDS would have. But anything would have been better than the death he was preparing for himself—suicide.

  “As Rid’s closest friend, you, of course, knew of the virtual war that had gone on between him and these four people. You knew all the details. So you invited them to play their trump cards. You were certain the cumulative effect of the threats would be a burden his system could not sustain.

  “Either you hoped or you presumed that all four would leap at the opportunity—and that their letters would all be delivered to the office on the night in question, or that you could hold the earlier ones until all were there. You wanted your weapon to be potent enough. You made sure he ate and drank all the wrong things. After the concert, he wrote his review, you gave him the letters—and waited.

  “It worked out just as you planned. He was dead before he could kill himself. Presumably he will be in heaven rather than hell because of what you did.

  “Is that about it?”

  Koesler was sure of his solution. The glue that would hold it all together was Peter’s typewriter. Of this, Koesler had not been certain until the telltale despair in Peter’s eyes at the mention of the typewriter. With that, there were no more doubts. The typewriter would be—what did they call it?—it was a metaphor in any case. Ah, yes: the smoking gun.

  Harison was the picture of defeat. His head drooped. His shoulders sagged. And though the room was chilly, perspiration soaked his shirt.

  Ewing stepped forward. “Mr. Harison,” he said, “you have the right to remain silent . . .” As the officer proceeded, Harison shook his head wearily.

  “You’ve got one detail wrong,” he said at length. “I did not manipulate or
control the way Rid ate and drank the night he died. He did it on his own . . . though I knew he would. He was doing the same thing almost every day by then. He took some sort of smug satisfaction in that for the first time in his life he could eat everything he wanted and more and still lose weight. I guess AIDS or stress or something dissipated the calories as fast as he took them in. It was killing him, of course, but he didn’t care. I cared.”

  A long silence followed.

  Finally, Valerie Walsh stood and faced the officers. “May we leave now?” Her gesture included Palmer, Mitchell, and Hogan.

  “What do you think,” Papkin asked, sotto voce, “are they coconspirators?”

  “I don’t think so,” Ewing replied in the same soft undertone. “Even if they are, I doubt they’re indictable.”

  “You may leave,” Inspector Koznicki said audibly. “We may have more questions for you. If we do, we will call you in.”

  The four left the room with a new, and as yet undefined, attitude toward Peter Harison. Till now, not one of them had taken Harison seriously. They, and most others familiar with the twosome, had considered Harison to be at worst a toadie to Ridley Groendal or at best his paramour. But a murderer? It would never have occurred to anyone.

  After the others were gone, Harison asked, “What’s . . . what’s to happen to me?”

  “We’ve read you your rights, Mr. Harison, and now I’m going to book you.” Ewing had his man. There was no longer any reason to play a role. He spoke gently.

  “What does that mean—that you’re going to book me?” The panic in his eyes seemed to overflow.

  “We’re going to get your prints, picture, take a statement.”

  “Lock me up?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Does this mean I’m under arrest?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “But the funeral! Tomorrow is Ridley’s funeral. I’ve got to attend his funeral.”

  “Especially since you’re the cause for the funeral,” Papkin contributed.

  “Sergeant,” Koesler addressed Ewing, “would it be all right if I stayed with Peter—for a while at least? Maybe I could help him compose himself.”

  Ewing, looking to Koznicki, found no support for this unusual request. The sergeant was saved from refusing Koesler when Harison said, “It’s all right, Father. I’ll be okay. Thanks for thinking of me. But it’s not your fault. I’ve got no hard feelings. It’s better that it’s out. They would have found my typewriter anyway. So don’t blame yourself.

  “I just wish I could have attended Rid’s funeral. You’ll take care of everything, won’t you, Father? Just the way we planned it?”

  “Just the way we planned it, Peter.” Koesler turned to Koznicki. “Isn’t there any way . . . ?”

  The Inspector shook his head, “It’s not likely. Come along, Father. Perhaps we could stop somewhere for a nightcap. It has been a long evening.”

  Koznicki started to usher the priest out of the squad room. Then the Inspector seemed to have a second thought. “Ray, this is by no means one of our run-of-the-mill cases. Perhaps you would be good enough to check with the prosecutor’s office after you have processed Mr. Harison.”

  “Sure thing, Inspector.”

  22

  Inspector Koznicki followed Koesler out to Norman’s Eton Street Station in his own car, so they arrived at about the same time. Norman’s was a restaurant in what had once been a railroad station. Koesler had selected it because it was managed by a parishioner, so they would be able to order very little, enjoy privacy and, at the same time, not vex the staff.

  Once inside, Koesler introduced the inspector to James McIntyre and explained the purpose of their visit. The personable manager showed them to an out-of-the-way alcove table and gave instructions to their waiter.

  Both Koesler and Koznicki ordered decaffeinated coffee. The waiter promptly brought the coffee and a basket of breadsticks. He would return periodically to refill their cups.

  It had been longer than usual since the two had last met, so initially they filled each other in on what had been happening in their lives. Koesler spoke of Christmas, always an especially joyful event in his parish, with the crêche, the decorated evergreens, the sanctuary filled to overflowing with poinsettias. The choir had done exceptionally well this year.

  Koznicki spoke of Christmas with his wife and, for a change, all of his children, their spouses, and their children. It was rare that all were free to gather together for the holidays. After a few minutes, the Inspector paused. He sensed his friend was distracted by what had occurred earlier.

  “Troubled, Father?”

  “Oh, I guess so. A bit.”

  Koznicki waved a massive hand. The waiter approached to fill their cups. He checked the breadbasket, but it was still nearly full.

  “You should not be troubled, Father. A case is solved and you were pivotal in its solution. That should give you a feeling of satisfaction.”

  “Huh? Oh, I suppose so . . .”

  “Yet there is something. What is it?”

  “Would you police actually have checked Peter Harison’s typewriter? Would you have discovered who really invited those others to write to Ridley? Would you have found ‘the smoking gun’ without my lucky guess?”

  Koznicki smiled briefly. “You do yourself a disservice, Father. It was not a lucky guess. It was an excellent piece of deduction. As for whether we could have checked and found Mr. Harison’s typewriter,’” Koznicki spread his hands, “well, that is a matter of pure speculation.”

  “Then, would you mind speculating?”

  “Difficult.” Koznicki sipped the coffee. “I suspect we would have gotten around to it, providing we spent enough time on the case. We were trying to cover every angle. There was the syringe under the desk—which, as far as we could ascertain, turned out to be quite innocuous; there was nothing in it but traces of insulin. Then there was the AIDS question; we asked Mr. Harison to undergo a test for that—which, as you now know, turned out negative. As for the ‘smoking gun,’ as you term it, in all likelihood, we would have first tried to exhaust the possibility that any of the original four might have used a typewriter other than their own. While that would have taken many man hours, we already had several detectives on the case besides Sergeants Papkin and Ewing.

  “Failing that, I suspect we would have searched among those who hated Groendal—and I take it there were many.”

  Koesler exhaled audibly. “As the stars in the sky or the sands of the desert.”

  “Perhaps out of sheer desperation we would eventually have come to Mr. Harison. But, of course, we were looking for an enemy—of which, as you state, there were many—not a friend.”

  “Then I misled Peter when I told him the police would have discovered that his typewriter was the one they were looking for.”

  “Not necessarily. It was a fair assumption. And, in the end, probably was true.”

  “There’s something nagging at me, though,” Koesler said. “Why didn’t Peter just destroy those four letters, I wonder? I mean after Rid had his fatal seizure? Then everyone would just have thought Ridley had merely suffered a heart attack. With his medical history, it certainly would come as no surprise to anyone that Rid would go that way without any outside provocation.”

  “It is a good point.” The Inspector pondered as he sipped more coffee. “Why did Nixon not destroy the tapes? Probably because enough people knew the tapes existed that, had they been destroyed, and had their existence been subsequently revealed, their destruction would have aroused suspicions. Even more so in this case. Each of four people knew that he or she had sent a most inflammatory and threatening letter to Groendal. It would be only natural for one—or all, for that matter—to wonder what had happened to his or her letter. All that needed to happen was for one of them to raise the question—to poke around the Suburban Reporter’s newsroom, to ask someone in the news media. Just to become inquisitive about what had happened to the letter. If one questioned th
e matter, certainly the others would join in. At that point, Harison, as the one who sorted and presented all Groendal’s mail, would be hard-pressed to explain the absence of these letters.

  “Better to let the letters alone and let them point to the writers as the probable guilty parties.

  “Harison simply could not know that the instigation of the letters would be traced back to him. Or, he took the chance they would not be.”

  Koznicki caught Koesler gazing longingly as a diner some tables away lit a cigarette. It had been many years since the priest had given up smoking. If he was being tempted at this late date, Koznicki concluded his friend must be in a very distraught state. Koznicki leaned forward. “It is Peter Harison, is it not? You are concerned over what is happening to him.”

  Koesler looked intensely at Koznicki and nodded.

  The Inspector glanced at his watch. “He should be processed by now. It may be time enough to check on what is happening. Would you excuse me, Father?”

  “For that? Gladly.”

  During the approximately fifteen minutes Koznicki was gone, Koesler absently gazed at the Christmas decorations. In addition to the basic green and red, there was a generous sprinkling of attractions for children, including a Santa. All in keeping with the restaurant’s merited claim to be a “family” dining establishment. Because his parishioner managed the place, Koesler felt especially pleased by its success.

  So lost in thought was he that he was taken by surprise when Koznicki resumed his chair. The inspector wore just the hint of a smile.

  “Good news?” Koesler was eager.

  “Tentative, but, yes, good news. At least as good as the news could be at this stage.”