Man Who Loved God

Thirteen

Father Tully looked forward to a pleasant evening.

He would walk the few blocks from St. Joseph’s rectory to police headquarters, where at four-thirty this afternoon he was to meet his brother’s superior officer, Inspector Walter Koznicki.

The inspector was to give the priest a tour of headquarters, during which they would get to know each other. Then at about six, they would be joined by Alonzo and Anne Marie Tully and they would all dine at a downtown restaurant.

From what he’d seen of downtown Detroit at the end of the business day, Father Tully felt justified in being a bit apprehensive. His consolation was that two of their party would be wearing guns.

Actually, an abnormal fear of the city was really uncalled for. It was merely his way of entertaining himself as he walked.

The priest was not afraid of Detroit-day or night-though he preferred not to hang around alone on a dark corner of the city. And he would have been happier if no one carried a gun.

Headquarters-1300 Beaubien-was an impressive structure. A sizable block of brick and marble, its statement was that it had been here a while and it would stand for the foreseeable future.

He climbed the steps to the lobby and entered an anthill of uniformed police and others whose casual familiarity with the place and each other indicated they were plainclothes officers.

He received many cordial nods as he made his way to the elevator. This he attributed to his clerical collar. So far in Detroit, he had worn clericals more often in a few days than he would in his Dallas parish in a month. But the man for whom he was pinch-hitting seemed to favor the uniform. It was far easier, he admitted, to follow suit … an unintentional pun.

The elevator introduced him to the fifth floor; signs directed him to the Homicide Division, where a helpful officer ushered him to the inspector’s office.

He could tell that Inspector Koznicki’s smile of welcome was genuine. The priest had volumes of experience with plastic smiles. This was not one of them. Koznicki was sincerely happy to welcome the brother of his favorite officer. The happiness was multiplied since the visitor was a priest. Inspector Koznicki was very much a practicing Catholic.

They sat across the desk from each other.

The setting put Father Tully in mind of Gulliver’s Travels.

It was an ordinary office with ordinary furnishings. But the man whose office it was seemed many times too big for it.

Koznicki was not huge in a freakish way. He was-in the same sense as John Wayne-larger than life. And, at least in these circumstances, as friendly as a St. Bernard.

After opening pleasantries, the priest detailed his relationship to his newfound relative. The inspector was impressed with their unusual discovery of each other after so many years. And how vastly different were their backgrounds, given each had the same father.

The inspector explained that since several matters demanded his immediate attention he would have one of his officers show Father Tully around.

The priest marveled at how he was attracting “B” level guides. First a bank officer had been detailed by Tom Adams to show him the city. Now Inspector Koznicki was about to deputize someone to show him the department.

But first, Koznicki wondered, was there any word from his friend Father Koesler?

It seemed to Father Tully that the Detroit Police Department-at least in the persons of Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Tully-missed Father Koesler as much as Father Koesler missed Detroit.

Father Tully recounted this afternoon’s call from the once and future pastor. “Father Koesler is staying with a priest classmate in Collingwood. I gather that Leo Rammer will do anything to keep from playing golf, which pleases Bob… I guess his game has gone.to rust.”

“I think,” Koznicki said, “he never was very serious about the game. Lately he has played most infrequently, if at all.” He chuckled. “Listen to me. ‘Lately’! It has been years.” He smiled again. “It is funny how the time seems to compress as the years pile up on one. I am surprised Father even took his clubs with him.”

“A mistake, I think. Each thought the other had kept at it. I think they’re both glad neither wants to hit the links.”

“Besides not playing golf, what else is Father doing?”

“Sightseeing, it seems. Yesterday they took in a boat cruise in the Muskoka-Georgian Bay area. He says-well, I guess Canada claims-there are thirty thousand islands in that bay. Says it’s the largest concentration of islands in the world. I didn’t ask if he’d counted them.”

Koznicki smiled broadly.

“While they were in the neighborhood, they took a look at something the locals claim is unique. It’s called Big Chute. I’m not too clear on what it does, but I gather it substitutes for locks that move boats from one waterway to another. Seems they ran out of money at that point to build a conventional lock, So some engineering geniuses devised this mechanical lift that moves both back and forth. It’s based on some sort of cable or pulley technique.

“Anyway, I think the main purpose of Bob’s call was to find out if I was keeping his parish in the condition to which it is accustomed.”

The inspector nodded. “Did you tell him about that sorry business at the bank? Your being in Detroit does have something to do with the Adams Bank, does it not?”

“That’s right. I came here to present the St. Peter Claver Award to Mr. Adams. I did tell Bob about the murder of the branch manager. Of course Bob knew about the branch opening. And he knew of Tom Adams, although they’d never met. And even if he hadn’t gone on vacation, he wouldn’t have known any of the principals in that tragedy. It was just an accident that I’d met all those people.

“But I’ll tell you this: I am very impressed with Tom Adams. He puts his money where his ethics are-”

Koznicki answered the phone before it could ring a second time. One thick eyebrow raised. He handed the phone to the priest. “For you, Father.”

“Hello, Father Tully here.”

“Fred Margan here, Father.”

The voice wasn’t familiar, but he recalled the name. It was the guide Adams had appointed to show the priest the city. “I remember you.”

“It was my pleasure, Father. You certainly have heard of the tragic death of our man, Allan Ulrich?”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

“Thanks. Father, I’m calling for Mr. Adams. This has really hit him hard. He would have made this call, but he is just laid low.”

“I am so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Mr. Adams wondered if you could say a few words at the funeral. Neither Al nor his wife had any real religious affiliation. So the widow has no one to call on. And since Al and Mr. Adams were so close in life, Mr. Adams is doing all he can to help. And he wondered … if it isn’t too much to ask …”

“No, I’ll do it, of course. I don’t know where or when the funeral’s scheduled-”

“It’s Monday morning at ten, from the funeral home. I’ll pick you up at your rectory at nine-thirty if that’s all right with you.”

“See you then. In the meantime, my condolences to Mr. Adams-and to the widow, if you see her.”

“Sure. And thanks.”

Father Tully returned the phone to the inspector. As he explained the call, Koznicki nodded in understanding and agreement.

“Well,” the inspector said, as he stood, “I guess it is about time for your tour. I hope it will not be boring.”

“Hardly!”

As the inspector reached for the phone to summon the priest’s guide, there was a staccato knock at the door. Before Koznicki could acknowledge it, the door opened and a detective leaned in. “Sorry to interrupt, Inspector, but I thought you’d want to know: some guys from narcotics have nailed the guy we think pulled off that bank job this morning.”

“Where is he?”

“Holed up in a house on the east side-Newport. He’s armed and he’s got a hostage.”

“There are officers on the scene?”

“More by the minute.”

“We will go.” The inspector grabbed his jacket.

“May I go with you?” Father Tully spoke on the spur of the moment.

Koznicki hesitated.

“I’ll stay out of your way. But I would like to follow this through.”

“Very well, Father. But you must stay out of harm’s way.”

As they left the police garage, the inspector half turned toward Father Tully. “If you listen carefully to the radio you will know what is going on at the scene. It will be somewhat garbled and there’s some static, but listen and you will understand.”

True to his words, the air was filled with voices, some agitated, some calm and authoritative. Without doubt, the situation had to be filled with tension and danger.

They arrived at the scene in minutes. The neighborhood had turned out as if this were a traveling circus performing live now for the spectators’ entertainment. The police had cordoned off an ample area around a nondescript two-story house, and were directing onlookers even farther away from the action. The area was ringed by uniformed officers, as well as members of the Special Response Team.

Before joining his troops, Inspector Koznicki again warned Father Tully not to leave the car.

There was no reason for the priest to leave the car. It was parked close enough, although within an area of safety, that the priest could follow much of the action without peril.

He spotted his brother half kneeling behind a police car. Someone was with him, someone familiar. It was the FBI agent-what had Zoo called him? — Rug … Harold Rughurst.

Seeing the two together reminded Father Tully of the differing theories about this crime. His brother and Rughurst had pretty much agreed that the perpetrator was someone off the streets and probably on drugs. He had shot Ulrich in much the same manner a hunter might casually kill an in-season animal. And as an indication that this was indeed the case, the poor fool had tried to break into a bank vault with a sledgehammer.

Father Tully’s scenario was considerably more complicated. In his scheme, one of the bank’s executive vice presidents, for self-protection, wanted Al Ulrich dead. He did not or could hot do the deed himself. So he hired someone to do it and to make it look as if the motive had been robbery, when what actually was intended was murder.

Whichever theory might be valid, the answer lay with the young man in that house. Soon, if this confrontation ended peacefully and successfully, everyone would know that answer.

Father Tully scrutinized the crowd. Some seemed highly agitated, as if wondering, How could something this violent be happening in my neighborhood? Some were quite unconcerned, as if they were watching an unexciting television program. Some seemed to be celebrating the action. They were laughing and joking. Father Tully could picture them betting on the outcome.

He jumped, startled when the driver’s side door opened and someone slid into the car. He relaxed when he saw it was a uniformed Detroit policeman.

The priest offered his hand. The officer, eyes on the outside action, didn’t notice the gesture. The priest cleared his throat.

“Oh … hi, Father. I’m Patrolman Teasly, Bob Teasly. Inspector Koznicki sent me.

“I wasn’t going to leave the car,” the priest said defensively.

“Nothin’ said about leaving the car, Father. I’m just s’posed to make sure nothing happens to you. That was the inspector’s idea. He thought maybe I could tell you exactly what’s goin’ on.”

“Okay … uh, Bob?”

“Yeah, Bob is okay.”

“So, what’s going on?”

“You really Zoo’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“You sure don’t look it. And nobody can get over Zoo havin’ a priest for a brother.”

“Put your last buck on it.”

“My, my. Wow.”

“So, what’s going on?”

“Well, Father, it all started this mornin’ when that bank was broken into and the manager killed. Some of the narc guys called in some markers and got a name. They put out an all-points. The kid’s name is Lamar Burt. “Then a 911 came in: wife abuse. Turns out the lady’s a live-in, they ain’t married, but her man is Lamar Burt. Our precinct crew responded before we matched the two, but the dispatcher reached our guys before they got here, and told ’em the murder suspect, and the abuser were the same guy. Lucky he got ’em in time or we coulda had a couple of officers down.

“The first crew kept the place under surveillance while they called for backup-plenty of backup ’cause once Lamar got the idea of what was goin’ down outside, he opened up-uh, started shooting.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Luckily, no-not yet, anyway. What’s goin’ on right now is bargaining. We got a phone connection and our negotiator is trying to talk sense into the suspect. There’s no out for him: we got him one way or the other. We’re just tryin’ to find some things to concede that’ll get him to come out peaceably.

“Right now, I think we’re tryin’ to get him to let his lady go. He’s holding her hostage.”

“What’s that … over there?” The priest indicated a mobile trailer parked on the lawn not far from them.

“That? Oh, that’s SRT.”

“What’s that?”

The patrolman smiled. “Special Response Team-that’s the department’s version of SWAT. Anytime we get a barricaded gunman, this team is called in.”

They watched in silence. After a few minutes, the patrolman started whistling softly. “Pretty impressive, eh, Father?”

“Yeah. Looks like they’re wearing enough body armor to go to the lists.”

“The what?”

“The lists. You know, in the olden days, the knights would put on their armor, be lifted onto their horses-which also had armor-and accelerate headlong toward each other with huge lances. The object was to unseat the other horseman. It was a tilting tournament-you know: jousting.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it in the movies. Like in Camelot?”

“Right. And Sir Lancelot not only unseated one of his opponents, he killed him and then brought him back to life.”

The patrolman shook his head. “I sure hope it doesn’t come to that now.”

“What?”

“If the shooting starts again, somebody’s gonna be dead … but’ I don’t think anybody’s gonna bring ’em back.”

“You think this is going to end violently?”

“I sure hope not. As long as they’re talkin’ most likely nobody’ll start shooting.”

Even as they spoke, the police negotiator shrugged, shook his head, and put down the phone. The priest and the patrolman looked at each other. “What now?” Father Tully asked.

“We’ll have to wait. I’ve seen ’em come out like babies, cryin’ and rollin’ around on the ground. And I’ve seen ’em come out like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”