The Sacrifice Page 6

  Lloyd nodded. “Just what I was expecting … some pipe and synthetic black powder. The ‘ABCs’ of Bomb-Making.” He studied the materials. “Look here: See all these surfaces that look discolored. These areas were originally raised. And the raised surfaces carried information that would be vital in identifying where these pieces were made, how they were delivered. In short, the bomber took great pains to make it near impossible to trace any of this stuff back to him.

  “And, if he went to the trouble of filing down the raised surfaces, I’d be willing to bet my pension that there won’t be a fingerprint anyplace on this stuff.

  “Same undoubtedly will go for where he brought the parts. We’ll look into various distributors, retail and wholesale stores. But our guy probably bought the stuff at different stores in different states.

  “In short,” Lloyd concluded, “what you see here is probably what you’re going to get. It’s a time bomb. Very simply constructed. Probably could learn how to put a thing like this together in high school. Also very carefully disguised so it couldn’t be traced back to our perp.”

  “But it didn’t work …” Tully had ceased pacing and was studying the bottom corner of the altar that had been gouged by the blast. “What do you think, Gil? How close do you think this bombing could come to being almost a copy-cat replay of the bomb that was intended to take out Hitler?”

  Lloyd resumed scratching the stubble on his chin. “I don’t know, Zoo. It would pretty much depend on how powerful the bombs were. We assume Hitler’s table was pretty solid. We know what we’ve got here. We don’t know what was put together there. We could try to find out for sure. Maybe the Germans kept some sort of record …”

  “Give it a try, would you?” Tully stood and brushed the dust from his suit. “I’ve got a hunch—although I may never get to check it out. I’ve got a feeling that the guy who put this together did his homework on that field headquarters and the MO for getting rid of Hitler—”

  “But,” Koesler broke in, “neither bombing worked the way it was intended to—” He stopped short; how could he know what the present bomber had intended?

  “Well,” Tully said, “we know why the Germans failed: The bomb was moved. As far as the human damage was concerned, the body count was at least one dead and”—he nodded at Koesler—“ten or eleven injured.”

  “But our bomb failed,” Lloyd said, “because there wasn’t anyone here. Except for that unlucky bast—uh, priest. I saw them carry him out, poor guy. He gonna make it?”

  “He was alive when they took him,” Tully said. “But he didn’t look good.” He turned to Koesler. “A friend of yours? I saw you talking to him.”

  “An old friend,” Koesler said. “I hadn’t seen him in ages.” Koesler was startled that Tully had been aware of their conversation. Either the lieutenant was extraordinarily perceptive or he had been bored out of his mind. Or both, Koesler concluded.

  Tully turned back to Lloyd. “Let me know, will you? I mean, whichever way it turns out. Whether you come up with any parallel between the German bombing and what we’ve got here? And, whatever you turn up in this bombing. Maybe the perp overlooked something. He wouldn’t be the first to figure he thought of everything, but goofed up.”

  Gil Lloyd nodded and returned to his investigation as Tully and Koesler left the scene and headed for the rectory.

  As they passed down the aisle of the church they noted many police officers, some in uniform, others in plain clothes, interviewing possible witnesses. The police were being fed more than they ever wanted to learn about the cataclysm that was the Second Vatican Council, how the Church had abandoned the spirit of that Council, and the pros and cons of ordaining women. But as time went by, it was becoming increasingly clear that virtually no one had seen or heard anything helpful.

  For now, Tully and Koesler were going to talk to the main players in this drama.

  As they excused themselves through the crowd, Tully mused, “Hitler escaped death because the bomb was moved—by someone who didn’t know that the briefcase he was moving contained a bomb. Whoever was the target of today’s explosion just wasn’t there when this bomb went off.” He turned to Koesler. “Why was that, do you think?”

  The thought crossed Koesler’s mind that they were taking it for granted that Father Farmer had not been the intended target—that his maiming had been unwitting. There was that word again. The bomb meant for Hitler had been unwittingly moved, putting Hitler out of harm’s way—presumably Joe Farmer had unwittingly moved into harm’s way. Or …?

  “QED,” Koesler said to himself … that would have to be ascertained.

  For now, he returned to Lieutenant Tully’s question. “They were late. I don’t know why. But for some reason they were late.”

  “I thought so. You seemed nervous about missing the procession.”

  This guy, thought Koesler, is really observant. “It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a church service started late.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Tully agreed, without any real experience in church services, late or otherwise. “But this time, being late saved X numbers of people from injury or even death. I think it would be helpful to know who or what caused the delay.”

  “So do I,” Koesler said.

  FIVE

  What might be termed the core group was assembled in the combined living-dining room of St. Joseph’s rectory.

  Nan Wheatley was on the couch next to her husband. She sat at an angle facing him, as she held his hand. Father Wheatley was ashen faced. Seemingly in shock, he sat passively as his wife gently stroked his arm.

  Father Tully had been standing motionless, gazing out a window at the late winter landscape. He turned when his detective brother entered the room along with St. Joseph’s former pastor, Father Koesler.

  Then there was auxiliary bishop John Donovan. It was difficult to ascertain exactly what was going through his mind. His face had a faint reddish glow. It might have been anger. Or, perhaps, impatience. Or vexation at having his plans for the day disrupted. Or perhaps a tad too much port taken to brace himself for George Wheatley’s formal ordination.

  The ordination rite—of course canceled, or at least postponed now—would have required little of the bishop. An alert master of ceremonies, in this case Father Tully, would have handled everything. He would point to the spot in the missal where the bishop was to read, and the bishop would read. He would direct the bishop where to go, and the bishop would go. It was all so simple; all the bishop had to do was relax and follow directions.

  As for Father Tully, there was a certain satisfaction in telling a bishop what to do and where to go. Even if it was only for a short time.

  Whatever, about half an hour before the procession was to start, Bishop Donovan had surprised everyone by accepting the pro forma invitation from one of the caterers to partake of some port.

  How could the bishop have known about the goddam bomb?

  Now Bishop Donovan sat torpid, trying to clear his mind of all fuzziness.

  A police interrogation was bad enough. But there were all those reporters and TV cameras just outside. Slur one word and you’d be nothing more than an auxiliary forever.

  “Was it a bomb?” Father Tully asked his brother.

  The lieutenant nodded.

  “Is the priest dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Zoo replied. “They took him to Receiving. He was alive—barely—when I last saw him.” He turned to Mr. and Mrs. Wheatley and asked without preamble, “Where are your children?”

  “Richard’s with us,” said Nan. “He’s …” She turned to look vaguely in the direction of the hall. “He’s indisposed. He’s in the washroom.” She turned back to Lieutenant Tully. “He knows he’s expected. He should be out here shortly.”

  “And the others?”

  “Ronald … Father Ronald is on his way. I reached him on his car phone. And Alice is also en route.”

  “Where was she?”

  “In her room at th
e Pontchartrain downtown.”

  Zoo Tully, from the first moment he’d learned that the two older children would not be present at the ceremony, had been curious. Why weren’t they attending? After all, this would seem to be a moment of triumph for their father. Why would his children not be there?

  Back to that later. For now, Tully accepted the premise that the younger Wheatleys would soon put in an appearance. Meanwhile, he had a problem that might easily be solved, but which, were it left unaddressed, would continue to bother him. “Since my wife and my brother have been involved in the plans for this ceremony for the past few weeks,” Zoo said, “I’ve heard the terms Episcopalian and Anglican tossed about as if they were identical. I heard the same thing from others here today. Anybody tell me the difference between the two terms?”

  Silence. The consensus seemed to be that George Wheatley had spent a good part of his life in that communion, so he should be the one to explain. But he sat motionless and silent.

  “I’ll give it a try,” Father Koesler said finally, with a slight nod toward the Wheatleys. Turning back to Zoo, he added, “I assume you’d like an explanation in twenty-five words or less.”

  “It’s just that it would help if I knew: Are they the same or not?”

  “Yes and no.” Koesler smiled. “If you go far enough back, we’re talking about a ‘Christian’ Church. When you get to the fourth century and Constantine, we’re talking about the Roman Catholic Church … as in Holy Roman Empire,” he explained in an aside. “Then came schisms and the Reformation. Then King Henry VIII claimed that the monarch of England, and not the Pope in Rome, was head of ‘the Church of England.’ And that’s when the Church throughout the considerable British Empire became Anglican.

  “Certain territories—such as the United States and Ireland—in a move to gain more autonomy, took on the added title of Episcopalian. So, for instance, the proper title for this communion in the U.S. is ‘The Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America’—otherwise known as the Episcopal Church.”

  “And the Anglicans?” Tully pursued.

  “It’s sort of a generic name.” Koesler pondered for a moment, searching for a simple yet valid explanation that would satisfy Zoo Tully. “It’s like this, Lieutenant: All Episcopalians are Anglican. But not all Anglicans are Episcopalians. And for the modern example of how this works, it was the Episcopal Church in this country that first ordained women priests. At which point, the broader Anglican Church was forced to deal with the fait accompli. So now, throughout the Anglican Communion, women now can be priests—even bishops.”

  “But it’s okay to use either name?”

  “I suppose so,” Koesler said, after a quick glance at George Wheatley. “Unless in some given instance there’s some sort of variance. At the outset, you’d have to say that the Episcopal Church in the United States approved the ordination of women. However, the Anglican Church did not—until the Anglican Communion endorsed what their daughter Church had done.”

  “Okay,” Tully pronounced as he looked around. “Everyone clear on that?”

  All heads nodded. Tully did not advert to the fact he was the only one present for whom the appellations were subject to question.

  All eyes turned to a sound at the door. After a short, peremptory knock, the door opened. Koesler thought it odd that someone would knock at a door and immediately come in without being invited to do so. And if someone was going to enter in any case, why bother to knock?

  The priest had only a brief moment to ponder this as a tall, bulky man strode into the room. Koesler’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

  Walter Koznicki.

  Inspector Walter Koznicki.

  Walt Koznicki had retired as the very long-term chief of the Detroit Police Department’s Homicide Division several years ago. For the past couple of years he had indulged his wife’s great desire to travel. “Around the world and more,” as he enjoyed describing the grand excursions they were taking.

  What with one thing and another, Koznicki and Koesler had seen little of each other in recent years. The priest had been unaware of his friends’ return from their latest trip. So the inspector’s presence here now was truly a surprise.

  Koznicki surveyed the group. His eyes met Koesler’s; he winked, and smiled for just the briefest moment. Then his gravely serious demeanor returned. He bent to whisper in Lieutenant Tully’s ear. The lieutenant’s face remained impassive, but when Koznicki straightened up, the lieutenant announced to the others, “I have bad news.” He had their attention. “The priest who was injured in the bombing has died. We are now talking of murder … Murder One.”

  Then, indicating the newcomer, “This is Walter Koznicki. Formerly inspector and head of the Department’s Homicide Division.” He turned back to Koznicki. “How about it, Walt: Want to sit in?”

  “If you do not mind, I would very much like that.” Koznicki lowered his bulk into a chair next to Koesler. The two old friends beamed at each other.

  At that moment, two caterers entered the room and proceeded to lay out a coffee service on the dining table. Father Tully stood. “Coffee, anyone?”

  Bishop Donovan sprang from his chair as if catapulted. Coffee, yes! Hot, strong, and black.

  That’s the way he got it. If truth be known, the preceremonial port had not been his first alcoholic drink today.

  Most of the others lined up behind the bishop. Nan Wheatley poured for herself and her husband.

  Koesler, recovered from the surprise of seeing his old friend again, was sobered by the news that Joe Farmer had passed on. After seeing the horrible injuries inflicted by the bomb on Father Farmer, Koesler’s assumption had been that death was the only possible outcome. Even Receiving’s renowned Emergency Services personnel could not put the priest together again. Father Koesler prayed silently for Joe Farmer’s journey into the next life.

  Koesler was brought back to the present by a conversation between Koznicki and Zoo Tully.

  “When did you get back?” Tully asked Koznicki.

  “Just a few days ago. I have been experiencing a severe case of jet lag. Wanda … well”—he chuckled—“she enjoys travel so much that jet lag doesn’t seem to touch her … or so she says.”

  “I didn’t see you in church. And even with that crowd, I couldn’t have missed you.”

  Koznicki smiled. “I had no idea there’d be this much traffic here today. I got caught in the congestion, and then had trouble finding a parking spot. Actually, I would have been even later, but one of the uniforms recognized me and waved me through. I was coming up the steps just as the explosion occurred.

  “I saw them carry out that poor priest. It was confusing; he did not at all resemble the Reverend Mr. Wheatley. So I began asking questions that led me to the sanctuary. And,” he concluded, “from there to here.

  “But,” he asked, “are you sure I will not be interfering with your investigation? I no longer have any ties …”

  Lieutenant Tully smiled broadly. “It’ll be fun working with you again, Inspector.” He paused. “You and the good Father here.”

  Koesler felt self-conscious at the intended compliment. He fully understood that whatever help he might provide would be as a resource person. In effect, he had already entered into that office by giving his explanation of the difference between the terms Anglican and Episcopalian. God knows he’d played this role often enough in the past couple of decades … almost every time the Detroit police had investigated a homicide in Detroit that had Catholic overtones.

  Briefly, Tully brought Koznicki up to speed on this, the commencement of yet another investigation of what Tully, Koznicki, and Koesler would, among themselves, term a Catholic Murder Case.

  “Okay,” Tully said loudly, “let’s get back to where we were.”

  They all resumed their seats.

  Bishop Donovan had removed his liturgical vestments, leaving his black clerical suit and his Roman collar circled by the silver chain of his pectoral
cross. Clearly, he was eager to depart and make his way home. He’d had his share of excitement for this day and more.

  The lieutenant understood the bishop’s wish to get out of there. “Do you know, Bishop, did the advance publicity for this ceremony today mention that you would be presiding?”

  Donovan thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, it didn’t. As a matter of fact, I was a last-minute substitute. Bishop Anderson, who was supposed to preside, came down with the flu.”

  “Whoever did this,” Zoo said, “planned very carefully. If you were the target, the perpetrator would have to have known that you were going to be here before you yourself knew it. From what you’ve just told me, that’s highly unlikely, if not impossible. So I think it’s safe to cross your name off the list of possible targets.”

  Until this moment, Donovan had not given a thought to the possibility that someone might want to hurt him. Hell, it was a bomb they were talking about! Someone out there wanted him dead!? He came close to losing the little food and the larger amount of spirits he’d ingested.

  Tully was still talking to him. But Donovan was no longer listening. He had become absorbed with a gigantic distraction. Coming back to the present, he heard Tully’s voice “… but I wish you would give this some thought, Bishop. Try to think of any enemies you might have. Especially anyone who might be violent.”

  The bishop sat lost again in macabre reverie. Of course he had enemies. If a man in his position—a priest or a bishop—didn’t have any enemies, that was a sure sign that he wasn’t doing his job properly. But someone who’d want to kill him—?

  “Lieutenant”—Donovan’s voice cracked slightly—“you just said that I was an unlikely target?” His voice rose again, making a question of the statement. “That the guy would have to have known that I was going to be here today even before I myself knew. I mean, I’m not afraid or anything … but I would like some reassurance that I was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. I mean,” he repeated, “I’d like to know that I don’t have to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and being supercautious—”