Body Count

5

Pat Lennon sat alone at a small table in a far corner of the cafeteria on the second floor of the Detroit News.

She was by no means alone in the cafeteria. A large percentage of those who worked in the News’s downtown building began the workday in this spacious dining room. Some hit the cafeteria before their desks. Bleary-eyed, still in their coats, they would straggle in, knowing the day would not get moving until they had their coffee.

Most of them were creatures of habit, sitting at the same table each day, trading gossip with the same people.

That’s why Lennon sat alone. Any number of reporters-safe to say all the males-would have been delighted to join her. But her usual companion at this hour was Pringle McPhee, who, this Monday morning, was late.

Pat sipped her coffee with mounting impatience. If Pringle didn’t step on it, Pat would go on to the city room without her. Just as she was about to give up, in bounced Pringle. She spotted Pat, smiled and waved to her, then headed for the snail-paced line at the elongated buffet.

Pat watched as Pringle moved along, selecting cold cereal, scrambled eggs, sweet rolls, and coffee. Quite a breakfast, especially for one as trim and slender as Pringle. Pat wondered how she kept her shape without any bridle on that voracious appetite.

Pringle’s limp was barely noticeable. Indeed, if one did not know about the problem, one would scarcely be aware of it. As Lennon looked on, she remembered almost subconsciously that night when the car hit Pringle. Now, four years later, Pat could still enumerate Pringle’s wounds: bilateral broken legs, a closed head injury, skull fracture, fractured pelvis, fractures of facial bones, abdominal damage, and six broken ribs on the right side.

Pat remembered so well the list of injuries because not only had Pringle been run down in lieu of Pat, Pat had played a vital part in Pringle’s rehabilitation.

The rehabilitation had been a remarkable success. Providentially for such a lovely girl, there were no scars. Remaining was only that suggestion of a limp-and a subtle weakening in Pringle’s self-confidence.

There was no diminution in her professional confidence. She was a good reporter, steadily getting better, and aware of her worth as a journalist. Her vulnerability lay in her fear of danger. The dread, while understandably natural, bordered on the phobic.

Pringle, in her mid-twenties when she was injured, had defeated death by a hair’s breadth. An extraordinarily healthy specimen, she had been able to do practically anything she set out to accomplish. Then came the overwhelming trauma, and the long, agonizing struggle to make the slightest gesture, to think clearly, to walk. Where before she would ski the most forbidding hills, now she hesitated at crossing a busy street.

Because Pat understood all this, she was especially understanding and protective with Pringle. She was a little more than ten years Pringle’s senior. The two could have been sisters. Only in comparison with Pringle could Lennon be considered full-figured. They were, simply, two beautiful women.

Pringle sat in her accustomed chair. Pat smiled as she watched her unload her busy tray.

“Anything more on Hal?” Pringle asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

Pringle didn’t give her eggs a chance to get cold. “What do you think?” she asked between bites. “I mean, it’s all so senseless, isn’t it?”

They were talking, as was just about everyone, about the killing of Harold Salden, the religion writer for the Detroit News.

“Sure it’s senseless. I guess it just underscores this crazy society with guns all over the place. And we’re right in the middle of it. We’re there covering stories that are all about violence. That’s what Hal was doing when he was shot: covering a story in a violent atmosphere. It could have happened to any of us.”

Pringle dropped a forkful of eggs back onto her plate. Pat glanced at her. Pringle’s hand was trembling. Instantly, Lennon regretted her words. It wasn’t tactful to mention in Pringle’s presence that their profession could be and occasionally was hazardous. Pringle didn’t need that.

Quickly, Pat added, “Of course, there’s another angle as far as what happened to Hal. Unlike lots of religion writers in thegood old days, Hal was a damn good reporter. Good reporters have a tendency to make enemies. You know the old principle: If you have no enemies, you’re not doing anything. In that case, then, maybe it wasn’t senseless after all.”

“What do you mean?” Pringle’s concern was evident.

“I mean there are at least a couple of ways of looking at Hal’s shooting. It could have been pure chance: He just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe it was somebody who hada grudge.”

“A grudge against Hal? Pat, he was a religion writer! Who’d have any reason to hold a grudge against a religion writer?”

“You forget, he was also a first-rate reporter. And don’t think there aren’t some very violent people mixed up in so-called religious affairs. There’s always the good old Islamic jihad; Allah and Yahweh never did get along. And how about the pro-life and pro-choice people when they confront each other on a street corner? Anger and violence all over the place. Even religion? Especially religion! And Hal covered that scene. He must have made some enemies. Any of them could have done it.”

This wasn’t going well, Pat had to admit. The further she speculated about Hal’s murder, the more she was adding to Pringle’s nameless fear. This might be an appropriate moment to call a halt to this conversation and get on with the day. She should be at work now anyway. She pushed her chair back from the table.

“Wait,” Pringle said, “let me get you some coffee.”

It was a longstanding signal. Pringle wanted to talk.

Pat couldn’t refuse. “That’s okay. You work on your breakfast. I’ll get myself some coffee.”

When Pat returned to the table, Pringle lost no time in resuming the conversation. “It’s a funny thing,” she said, “I hadn’t thought about it until we started talking about Hal and the religion desk. But you know, if he were alive now, he probably would’ve gotten my assignment.”

Pat looked at her quizzically over the cup rim.

“That’s why I was late this morning: Bob gave me this assignment as soon as I hit the city room.”

“What story?”

“A missing priest.”

“Somebody lost a priest?” Pat could not bring herself to take this seriously, at least not at first blush.

“Yesterday,” Pringle explained. “Well, actually Friday, I guess.” She fished her notepad out of her purse and flipped it open. “A Father Keating-John Keating. Ever hear of him?”

Pat shook her head.

“He left his parish sometime Friday. Mentioned he was going into Detroit on business, and that’s it. That’s the last time anyone seems to have seen him.”

“He didn’t get back for Sunday Masses?” Pat’s interest picked up slightly.

“Apparently not. That’s significant?”

“You bet.”

“God,” Pringle sighed, “I wish Hal were here. For lots of reasons, not the least of which is that he’d be covering this story. Short of that, I wish Bob had given it to a Catholic.” Her eyes widened. “Say, you’re a Catholic, aren’t you?”

“Used to be.” She half smiled, half grimaced. “Well, I guess I always will be … I just don’t work at it much.”

“Well, this business of not being there for Mass on Sunday: Is that about the same as … oh, a minister not showing up for Sunday services?”

“Worse, I’d say. Considerably worse. If it were a Protestant church, I think it would be a considerable inconvenience for the congregation if no one were there to conduct the services. But in the end, they could live with it. Probably somebody would be available to lead them in prayer, sing a hymn or two-wing it. Couldn’t do that in a Catholic church.”

“Is that the way it is?”

“Seems so to me.” Lennon decided she’d had enough coffee; she eased her cup away. “Did Bob tell you anything about the crowd-the congregation? Was there some other priest around to cover for-what’s his name?”

“Keating.” Pringle looked once more at her notes. “I don’t think he mentioned.”

“I’d find out about that if I were you.”

“Oh?”

“Seems to me a slightly more serious problem if there was no other priest to take the Masses. I can’t imagine a priest-especially a pastor-not providing for Sunday Mass if he could help it. If there wasn’t any other priest around, then odds are you got a very sick-or dead-absent priest.”

“What if all the Masses were taken care of?”

Pat shrugged. “Who knows? An unannounced vacation. Illness, maybe, but probably not as significant. What it comes down to, I think, is that those guys generally are pretty serious about an obligation like this. If a pastor was pretty sure things would be taken care of one way or another, then if it would be a serious inconvenience for him to show up, he might skip it.” She thought for a moment. “Wait a minute … did you say ‘missing’ priest?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who says?”

“Who says what?”

“That he’s missing.” Pat mentally computed the elapsed time. “You said it was Friday when he was last seen in his parish?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Friday to Saturday, twenty-four hours. Saturday to Sunday, forty-eight hours. It won’t be seventy-two hours until sometime today. If memory serves, the cops don’t begin looking for someone as ‘missing’ until seventy-two hours have gone by. If the cops aren’t looking for him, why should you be?”

“But the cops are looking for him. Have been since yesterday afternoon.”

“How come?”

“Ever hear of Eric Dunstable?”

Lennon whistled softly.

“He’s the one,” Pringle explained, “who got the cops going on it.”

“Eric Dunstable! Wait a sec: What parish are we talking about?”

“St. Waldo of the Hills, Bloomfield Hills.”

Pat’s chuckle was low and throaty. “St. Waldo of the Wheels. This thing is beginning to come together.”

“The Wheels? Does somebody call it Waldo of the Wheels?”

“I’ve heard it called that now and again. Couldn’t tell you exactly why. I suppose it’s because the people who live out there are some of the better-known wheelers and dealers in this territory-like Eric Dunstable. Or maybe because they’re auto execs who put the world on wheels-like Eric Dunstable. That makes sense … I can easily imagine Dunstable getting the Bloomfield cops to bend the rules.”

“Not just the Bloomfield Hills police.”

“Huh?”

“The Detroit cops too.”

“Detroit? Just because he said he was going to Detroit?”

“That’s not all,” Pringle added. “Not just Detroit Missing Persons; Homicide is investigating too.”

“Homicide! My God! That’s overkill.” Lennon giggled. “Please forgive; I didn’t intend the pun.”

“That’s the part that’s got me worried.” And indeed, Pringle’s face was clouded.

“What’s got you worried?” Pat asked supportively.

“Homicide. The fact that Detroit Homicide is in on this. It scares me. I haven’t worked on a story that involved homicide since …” She did not need to elaborate.

Pat slid her chair closer and touched Pringle’s arm. “Don’t give it a thought. There aren’t that many people with enough clout to get two major police departments involved in a missing persons search-a good twenty-four hours early at that. But if anybody could pull it off, Eric Dunstable certainly qualifies. I can just see him calling in some of his markers from Mayor Cobb. Don’t worry: Homicide’s there just for show. Just to flaunt Dunstable’s belief that he’s got pull and the balls to use it.”

Pringle smiled. “You think so?”

“Sure. You’re gonna have a ball with this story-oops, another involuntary pun.” She shook her headand grimaced. “I’ve got to cut this out before I start work today.

“But you’ll see: You’ll be fine. Go find the missing priest.” She grinned. “By the time you get done, you’ll probably be able to give me a refresher course in Catholicism.”