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  Winer continued to smile.

  “If you were so close to the dining room,” Marie said thoughtfully, “you must have been in position to see who did it!”

  Winer shook his head. “Reaction time. We were all so startled by the noise, nobody reacted immediately. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the dining room, whoever had done it was gone.”

  As anyone and everyone could deduce, that left Father Benbow and Sister Marie.

  It was at that moment that Father Koesler decided to leave the room.

  From the very beginning he had not been implicated since he had been with the two women. Not only was he not implicated, he had not contributed a word to this entire rehash of the crime. He surmised he would not be missed. And he was proven correct: No one seemed to note his departure or miss his presence.

  This, Koesler had been thinking through the whole process, is ridiculous. There’d been a murder. The only sensible thing to do was to call the police. He had a hard time imagining that, of all the professional people here, he was the only one who thought of a police investigation. Could it be that the amateur detectives assembled thought it was their duty to solve the crime?

  No matter. The police were needed, and he would make the call.

  Ordinarily, in an emergency one dials 911. Koesler knew the procedure well enough: 911 would summon uniformed officers assigned to this precinct. Once satisfied there was a probable murder, they would notify Homicide. Particularly since so much time had already been wasted, he determined to cut through the red tape and get right to the heart of the matter.

  Koesler did not need to look up the phone number for the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department. Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of Homicide, over the years had become a close friend. The two had occasion to phone each other from time to time. Thus Koesler’s familiarity with the number.

  Koesler had no expectation of finding Koznicki at headquarters. At this hour, especially on a Sunday evening, he very probably would be at home with Wanda, his wife, listening to classical music or reading. But there were a few officers with whom Koesler was familiar through previous dealings with Detroit’s Homicide Division. Koesler breathed a quick prayer that somebody who knew him would be on duty.

  On the third ring, a voice said, “Homicide, Sergeant Mangiapane.”

  The name rang a bell. Koesler knew the name; he tried to place Mangiapane, to recall which of the seven Homicide squads he was with. He had to decide quickly. He was aware that Homicide particularly did not suffer fools gladly. With one more quick prayer, he asked, “Is Lieutenant Tully available?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Koesler was put on hold. That was progress of sorts. At least he wasn’t informed that Tully was not in, or was “on the street.” Such information could conceivably still be forthcoming. But so far—

  “Lieutenant Tully,” said a quiet, world-weary voice.

  Koesler’s hopes soared. Luck or Providence, it didn’t matter; he’d reached someone with whom he was acquainted. “This is Father Koesler.”

  “Who?”

  “Father Koesler.”

  Silence. Then, “Oh, yeah; Father Koesler. So, what’s happenin’?”

  Koesler could almost feel Tully’s fatigue. He should be home in bed, Koesler thought. But he’s not. My good fortune he’s at work. “Lieutenant, there’s been a murder.”

  “What?”

  “A murder.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you ever dabble in something simple like auto theft or bank robbery or check forgery?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Tully checked himself. This was no time for frivolity. Exhausted as he was, Tully found it funny—odd, at least—that this parish priest should with some regularity be involved in homicide matters. Given a few minutes to look it up, Tully could have come up with exact dates. It seemed barely a year ago that Koesler had been actively involved in an investigation.

  “Forget it,” Tully said. “Give me the details.”

  Koesler, relieved, gave him the basic information on what had happened at the college, leaving out the mutual interrogation carried on by the amateur sleuths.

  Tully would be at the college in a few minutes. Koesler would wait for him at the front door of Madame Cadillac Hall.

  8

  Tully parked—rather precisely, Koesler thought, for the sense of urgency he felt—in front of Madame Cadillac Hall in the space formerly occupied by Krieg’s white stretch-limo.

  Koesler had been pondering that parking space while waiting for Tully. Strangely, he hadn’t adverted to the limousine or its absence, until Tully pulled into the vacated “no parking” zone. Vaguely, Koesler wondered how Guido Taliafero would react to his employer’s death. Poor Guido, to beg he probably would be ashamed and to resume a professional football career he would undoubtedly be unable.

  Tully and Maniapane took the steps two at a time. Amazing, Koesler thought, what the stimulus of a murder investigation can do to regenerate dead-tired bodies and spirits.

  Alonzo (“Zoo”) Tully had been with the force more than twenty years. Black, of average build, with short-cropped graying hair, Tully to the casual observer, was unprepossessing. On the other hand, the perceptive person noted Tully’s eyes: While betraying a delightful sense of humor, they could be all business; active and intelligent, they were as magnetic as a black hole.

  The bad guys had a habit of underestimating Tully. They also had a habit of getting arrested by him and convicted by the evidence he brought to court. Unlike Rodney Dangerfield, Tully had respect, the respect of his fellow officers as well as the grudging respect of the more discerning criminal element. For Tully, homicide was little more than a murder mystery, a puzzle that could and must be solved by sorting clues after culling red herrings and false leads. His record at solving these puzzles was enviable.

  In Phil Mangiapane, Tully perceived a gifted sleuth in the rough. With Homicide only a few years, Mangiapane had made his share and more of mistakes. But in him Tully found the natural inquisitiveness and patience that with care and nurturing would produce a top-notch detective.

  Mangiapane belonged to Tully’s squad. As often as possible Tully saw to it that they worked together. The arrangement was perfect as far as Mangiapane was concerned. Not only did he realize he could learn as yet unwritten knowledge from Tully; Mangiapane was genuinely fond of the senior officer.

  Since he knew both men, Koesler was prepared for a somewhat effusive greeting. So too was Mangiapane, a faithful Sunday Mass Catholic.

  Both were brought up sharply by Tully’s unpreambled, “Where’s the body?”

  “In the dining room,” Koesler responded. Then he clarified, “Actually, it’s not the main dining room or even the cafeteria. It’s a smaller, seldom used dining area. They’re using it because there are so few of us here for this workshop.”

  Without bothering to mask his impatience, Tully said, “Lead the way.”

  “Certainly.” Koesler led the way down the main corridor. He was silently angry at himself for being so garrulous. Of course they wanted to get to the scene of the crime. Whether it was a larger or smaller room made no difference. Not, at any rate, at this moment.

  As they walked rapidly down the hallway, the three fell into a configurated procession. Koesler and Mangiapane were roughly the same height, though the sergeant was much more mesomorphic. They flanked Tully like matched acolytes accompanying a priest—though in actuality, Tully hardly a priest, wavered between agnosticism and atheism.

  “The dead guy,” Tully said, as they advanced, “his name’s Klaus Krieg—the TV preacher?”

  “Yes,” Koesler answered. “He’s also a publisher, which is what he was doing at this workshop. It’s a writers’ conference. Krieg wasn’t a writer, but he published writers.”

  “But he was certainly more famous as a preacher, wasn’t he?” Mangiapane asked.

  “Oh, yes, absolutely,” Koesler
replied. “For one thing, anybody on television is bound to be more well known than anyone in the publishing business. But more than that, Krieg didn’t publish mainline books; he worked exclusively with books of a religious theme.”

  “Oh?” Mangiapane said, “I don’t think I ever heard of any of his books.”

  Tully spoke without looking at him. “When was the last time you read a book?”

  Mangiapane grinned. “I look ’em over sometimes when we’re in the supermarket.”

  Koesler nodded. “You’d know Krieg’s by their racy covers.”

  “You mean the ‘Romance’ books?” Mangiapane said. “I thought you said they were religious.”

  “It turns out they’re almost one and the same in Krieg’s hands,” Koesler said. “Actually, I think Krieg’s books are racier than most of the ‘Romances’—here we are.” They had reached the dining room so quickly, their gait had been so fast that now that they’d arrived he was nearly out of breath.

  The three entered the dining room.

  “Over—” Koesler stopped abruptly. He was gesturing to the spot on the floor where Krieg’s body had fallen. But there was no body. “I don’t understand,” he said. “It was right here. I don’t know what happened to it.” He turned almost imploringly to the two officers. “Honest.”

  The three approached the spot where, Koesler assured them, there had been a body. But there was no body, no blood, just a clean floor.

  “There was a body,” Koesler insisted.

  Tully glanced around the room. “Didn’t you say some others were here?”

  “Yes,” Koesler said, though he was so dumbfounded by the absence of Krieg’s remains, he was beginning to feel as if he were in a dream. He knew none of the others would have moved the body; they would know better than to disturb the scene of a crime.

  “Where are they—the others?”

  “Upstairs. I left them in a room on the second floor. It’s a learning clinic that’s been converted to a classroom for this conference.” There he went again: talking too much, giving extraneous explanations.

  “They saw the body too?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Would you find them and ask them to come down here?”

  Koesler left almost at a run.

  Tully turned to Mangiapane. “Crazy! Why don’t you look around, Mangiapane? See if you can find somebody. Must be a kitchen around here someplace.”

  “Right.” Mangiapane began his search.

  Left alone, Tully yawned elaborately. His bone-weariness was intensified by not finding the body where it was supposed to be. It had been a sluggish Sunday shift until Koesler’s call—although Sunday or not, it was a rare day or night when Detroit let its Homicide Division off the hook by not killing any of its citizens.

  Tully had been grateful. Business had been brisk lately and he was exhausted. But Koesler’s call had started the juices boiling. Now wide-awake, alert and sharp, he had sped to Marygrove expecting to find a body and begin the investigation. He’d been prepared to meet the scene of the crime head-on and discover all the mysteries it held and its answers to questions as yet unasked. Now, no body. The fatigue returned.

  Koesler returned, with the others in his wake. He was not quite as sheepish as he had been. If he were losing his marbles, at least he was not alone: The others had seemed as confused as he when he told them what hadn’t been found in the dining room. As they entered the dining area they looked at the same empty spot on the floor. Each registered total amazement.

  Mangiapane entered, the kitchen crew in tow. With the kitchen supervisor, cooks, assistants, waitresses, and KPs, along with the workshop faculty, there was a fair-sized crowd assembled.

  No one risked being the first to speak.

  “There was a body here,” Tully said.

  No one responded to the statement. But there seemed a general sense of affirmation.

  “Where did it go?”

  To Tully that seemed the logical next step.

  Silence. They looked at one another.

  Tully sighed. He dug out his badge from a back pocket, held it at arm’s length so all could see it. “I’m Lieutenant Tully and this is Sergeant Mangiapane. We are with Homicide, Detroit Police Department, and I want an answer . . . now! Where did the body go?”

  From out of the silence came a small voice. “He left.”

  “He left?” Tully repeated to be sure that’s what he’d heard. “Who are you?”

  “J . . . J . . . Julie,” the small voice of a small waitress said.

  “Okay Julie: He left. How did he manage that?”

  “Well, he got up, and his chauffeur brushed him off, and then . . . they left.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry and so very embarrassed.” Sister Janet was quite obviously on the verge of tears.

  Tully turned to her. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Sister Janet, Janet Schultes. I’m responsible for this conference.”

  Aware that she was distraught, Tully tried to keep from his voice the frustration he felt. “Why don’t you tell me what happened. What ‘wasn’t supposed to happen this way’?”

  Janet fumbled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Her hand was trembling. “I didn’t think it would work. He seemed so childish. But the agreement was made, and I couldn’t get out of it.”

  As gently as possible, Tully waved his hand, cutting off her disjointed explanation. “Take your time, but start from the beginning. How did we come to get a corpse who gets up, is dusted off by his chauffeur, and walks away? The beginning, please.”

  Janet reluctantly realized she was very definitely the center of attention and that the faculty of this workshop was every bit as eager to learn what had happened as were the police.

  “You see,” Janet began, “this conference was set up almost a year ago. It was the brainchild of my predecessor, Jack Regan. Every conference or workshop of this sort must begin with a commitment from some major figure or celebrity that, you hope, will draw a significant enrollment. Jack began by extending an invitation to Klaus Krieg. Not a bad idea, all in all . . . .” She glanced around at the faculty. “Whatever your opinion of Reverend Krieg, he is in demand as a celebrity and he does fit the bill as someone who can draw a crowd.

  “Jack told me he was surprised and delighted that Krieg accepted. But his acceptance was conditioned on two provisions. The first was that the other panelists be Sister Marie, Fathers Augustine and Benbow, and Rabbi Winer. He also insisted that Father Koesler attend as an expert resource person.

  “It was a most unusual stipulation, but Jack wanted Reverend Krieg enough to agree to at least try to meet his demands.

  “The second condition Reverend Krieg insisted upon is what has caused this trouble. He proposed we stage what he termed a psychodrama.”

  “A psychodrama,” Tully interrupted. Though a statement, it was a question.

  “Yes, sort of an ad libitum play, a cinéma verité . . . a staged murder mystery. The idea was that this psychodrama was supposed to engage the creative processes of the faculty. Reverend Krieg thought it would help set the stage for tomorrow’s sessions if we were to stage a fake murder and then encourage the amateur sleuths to try to solve the case.”

  “And that’s what happened?” Tully asked.

  “Pretty much, yes. The writers”—her gesture included the four— “gathered here by late afternoon today. They had not met previously, and things were a bit stiff. The faculty did not much . . . uh . . . care for the Reverend’s TV ministry or his publishing house. It seems that all of them had, at one time or another, been offered a contract with P.G. Press. But none had signed the contract.

  “Then when Reverend Krieg arrived during dinner, everything seemed to galvanize around him. After dinner, when the others had spread out through the building, we staged the fake murder. But,” and again she seemed on the verge of breaking down, “things got out of hand, as I feared they mi
ght. Angry words were exchanged and, worst of all, we never anticipated that the police would be called. I thought I could keep everyone together in here until the setup was consummated. If I had known anyone was about to call the police, I would have called a halt to the whole thing.”

  Suddenly Koesler felt guilty on two scores: He had called the police without informing the others. As it turned out, if he had mentioned it, Janet would have aborted the whole thing. And secondly, his call to the police turned out to be a false alarm.

  “Janet!” Marie spoke with incredulous anger. “You staged this whole thing! You let us accuse each other! You staged this entire sorry scenario without telling us it was all a piece of fiction. How could you!

  “And when, for God’s sake, were you going to tell us?”

  That was all Janet needed. She burst into tears.

  Martha hurried to her side and tried to console her.

  “Oh, Janet,” Marie said, “I’m sorry. You couldn’t help it, I suppose. You had to live up to the agreement.” She said it, but she wasn’t sure she meant it.

  Tully felt as if he had about one grain of adrenaline left and he wanted to expend it on the one who was responsible for this farce. And that surely was not the lady now dissolved in tears. “Just where is this Mr. Regan now?”

  Janet mumbled something unintelligible into her handkerchief.

  “What was that?” Tully asked.

  “The University of California,” Marie said. She had moved to join Martha in comforting Janet.

  “Ahhh . . .” Tully said. It was as if the air were being let out of him and he were being slowly deflated. There, in far distant California, was the only one at whom Tully felt justified in venting his anger and frustration. The other lady was right: It wasn’t this Janet’s fault. She’d inherited the crazy scheme. This Krieg character wasn’t really fair game either. It may have been his nutty idea, but all the Regan guy had to do was reject it and that would have been the end. The weariness returned with a vengeance.

  “Zoo,” Mangiapane said, “not only don’t we have a body, we ain’t got a murder either.”