Body Count

11

It was almost 6:00 in the evening when Lieutenant Tully dropped off Father Koesler before St. Joseph’s rectory with, for Tully, profuse thanks for the priest’s help and time throughout the day.

As Koesler turned from the departing car he was momentarily awed, not for the first time, by the massiveness, the fortresslike character of St. Joe’s rectory and church in the last clear light of day. He could hear, in his imagination, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” One of his favorite hymns.

There were no lights visible in the rectory. Not surprising; both the housekeeper and Mary O’Connor would be gone for the day. It would be deathly quiet now for at least another hour, when his appointments and meetings would begin. Perhaps he could squeeze in a nap before the evening busyness began. Offered his druthers, he would have preferred a nap to dinner. He was that tired.

Then he remembered. Nick Dunn. He had no idea where his visiting priest might be now, but Dunn’s presence would have to be taken into account. It struck Koesler that this was just a little bit like being married in that he had someone else to consider instead of scheduling for himself alone.

He entered the dining room to find Dunn doing some sort of paperwork at the dining table. “Oh, there you are,” the younger priest said brightly.

“Here, indeed, I am. Have you eaten?” Koesler hoped that Dunn had finished dinner. Therein lay a chance that he might sneak in that nap.

“No, it’s in the oven. All I have to do is heat it. I was hoping we could talk over supper.”

Damn, there went the nap! “Okay. But we’ll have to shake a leg. I’ve got an appointment in about an hour.”

“Plenty of time. Shall I fix us a drink?”

“Thanks. But make mine light. Plenty of water. I’ve got a busy evening ahead.”

Dunn began heating dinner, prepared the drinks, and joined Koesler at the dining table.

Koesler tasted his drink. It was very light-scotch and water with a heavy emphasis on the water. It occurred to him that he hadn’t expected to see Dunn this evening. “Don’t you have a class at this hour? On the Mercy campus?”

“I cut it.”

“You cut your first appearance? What’s the course?”

“Psychology of Religion. How much psychology can there be to religion?”

“Plenty. I thought these papers all over the table were your notes from class.”

Dunn shook his head. “They’re notes, okay, but not from class. We’ll get to them shortly. First, how did your day go?”

That explained it: Dunn was so obsessed with the police investigation that he had cut class and postponed dinner in order to eat with Koesler-all just to learn what had happened.

Very well, then. But he would skip over his early morning meeting with Mrs. Pietrangelo. That wouldn’t interest Dunn.

On to the cops and robbers.

Koesler recounted the course of the investigation: the drive out to St. Waldo’s; a resume of what he’d told Tully of Koesler’s contacts with Keating through the seminary and priesthood; Fred Mitchell’s description of Life With Father, as Keating’s associate.

Koesler skipped the bit about Lacy De Vere’s frustrated attempt to gain entry to the rectory and Pringle McPhee’s success. Next, he told of the drive to the far east side, describing in some detail the meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Costello and Remo Vespa.

Toward the conclusion of Koesler’s narrative, Dunn, who had been hanging on to every word, served the reheated dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. While it tasted good, Koesler surmised that Mrs. Costello’s meal was even better. If his olfactory sense could be trusted, that is what the Costellos, and likely the Vespas, were eating, probably at this very moment.

Koesler wiped sauce from his lips. “And that,” he concluded, “pretty much brings us up to date.”

“Hmmm,” Dunn commented, after the manner of Bulldog Drummond, “and Guido Vespa wasn’t there.”

Koesler looked at him with some asperity. “You’re not going to get back into that confession again, are you?”

“Now, I know you’re not thrilled to talk about it. But between us, we’re not violating the seal. We’re talking about a confession we both heard. Actually, I think we’re talking about whether there is some way we could help the police without breaking the seal of confession. Isn’t it something like a consultation between doctors? I know the weight of the secrets is not equal-the professional versus the sacramental secret. But the doctors are not violating the patient’s right to privacy. They are professionals trying to help the patient … no?”

Koesler had to admit to himself that there was merit to Dunn’s argument. They were doing nothing to make Vespa’s confession odious or difficult for him. As long as they kept their remarks between the two of them, there seemed to be no violation of the seal. It was just that in Koesler’s many years as a priest, he had never discussed in any way any confession with anyone. It was the unique character of this situation that pushed Koesler toward reticence.

“Okay,” he said finally, with some reluctance, “but let’s tread very gingerly. We’re on dangerous ground.”

“Fair enough,” Dunn agreed. “Didn’t Guido’s name come up at all?”

“Yes, it did, at one point. There was even the mention of gambling.” Koesler smiled. “I gave ESP my best shot, but it didn’t seem to work.

“Now, can we get around to all those papers you pushed aside here?”

It was Dunn’s turn to smile. “They represent a busy day for me. A morning spent at the Detroit main library and, once I convinced a sympathetic managing editor at the News of my need, an afternoon going through the News library.”

Koesler sighed. “If only you got that wrapped up in your studies …”

“I will. I will. All in due time. First things first.”

Being a detective is not your first-or second or third-priority, thought Koesler. But he let the admonition pass unspoken. It would have accomplished little or nothing. “So then, what was the object of all this research?”

“The Mafia, or, more properly, La Cosa Nostra. Know much about it?”

Koesler gestured toward the stack of notes. “Not as much as you do now,I’ll bet. Shoot!”

Dunn began assembling the notes. “It may come as no surprise to you that the Mafia is only a shadow of its former self.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Dunn looked at Koesler to try to discern whether he was joking. Apparently not.

“Well, then,” Dunn proceeded, “it will come as a surprise to you: Almost everybody involved in the war against the Mafia seems to agree that La Cosa Nostra is declining. They’re not quite in agreement as to the reason. However, there’s a guy named …” Dunn consulted his notes. “… Blakey, from Notre Dame, who was chief developer of something called the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act that worked pretty good in court. He’s quoted here in a New York Times article: ‘It was sort of like George Kennan’s containment policy of the Soviet Union. We tried it, and by God it worked.’”

“Just what is this … act?” Koesler checked his watch. He didn’t want to be late, especially since Dunn’s information could be delivered anytime.

“It was …” Dunn searched for the pertinent note. “Ah … here … it was a courtroom tool that allowed the Justice Department and the FBI to concentrate on enterprises rather than individuals. And that helped them remove the highest leaders of the Mafia by means of convictions and long prison sentences. So that now, this one guy says, ‘Outside of New York and Chicago, the Mafia is an anachronism.’

“Now here is an interesting part. A couple of experts say that certain changes in society contributed to the Mafia’s decline. One: white flight from big cities lessened the Mafia’s political influence and also lessened the protection they used to get from the police and their political machines. That’s got to be true in Detroit … no?”

“Sure it is,” Koesler said. “I can remember the big Italian parishes, the heavily Italian neighborhoods. All gone now. Dispersed throughout the suburbs. I was surprised to find the Costellos still living in Detroit.”

“We’re going to get to that,” Dunn promised. “But here’s another change: As the leaders were convicted almost wholesale, the ones who took over were less competent than their predecessors.

“And another: When the Mafia loyalties disintegrated, some of the members broke the code of silence and became informers.

“And finally: Rival crime groups sprang up. Some of them Asian, Colombian, and black Americans. These new groups pretty well control crime in the inner cities, where the Mafia’s power used to be.

“Now, get this one, Bob: There’s a Mafia defector who said his crew could no longer find reliable assassins in its own ranks and they were forced to issue outside contracts. Now that’s going to have something to do with our Guido Vespa.”

“But how-?”

“Let me finish.” Dunn checked his own watch. He wanted very much to complete his presentation before Koesler was forced to leave for his appointment.

It occurred to Koesler that during Dunn’s rather carefully planned presentation, the young priest had served this entire warmed-over meal while he, Koesler, had done little but eat and first talk and then listen. Dunn had even served the drinks. Koesler had contributed nothing to the dining experience. It didn’t seem fair. “I’ll fix us some coffee.”

“No!” Dunn realized he’d been more emphatic than the occasion warranted. But the prospect of having to endure another unique Koesler brew was more than innocent humanity should have to suffer. “I mean, I’ve had quite a lot of coffee today. None for me, thanks.”

“Okay, okay.” Koesler thought the vehement response a bit excessive. Perhaps Dunn was simply keyed up over all he’d accomplished this day. “I’ll get some for myself, if you don’t mind.”

Dunn wondered about the lining of Koesler’s stomach. How, he puzzled, could Koesler tolerate that acid? Maybe it was in the same category as the ugly baby who everyone except the parents knew was homely.

Dunn raised his voice as Koesler went into the kitchen to blend freeze-dried coffee with hot water to somehow produce hemlock. “When you get back in here,” Dunn called, “I’d like you to look at this chart that I got photostated at the News. It shows the makeup of the Mafia in Detroit some thirty years ago. They’ve got it arranged like a family tree.”

“Oh, I vaguely remember that. When it was first published, I couldn’t figure out how the law enforcement agencies could do that without a trial. It seemed to be a denial of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ I couldn’t figure how the police could get away with that, unless it was factual and the people identified there simply didn’t want to go to court with-what? — a defamation of character or libel suit.”

“The interesting thing,” Dunn said, “is that back then there were six families that ran the Mafia in Detroit. And Carl ‘Double C’ Costello was the boss of one of those families.”

“The gentleman we visited today,” Koesler said. “I guess I wasn’t paying much attention back then … that or I’ve just forgotten.” He returned with his coffee-black.

Funny, thought Dunn, it smells all right.

“Look here …” Dunn turned the chart toward Koesler. He pointed to two pictures side by side far down the list. One was Remo Vespa; the other was Guido Vespa. They were in the category of “soldiers.” In the accompanying article, they were further identified as “made men” and “buttons.” Meaning they had been solemnly inducted into La Cosa Nostra and, in addition, they were assassins-“hit men.”

“They look like choirboys in these pictures,” Dunn observed.

“They probably were,” Koesler replied. It was quite beyond him how members of the Mafia families squared the kinds of things they did, particularly vicious crimes, with an easy familiarity with religion. But he was aware, in some imperfect way, that the inception of the Mafia concept had little to do with its eventual development.

“See this article?” Dunn pushed another photostated news story toward Koesler. “It talks about how the mob made its money from labor racketeering, gambling, loan-sharking, extortion, prostitution, smuggling, and narcotics trafficking. And see this story?” Dunn moved another sheet toward Koesler. “It says that in Michigan, the mob’s major activities are illegal bookmaking, labor racketeering, and loan-sharking.” Dunn looked at Koesler expectantly. When Koesler did not respond, Dunn said with an emphatic Dont’-you-get-it? tone: “Illegal bookmaking! Don’t you see, Bob? Illegal bookmaking!”

Obviously, Koesler was not getting it.

“The cause of Keating’s murder, Bob! Guido Vespa said it was because of Keating’s bad debts. And the Mafia is into illegal bookmaking!”

“I fail to see …”

In all honesty, Dunn was not a little disappointed with his hero. Koesler was the fairly famous amateur detective. He should be ahead of this game. Instead he failed to see …

And then it dawned on Dunn: He hadn’t given Koesler the whole picture. “Wait: There’s one more thing I haven’t told you. Remember, the article said that some thirty years ago there had been six families in the Detroit area? Now there is only one that’s still functioning. And it’s not the Costello family.” Again he looked expectantly at Koesler.

It was embarrassing. Obviously, Dunn expected him to be arriving at a correct answer to this puzzle. But if there were such an answer, it certainly had escaped Koesler’s observation.

Dunn gave up. He’d have to spell it out. “The way I see it,” he began, “Keating liked to gamble. No-more: He was a compulsive gambler. But apparendy none of his close friends was aware of that, else one or more of them would have told the police during this investigation. And nobody has, … am I right?”

“Far as I know.”

“But according to our very best source-the man who executed him-Keating bets on just about everything. Now if Keating’s close friends don’t know about this, Keating is guarding the secret carefully. To use a metaphor that Keating would have loved, he’s playing his cards very close to the vest. Which means …?”

“Which means he probably isn’t doing much or any of this gambling in legitimate areas. Else,” Koesler took Dunn’s cue, “the people he chums with would be aware of what was going on. And if his friends were alert to his compulsive gambling, while they probably wouldn’t have interfered-no one criticizes ‘Father’-they surely would have mentioned it when Keating turned up missing. He’s a ‘missing person’ under such circumstances that anyone who knew of his reckless gambling would have suspected the connection. And would have told the police.”

“Exactly,” Dunn agreed. “So if Keating is not gambling in Monaco or any of the other legitimate hangouts, he might be putting down bets with illegal bookmakers-the Mafia. Because that’s one of the remaining rackets of the local Mafia. And if he is placing his bets through the Mafia, there’s only one family left to handle his business. There’s only one of the six originals left,”

“But the one remaining family, you said, was not Costello’s. So how does Guido Vespa figure into this if-wait a minute …” Koesler fingered through Dunn’s notes and photostats until he found the one he was looking for. He read it aloud: “‘A high-ranking Mafia defector bitterly said that his crew could no longer find reliable assassins in its own ranks and had to take outside contracts.’

“So …” Koesler allowed the conjunction to stand alone as he weighed the present state of the question. “So …” he repeated, “according to your theory, Keating bet outrageously on just about everything. We have Vespa’s word on that. He ended up head over heels in debt because he couldn’t cover his losses. Again, Vespa’s Word. Plus, it occurred to me today while I was with Lieutenant Tully, that the one incident I personally know of when Jake Keating played a hunch was with stocks and bonds, and he lost a pile … although compared with what he apparently got into recently, the stocks and bonds gamble was innocence itself.”

“You didn’t tell Tully that,” Dunn wondered.

“Almost. I was saved by prayer, I guess. That was too close to the confessional secret. Anyway,” Koesler continued, “according to your theory-if I’m following you correctly-since there is no indication that this gambling was going on aboveboard, so to speak, it may be presumed that Keating’s bets, as well as his debts, were with the Mafia.

“And, from what is conventionally known about the Mafia, they do not stand still when someone tries to take advantage of them. So the Mafia, unable to get its money back, exacts retribution in the form of a contract to kill Father Keating.” Koesler shuddered. “This whole thing gets so ugly.”

But Dunn, whose theory this basically was, continued with what he believed to be the correct scenario. “We already have, courtesy of the newspaper clipping, the complaint of ‘a high-ranking Mafia figure’ that nowadays they can’t depend on their own families to execute a contract. They have to use outside resources.

“So here’s Keating, hopelessly in debt to the one remaining Detroit family. And this family, apparently-probably because they can’t trust this to anyone in their own organization-gives the contract to Guido Vespa. And he was, we know from that ancient Mafia chart-maybe still is-a button man.

“So,” Dunn concluded, “Guido Vespa is offered and accepts the contract, kills John Keating, and later-because he’s never before murdered a priest, and because of his Catholic upbringing, however vague that may have been-he confesses the sin to you, and is overheard by me.” There was a look of irrepressible self-congratulation on Dunn’s smiling face.

The two priests regarded each other in silence. At length, Koesler looked at his watch. Not much time before he would have to leave. “So …?”

“So … what?” Dunn replied.

“My question precisely,” Koesler said. “So what? Even if everything happened just the way you have constructed this chain of events, what difference does it make? The basis of this story is still Guido Vespa’s confession. Neither of us would have the slightest notion of what might have happened to Jake Keating if Vespa had not told us of his role in the disappearance. And that neither of us can disclose to anyone under any circumstances. If either of us were to go to the police and say that the Mafia put out a contract on Father Keating because he couldn’t pay his gambling debts, and the guy you’re looking for, the hit man in this case, is Guido Vespa, the police certainly would ask, ‘How do you know?’ And we would-we could-say nothing. There’s no proof of any of this except a confession that is completely out of bounds. So: So what?”

Dunn gave every indication that he had not considered the implications of his scenario. Now he did so. The seconds were ticking away; Koesler would soon have to leave.

“Well,” Dunn said finally, “you yourself said that this afternoon you tried to communicate with the police through ESP. And you were only trying to get them interested in Keating’s gambling habits and make Guido Vespa the focus of their investigation.

“Okay, so it didn’t work. But ESP can work; it has worked. Now that we have the whole story, why don’t we try in a concerted way to get through to the cops with that extrasensory perception? That lieutenant will undoubtedly be talking to you again. You never know, there may be some way of communication, something we can’t anticipate right now. But something may occur. The Holy Spirit …”

“Nice, Nick,” Koesler said. “I’m the last one who would question the power of ESP, especially when it’s fortified by prayer. ‘More things are accomplished by prayer than this world dreams of.’ But … but … do we have the whole story?”

Dunn seemed perplexed. “Of course we do!”

“Then,” Koesler said, “what about the car?”

“What car?”

“Jake Keating’s car. If Guido Vespa murdered Keating, what was Jack’s car doing parked outside the Costello house? Would a murderer take an easily traceable car and leave it where the police could make an obvious connection between victim and killer?”

Dunn scratched his chin. “That is a puzzle. I don’t know-wait, didn’t you say that when you got to Costello’s house there were a lot of police technicians around the car?”

“Right.”

“And that one of them was working on fingerprints?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he said there were no prints on the steering wheel?”

Koesler nodded.

“That means,” Dunn continued, “that Keating certainly didn’t drive the car to that spot. Why would he wipe his own prints off the wheel?”

“True.”

“Well … what we do know is that Guido Vespa killed Keating. Why would Vespa leave the car in front of his grandfather’s home?” Dunn paused. “I don’t think he could or would have done that.” He thought for another moment. “Wait: Guido wasn’t at the Costello home today; Remo was.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll bet Guido hasn’t been there since Friday. And if that’s the case,” Dunn was animated once more, “somebody else is involved. Like it says in the Bible, An enemy hath done this.’ Somebody who knew what Guido had done, some enemy of Guido’s, moved Keating’s car to that neighborhood and left it there. If this person knew that Guido wasn’t going to be there, and if this person knew that Guido alone-and nobody else in his family-knew about this contract-then what a beautiful way to get revenge! The Costellos, the Vespas, whatever, would have no idea where that car came from. They would have no reason to get rid of it. It wasn’t any business of theirs. But the cops will find it eventually and they’ll be able to trace it to its owner easily. And the Costellos and Vespas are in big trouble.”

Dunn seemed to expect applause.

Koesler thought it over. “It certainly sounds plausible. Next time I get a chance, I’ll try to find out if Guido was at the house anytime since Friday.”

The doorbell rang.

“That would be my appointment,” Koesler said. “I’d better go let them in.”

“Them?”

“A couple. She’s a Catholic. He’s thinking of converting.”

Dunn looked puzzled.

“Something wrong?” Koesler hesitated at the doorway.

“Something else just occurred to me. I guess I’m playing devil’s advocate to my own theory. I know you’ve got to get the door, but could you give me another minute before you start in with them?”

“Sure. I’llbe right back.”

And he was. “So?”

“It’s money,” Dunn said.

“You need some?” Koesler was joking, or so he hoped.

“No … no. Keating. From what you’ve told me, he had plenty of money. Of all the problems he had in his lifetime, money had to be the least of them … no? Then why couldn’t he pay off his losses? Especially since the alternative was death.”

“It’s true, Nick, he did grow up with money. And he always had some special perks-like his contacts in the auto industry. But his parents left him merely comfortable, not wealthy. He didn’t have much more ready cash than the average priest. If he vacationed well, it was because some of his parishioners adopted him into their lifestyle.

“No, I could well imagine that, if he gambled as compulsively as Guido Vespa said, he could well have been in over his head.”

“Okay then, how about his parish? Maybe the wealthiest parish in this diocese, no?”

“Sure it is. But … steal from the parish to pay off the Mafia? Oh, I don’t think so.”

“I suppose the diocese would find out one way or the other in an audit.”

“Well, there’s not going to be an audit. Not for a long while, anyway.”

“Oh …” Dunn looked surprised. “Why not?”

“The diocese doesn’t audit until there’s a change in pastors. Take it from one who moved from one parish to another about a year ago. The diocese sent its auditors to my former parish as well as to this one.”

“Okay, but we know Keating isn’t going to come back. What about that?”

“We belong to a select few who know that, Nick. To the diocese, the parish isn’t vacant. They just don’t know where the pastor is. Trust me. There was a similar case a while back where a pastor had to go away for a long period of treatment. They merely appointed an administrator for the interim. Undoubtedly that’s what they’ll do now.”

Koesler turned to leave, hesitated, then turned back. “Besides, in response to youradvocatus diaboli, there’s a parish council along with a finance committee that keeps a steady hand on parochial money. And you can be sure that with the sort of successful businessmen they have in that parish, the finances would be carefully watched.

“And finally, Nick, if he had used money from St. Waldo’s coffers and paid his debts, he’d be alive today.”

Dunn brightened. “So my theory stays intact!”

Koesler smiled grimly. “Your theory stays intact.”

Koesler walked down the hall toward the office where the couple awaited. As he walked, he could not shake the nagging thoughts surrounding the case of the missing Father Keating.

Something about this case troubled him. Something besides the confessional technicalities quandary. Something that had been pulling at the corners of his consciousness from the very beginning. One thing was certain: Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with either Nick Dunn’s scenario or his own doubts.

Actually, he thought, Dunn had done an excellent job of putting clues together to build a credible theory on what was behind the disappearance of Jake Keating. Except that Koesler had no real expectation that either he or Dunn would find any legitimate avenue to share what they knew and what they speculated. In all likelihood, it would all be buried in that completely isolated field protected by the sacred seal of confession.

Nonetheless, Koesler wondered what it was beyond that that troubled him.