Deadline for a Critic

21

The Gregorian Chant was so reassuring and beautiful. Ridley would have wanted the choir to offer this final commendation of his soul to heaven. Father Koesler wanted to think that he would have suggested it even if Peter Harison had not requested it. But why quibble over credit for so inspired a thought?

Koesler stood at the foot of the casket to conduct the final church rites before leaving for the cemetery. He let his mind wander through the familiar Latin. “In paradisum deducant te Angeli . . .”

May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem. May the choir of angels welcome you. Where Lazarus is poor no longer, may you have eternal rest.

The police had been most cooperative last night. Of course, things might not have gone so smoothly had it not been for Inspector Walter Koznicki.

Koznicki and Koesler had been friends for many years. The Inspector was head of Detroit’s busy homicide department. It happened that Father Koesler had been of some help, by contributing his religious expertise, in solving some police investigations that had Catholic overtones. While their relationship had begun on a completely professional basis, over the years it had grown into a close and abiding friendship.

It was Koznicki who, after being contacted at home by Father Koesler, had gotten the ball rolling. David Palmer, Carroll Mitchell, Charles Hogan, Valerie Walsh, and Peter Harison were summoned to police headquarters at 1300 Beaubien.

While they waited for the principals to arrive, Koznicki showed Koesler the letters that Ridley Groendal had read just prior to expiring.

Koesler was quite sure he knew essentially what each letter would contain, but he read them nonetheless. There was nothing better to do while awaiting the others.

The letters had been smoothed out and flattened in clear plastic binders. But Koesler could tell by the creases in the papers that Ridley had crushed them rather forcefully before casting them in the wastebasket or on the floor. His final fury was almost palpable.

Later, Koesler would remember only salient segments of the four letters.

David Palmer:

. . . Groendal I find it hard to believe that any adult could hang onto and nurture a childhood grudge the way you have. You played a trick on me. I played one on you. We were kids, for God’s sake! All these years, you’ve imagined that I took something away from you—Interlochen.

Nothing could be further from the truth. You had no talent You were a fourth-rate musician. You turned into a fifth-rate human being. But because of our childish pranks you have shit on my career over these many years. And I’ve taken it. All I’ve done is gripe and grouse over your unfair treatment. It occurs to me that you’ve done all you can to me. The time has come to return the favor. You’ve been sitting in the critic’s chair untouched and untouchable for too long.

I wonder how artistic America would react to the fact that its premier critic is an unpunished and, to date, undetected arsonist. You were not alone when you set that fire in the auditorium. I was there with my camera. I’ve got the photograph. You and the fire.

It happened a long, long time ago. But not long enough for your ego to be free of the shame of it. I know you, Groendal. You’ve built the irreproachable image of the impeccable commentator who feels free to tear everyone else apart, confident that your seamless garment will never be rent or soiled.

I promise you this, Groendal: Beginning with arson, I will find out all your evil from peccadillos to capital sins, and make sure the artistic world, especially your many victims, knows what a prick you are. Groendal, the world lost one of its great assholes when God decided to put teeth in your mouth. . . .

It continued in the same vein. Koesler shook his head. He wondered how Dave would feel if the media got hold of his letter. Undoubtedly he had never thought of that when he sent it. Koesler went on.

Carroll Mitchell:

. . . It seems to me that your function is to be the constant judge of competition. Actors competing with each other, competing with actors of the past. Playwrights in competition with each other. Which is the best play on Broadway; which is the worst? Constant competition. And you are the judge, the acknowledged chief judge. The judge of all this competition.

You have judged my work over all these years and always found me sadly wanting. You have been a harsh and cruel judge of many other adequate to fine playwrights. You have been the supreme Judge for all these years. Yet, the only time you were in actual competition with me, you were so frightened by that competition that you committed the most heinous crime possible to any writer: You stole. You plagiarized!

The time has come for the public to know what sort of individual has been setting standards for America. Fortunately, you won that contest. Or rather, Emmet Lavery won it with his “The First Legion.” So your “winning” entry was published in The Gothic. I have had several copies made of that and will offer it as proof when I give this story to literary publications.

I hope you know, Rid, how dearly everyone out there wants to “get” you. Needless to say, they will have a field day with this story. Your credibility is all you have going for you. Say goodbye to it. In a little while, it will be gone. . . .

Koesler did not know in which order Groendal had read these letters, but he himself was beginning to experience the cumulative effect they must have had. He continued.

Charlie Hogan:

. . . Some people know you’re gay, others don’t. I’ve got to hand this much to you, you’ve been discreet. You’ve been living with this Peter Harison for years now. And yet you‘ve never come completely out of the closet. Nor has anyone made a publicized statement about your homosexuality. That seems to be the way with you gays. You either flaunt it or keep it decently quiet.

I don’t know why the hell you’ve bothered, but you evidently want to keep it private. Well the time has come to let people know what kind of a bastard you are. I think the public would relish knowing that not only are you gay, but that you were kicked out of the seminary not just for being gay but for a homosexual attack.

At this point, you probably think I can’t prove this, because, in return for your leaving quietly, Monsignor Cronyn allowed you to quit. What you didn’t know is that, so you could never go back on your decision, Cronyn made the notation in your permanent record, along with the reason for your dismissal.

I’m sure the gossip columnists—dung beetles that they are—will appreciate clearing up the mystery of your sexual preference along with that juicy tidbit from your younger days.

Further, no one could have been so vengeful against me all these years without slipping up himself. That much meanness can’t have been contained. So I pledge myself to finding and exposing every fault and failing of yours I can uncover. And I’m confident I can find plenty. . . .

Koesler had a quizzical look. There was something in these three letters that disquieted and at the same time intrigued him. At the moment, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Instead of going back to find the source of this feeling, he decided to complete the cycle.

Valerie Walsh:

I think I will never forgive or forget what you did to me. What baffled me was why you’d do it. You worked overtime keeping me off the stage. You were grossly unfair, cruel and rotten. I would never have discovered the reason if I had not confided in my mother. She clarified it all. Why would you sabotage my career when we had never met? To get even with my mother. Even with my mother! You certainly had reason to get even! You left her pregnant, homeless, and unemployed. She certainly treated you shabbily! She didn’t give you away, or take you to court for child support, but stayed out of your life.

Over the years, you’ve built a reputation of being above and beyond any sort of disgraceful affair. You’ve been welcomed into the homes and parties of the movers and shakers. You are above all criticism.

Well the time has come to burst your pretentious bubble. Mother is making an affidavit concerning your responsibility. Just imagine how titillating all your former friends will find the delicious gossip about you and your one-nighter. Yours is not the conduct of a noble critic. Yours is the behavior of a scoundrel and a fraud.

I know, from being on the New York scene, that people laugh behind your back at the combination of your gay lifestyle and your thin reputation of self-righteousness. Think of the fun they’re going to have with this new scandal. It will be a marvelous season for the critics of the critic. We’re going to enjoy it. We are all going to enjoy very much seeing the modern-day Grendel monster skewered. . . .

While Koesler had been reading the letters, Sergeants Charles Papkin and Ray Ewing, the investigating officers, had been speaking quietly with Inspector Koznicki. As Koesler completed his reading, the first of the five summoned people arrived. The others appeared within minutes. Lynn Mitchell and Red Walsh, who had accompanied their respective spouses, were asked to wait in an adjoining room.

There were more than enough chairs around the several tables in the squad room. After all were seated there was an awkward silence. No one seemed to know who should begin. The guests looked expectantly at the police, who, in turn, gazed at Father Koesler. Following the officers’ lead, the others began to stare at Koesler. It was he, after all, who had requested this gathering.

The first thought that crossed the priest’s mind was the bromide, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here?” He dismissed that. Instead, he said, “I may be wrong, but if a couple of hypotheses are correct, I think we may be able to clear up the matter of Ridley Groendal’s death.”

Sergeant Papkin failed to suppress a sardonic smile. He could recall a few times this priest had been wrong. He would not be at all surprised if Koesler were wrong again.

Sergeant Ewing, on the other hand, kept an open mind. Confident and self-assured, he was willing to take a chance on an amateur. He did not feel at all threatened by Koesler’s hypotheses.

“I’ll try,” Koesler proceeded, “to approach this logically, more for my own benefit than anyone else’s.” Not far from him on the table was a legal pad with a few unused sheets. He pulled it to him and began making notes. It would help keep him on track.

“The status of Ridley’s health, particularly over the past year, was no great secret,” Koesler continued. “Partly in the gossip columns and partly on the entertainment pages of the newspapers, we could read both rumors and facts about Ridley. So, anyone interested in knowing how he was doing—or, more pointedly, how badly off he was—could find out easily.

“All of us, for varying reasons, were linked to Rid. All of us, particularly you five, were affected by him. So, it is quite likely—probable?—certain?—that we all knew his health was delicate and deteriorating.

“We knew he was a diabetic, that he had high blood pressure, that he had suffered heart attacks and was prone to having more. We might even have known—or guessed—that he had contracted AIDS. There was a popular rumor to that effect.

“In any case, it would have been simple for any of us to guess that he would not likely survive a serious emotional strain.” Koesler continued to make notes. And he spoke more slowly, seeming to choose his words ever more carefully.

“Now,” Koesler continued, “before he died just a few days ago, Rid had gone to Orchestra Hall. Afterward, he went to his office, where he wrote a review of the evening’s concert. Then he went through his mail. And in that particular batch of mail were letters from four of you—Mitch, Charlie, Dave, and Valerie.

“Ridley read each letter, one after the other, growing more furious and agitated as he did so.

“Now I read these letters just before you came tonight, and I must admit they are provocative. The information you threatened to make public was no secret to Ridley. In fact, due to my association with Rid and the rest of you, it was no surprise to me.

“But these were all old, old skeletons. Why would you all pick this particular time to threaten Rid with their revelations? For there is no doubt—am I correct, Inspector?—that Rid died of a massive coronary as a result of reading those letters?”

Koesler looked toward Koznicki for corroboration. The Inspector nodded.

“By no stretch of the imagination,” Koesler continued, “could this be a coincidence. All these letters dredging up the very worst of Rid’s past at the same time. Either you all got together and agreed to do this now—in which case you would have counted on the cumulative effect of your letters to cause Rid’s death. Or—and I tend to think this is the case—some outside agent prompted each of you individually to get it off your chest. Did you all, indeed, get some sort of invitation to strike back at Rid? Did you get some sort of letter that prompted you to write?”

He looked expectantly from one to the other and was more than mildly surprised that each of them readily nodded. Koesler was even more startled that each likewise wore a combined bewildered and bemused expression.

“We’ve already been through this, Father,” Papkin said.

Koesler knew he had blundered. He tried not to blush. But the more effort he put into it, the more he reddened.

“Each of these four claims to have received a letter inviting him or her to threaten to reveal their charges against Groendal.” Sarcasm was evident in Papkin’s voice. He began to pace restlessly, one hand deep in his pocket rattling change.

“We’ve got the letters these people received, Father.” Ewing’s tone was conciliatory. “Each of them is identical with the others. They don’t appear to be copies; each seems to be a typed original. And, of course, there’s no signature. The letters just end with the words from another victim of Ridley Groendal.

“The presumption is that one of these four sent the invitation to all four, including himself—or herself.” Papkin’s tone clearly implied that they were wasting valuable time that might have been used in the continuing police investigation.

“The type in the invitation doesn’t match the type in any of the hate letters sent to Groendal. So whoever wrote the invitational letter used another typewriter. We haven’t found it yet. But we’re looking.” Again the implication that the police would find “the smoking gun” if only they were left to do their job.

“Well . . . I’m sorry,” Koesler fumbled. “I should have known that you would have investigated that. How stupid of me!”

“Not at all, Father. You were only trying to be helpful,” Koznicki said. “But I’m curious; tell me: What made you think there had been an invitation? It might just as easily have been the result of an agreement between the letter writers.”

“Well . . .” Koesler pushed the legal pad away; from now on he would wing it. “. . . A number of things, really. I kind of had my suspicion bolstered tonight when I had a chance to read the letters sent to Rid.

“There was a recurring phrase in each of the letters. Something about ‘the time has come.’ Each letter contained that phrase. As if someone had suggested that Ridley had overstayed his welcome and was overdue for revenge. As if someone had programmed the response ‘the time has come’ by stating forcefully that the time, indeed, had come.

“If these four had conspired among themselves in sending their letters to Ridley, they surely would have taken pains to make sure each letter was entirely different from the others. Editors, politicians, and I’m sure, the police, when they get more than one letter regarding a specific issue, are on the lookout for repeated phrases that indicate a form letter or, at the very least, collusion. These are intelligent people. If they had conspired, they certainly wouldn’t have let that phrase—‘the time has come’—appear in each and every letter. No, somebody had to have invited them to write.”

“Interesting, Father.” The Inspector nodded. “And that’s exactly the conclusion we ourselves had reached.” Ewing’s face registered no emotion; Papkin seemed bored. “However,” the Inspector went on, “you said that reading the letters sent to Groendal merely bolstered a suspicion . . . a suspicion that you already held. Is that not correct?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

There was a good deal of shifting about in chairs. Koesler knew he’d better get to the point soon. “Well,” he said, “I was sort of subconsciously aware of that suspicion when I selected the first Scripture lesson that will be read at the funeral Mass tomorrow.

“Go on, Father.” By now, Koznicki was playing straight man for his friend, who seemed to be zeroing in on his target at his usual, gradual, systematic pace.

“When I selected the reading,” Koesler continued, “it seemed appropriate. But I didn’t know why it felt so right. It must have been something deep inside me dictating. Actually, it wasn’t until after we recited the rosary tonight for Ridley that everything sort of fell into place. And the first thing to tumble was my less-than-conscious reason for selecting that first reading.”

“What was—or rather—what is that first reading going to be?” Was the normally placid Inspector becoming impatient?

“I was getting to that. The reading is from the Second Book of Samuel in the Old Testament. I scarcely ever select that reading for a funeral Mass. It seldom seems appropriate. But for some, as I say, subconscious motive, I picked it for tomorrow.

“It tells the story of how King David mourned at the loss of his son Absalom. Now, even though David was reluctant to admit it, Absalom had to be killed. Even so, David became inconsolable when he was finally informed that his son had been killed. And David says, ‘If only I had died instead of you.’”

Koesler paused. The others looked from one to another. No one seemed to be able to make any sense out of what the priest had said.

Koesler looked intently at each of the guests seated in this barren squad room and very deliberately repeated the quotation, directing it at each of them in turn: “If only I had died instead of you.”

There followed a painful silence.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Charlie Hogan said. “He ruined my life. I wouldn’t have died instead of him.”

“Same here,” Carroll Mitchell said. “He did everything he could to block me from what I deserved. Honestly, I’m glad the bastard’s dead.”

“To borrow from Rhett Butler,” Dave Palmer said, “frankly I don’t give a damn. If anything, I’d have to agree with Mr. Mitchell here. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Last but by no means least, Valerie chimed in. “I’m afraid, to be brutally honest, I go a bit beyond these gentlemen. I had rather hoped it was my letter that killed the asshole!”

“Well,” said Koesler, “that accounts for almost everyone.”

“Whaddya mean almost? That is everyone,” Sergeant Papkin said brusquely.

“Not quite,” Koesler replied. “Not quite.” He looked steadily at Peter Harison.

“What?” Harison seemed to be waking from a shallow slumber. “What? You can’t . . . you can’t mean me! Why, I was Rid’s dearest friend. I was . . . well, you simply can’t mean me. Of all the people here—of all the people in the world—I have got to be the least likely suspect. I say! This is ridiculous! I loved Ridley Groendal!”

“Yes, you did,” Koesler affirmed. “In fact, you were the one I was subconsciously thinking of when I selected that reading. Of you alone might it be said, ‘If only I had died instead of you.’”

“Look here: If you are referring to AIDS, I did not give that disease to Rid. I took a test for AIDS—after Rid’s death. It came out negative.” He looked to Koznicki for corroboration.

The Inspector nodded. “That is correct; Mr. Harison underwent testing at our request.”

“I told you how Rid got that disease,” Harison continued. “And,” he almost spat the words at the priest, “I told you in confidence!”

“It has nothing to do with how Rid got AIDS, Peter. And nothing you or Ridley told me in confidence has anything to do with this.”

“Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the other night, when Ridley Groendal died. If you could have died in his stead, I’m sure you would have.”

Harison loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “Well, Father, that’s very nice of you to say. But it has no relevance here. The police are trying to discover which of these people invited the others to vent their spleen, as it were, on Ridley. That has nothing to do with me.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Koesler pulled the legal pad back and began making notations again. “I think everybody has wondered about the fact that Ridley opened and read all four letters on the same evening and consecutively—even though they had not all been mailed on the same day.

“Now, from your own statements in the papers and on radio and TV, you maintained that you were the one who prepared and presented his mail to Rid.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That Rid did not suffer his fatal seizure until he had opened and read all four letters. It was the cumulative effect that brought on his death. And, although the letters were mailed at different times—even on different days—they were presented to Rid at one and the same time, all together, one after another, by you—you who were the only one who knew the part all four of the others had played in Ridley’s past life.”

The four looked at each other as if in tacit assurance of ignorance as to each other’s past role in Ridley Groendal’s life.

Harison, however, seemed to gain a measure of assurance. As if he suddenly had become aware that he had betrayed some anxiety a few moments before, he quickly rebuttoned his shirt and slipped his tie taut to his neck.

“Well, I don’t know who knows what—and I don’t see how you could prove whether they did or didn’t. As for the letters being presented all at once, there’s nothing greatly unusual about that. Really! I mean, you know the post office, particularly around Christmastime. They’re swamped. It’s notorious that mail is delivered helter-skelter at this time of year.

“Besides, we only dropped in at Rid’s office periodically. By no means did we get to his mail on a regular basis. It was quite ordinary for it to back up so that we had to go through quite a pile. It was the rule, not the exception, for us to open mail that had been delivered over the course of many days—sometimes a week or more.

“As to the fact that he opened the letters from these four people consecutively, well, yes, that’s the order in which I gave them to him, I suppose. But routinely, I always stack the junk mail, notices, releases, announcements together. I always put the first class mail at the end. And there seldom is much first class mail at the office. So it’s easily understandable that Rid would have letters that could very well have been delivered at different times. And that they would be together in the first class mail.” Harison appeared quite self-assured.

“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.”