Masquerade

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 cinema verite. . 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 might. 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.”

“Astute,” Tully murmured under his breath. Then he said, “Let’s go, Mang.”

“Let me go to the door with you,” Koesler said. Whatever else he might accomplish in the near future, he was intent on apologizing to the officers. Any number of times in his past Koesler had felt like a complete idiot, but never more than now.

The three men left the dining room, as did the kitchen and serving staff.

Remaining in the room were the unwitting and unwilling actors in the unfortunate psychodrama.

Janet sat at the table now cleared of dishes and accoutered with a fresh tablecloth and napkins. Marie and Martha flanked her. Winer and Benbow remained standing.

“It seems such a long time since we had dinner,” Benbow said slowly.

Winer glanced at his watch. “Yes, it does. But it’s only a couple of hours.” No one else spoke. The silence was punctuated only by the soft sounds Janet made; her tears flowed less abundantly now.

“I must apologize, Sister,” Benbow addressed Marie finally. “I’m afraid I said some pretty horrid things to you.”

Marie tried to smile but did not quite succeed. “I guess I returned the favor. Our introduction to each other did not get off to an auspicious beginning.”

Silence again.

“To be perfectly honest,” Benbow said, “I don’t know that we can return to point zero.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean,” Benbow continued, “just a few hours ago we were complete strangers to one another. And then in no time we were all but accusing one another of murder. After the bitterness of the things that were said, I don’t know whether we can go back and patch up our relationship.”

Silence.

“I’d like to think we could,” Marie said thoughtfully, “but you may very well be right. Maybe it is too late to return to a neutral position and build our relationship on friendlier ground. Maybe we ought to call off this conference.”

Janet looked at Marie in horror.

“No,” Winer said with authority. “There are reasons-compelling reasons-why we must hold this workshop just as planned. For one thing, we have an obligation to those who signed up for it. They’ll be coming in tomorrow. It’s not their fault that things have gotten off to such a bad beginning.”

Janet looked relieved.

“And. .?”Benbow prodded.

“And. . what?” Winer said.

“Look, I agree with you completely,” Benbow said. “We are honor bound to give the students their money’s worth. No doubt about that. But you spoke in the plural. You said there were reasons why we had to go on.”

Winer smiled briefly. “I, for one, want to find out what comes next.”

“Next?” Marie said.

“Yes. Until Sister Janet spoke up a few minutes ago, I had no idea whatsoever why this particular group had been selected as the ‘faculty’ for this conference. And I assume the same could be said for the rest of you?” He looked around for a reaction.

“Well,” Marie said, “we’re all authors of mystery novels with a religious motif.”

“Yes,” Winer agreed, “But we aren’t the only ones doing that. Just as a matter of conjecture, I had been wondering why each individual here had been selected. I thought the core of the secret was revealed when, before dinner, we learned that each of us had been offered a contract by P.G. Press. And that each of us had turned said contract down.

“But now a new element has been added. Our would-be publisher insisted that we-specifically each one of us-be invited. He made this a condition of his acceptance. I find that both odd and intriguing.”

“So do I,” Benbow said.

“And I,” Marie agreed. “Not only did he, in effect, invite us, he wanted to play a game with us.”

“Like marionettes on a string,” Benbow added.

“And that’s why,” Winer said, “I especially want to stay for the next act. I can’t think he had us invited just to play a trick on us. If we’re going to discover the reason, we’re going to have to play this out. Only now, I feel certain, we know something else is coming.”

Marie shuddered. “But what? I feel as if I’m going in two directions at once. I want to leave and I want to stay. I distinctly don’t want to play games with a madman.”

“I have a feeling, Sister,” Winer said, “that Krieg is not the sort of person who accepts no for an answer graciously. We’ve already rejected his proposal to join his publishing empire. Once again, it seems perfectly obvious he has something else in store for us. What’s he really up to?”

“The rabbi has a point, Sister,” Benbow said. “I’d rather face Krieg and get it over with. Besides, whatever he has in mind can’t be that serious. Probably just something in very bad taste.”

“Of course,” Winer said, “all this hypothesis we’ve been bandying about is predicated on the fact that all the games we know about have been played.” He purposefully focused on Janet. “There aren’t any more games or plots-that you know about-are there, Sister? I mean, there weren’t any more ‘conditions’ that Mr. Regan agreed to. . are there?”

Janet shook her head vigorously. “No, no more conditions.”

“By the way, Sister,” Winer said, “just where is the man of the hour, the erstwhile corpse? The Reverend Krieg is not staying with us?”

“Oh, dear,” Janet said, “I forgot. There was one more stipulation. That was that he also have a room available for him off-campus. I remember Jack saying that the Reverend asked specifically about living conditions here. Jack said he tried to be as realistic as possible about the residence rooms. The Reverend asked Jack to book a room for him at the Westin.”

“In the Renaissance Center?” Marie asked.

“That’s right,” Janet said.

Marie pursed her lips. It was a prestigious riverfront hotel in that section of downtown Detroit that still worked.

Benbow whistled softly. “I think he’s trying to tell us something. His own residence. His own liquor supply. His own food.”

“His own food?” Marie said.

“Didn’t you see his henchman get him a dinner different than we had?” Benbow said. “I firmly believe he’s trying to tell us something: that he not only is different from the rest of us, he’s better-and merits better accommodations.”

“As long as we’re dealing with comparisons,” Marie said, “there’s one area where he very definitely surpasses us: money.”

“No argument there, Sister,” Benbow said.

Winer ran a hand through his trim beard. “Are we not forgetting someone?”

The others looked at him inquiringly.

“Father Augustine,” Winer said. “Whatever happened to Father Augustine?”

Janet almost laughed aloud. “I confess I forgot about him. . or, at least stopped worrying about him the moment I heard the poor man snore.”

It was a much needed release of tension; they all roared with laughter.

“Then, Sister,” Winer said, “it is safe to assume that Father Augustine’s plight, whatever it is, was not part of the psychodrama Reverend Krieg and Mr. Regan arranged.”

Janet was wiping her eyes, teared this time by laughing, not crying. “No. . no. I don’t know what was wrong with the poor man. Jet lag, upset stomach, I have no idea. One thing I am quite sure of: He is being well cared for. The students who volunteered to help him are very responsible young people. They said they would call a doctor and I’m sure they have. They would have told us if it were serious. In this case, I’m sure, no news is good news.

“But, so that we’ll all sleep well, I will check into the medical status of Father Augustine. I’ll just slip the information under each of your doors.”

“Speaking of which,” Martha glanced at her watch, “it’s still rather early, but I can’t remember when I’ve been this tired. If there isn’t anything more on the agenda-and for the life of me I can’t think of what could possibly follow what we’ve been through-if we’re done for the evening, I think I’ll just retire.”

Winer looked at Sister Janet. “I take it, Sister, that the visit to our classrooms that you announced after dinner was no more than a ploy to get us away from ‘the scene of the crime,’ and that there is really no need to go there before the sessions tomorrow.”

Janet nodded.

“Then,” Winer said, “I feel you have touched upon a consensus, Mrs. Benbow. It’s off to bed we go.”

“Amen,” Marie said.

Benbow stifled a yawn. “So much for our first exciting night in Dynamic Detroit.”

And so, not one by one, but as a group, they left the dining room and its memories not of food but of surprises.

Meanwhile, between the dining room and the front door of the Madame Cadillac Building, Father Koesler had been talking virtually nonstop, apprising the two officers of all that had happened that evening.

The gathering of the writers; the gradual and mutual realization that each had been solicited by Krieg; the immediate sense of agreement that they would have prostituted their talent had they had the misfortune to sign with Krieg; the dramatic entry of Krieg partway through dinner; the departure of everyone but Krieg from the dining area; the gunshot; finding Krieg “dead”; the false alarm with Augustine; the confrontation between Winer, Benbow, and Marie as to which might have had the opportunity to murder Krieg; and finally, his call to Homicide.

Koesler was anxious that Tully and Mangiapane understand what had prompted him to summon them. He realized he undoubtedly would have saved them the trouble of coming out had he gone through the routine of calling 911. Surely an officer or two from the precinct could have observed the absence of a victim as easily as experts from Homicide.

Koesler felt about as sorry as anyone had ever felt about anything.

Throughout Koesler’s detailed explanation, Tully paid only peripheral attention. He was just drained. It was really the end of his shift. With any luck, in a short while he could check out and go home. He would get a bit to eat, an extravagant hot shower and, again with any luck, a relaxing back rub. And so to sleep.

Not quite as tired, Mangiapane was relishing Koesler’s tale.

After Koesler had expressed his contrition for the umpteenth time, Mangiapane said, “You don’t have to feel so bad, Father.”

“I don’t?”

“This isn’t the first time we got fooled by some kind of scam.”

They had reached the exit. Tully was eager to leave and start the process that would, the sooner the better, free him to go home, get some tender loving care, and sleep-in that order.

Unfortunately, Mangiapane had begun a tale told out of school. Tully knew the story but he decided to endure it once again. He knew Mangiapane was telling the story for Koesler’s benefit. And, well, what the hell, the priest had been through an ordeal himself this evening. Maybe learning that he was not alone in failing for a fictional mystery scam would make Koesler feel better. The priest might get some sleep tonight but it would not be preceded by any tender loving care. Too bad, Tully thought, but that’s the way the collar buttons.

“This is a true story, Father,” Mangiapane continued. “It started when a guy got a piece of mail, no return address, just a plain piece of paper with threatening words all over it-like ‘murder,’ ‘kill,’ ‘an unsolved crime,’ ‘sudden death.’ The words looked like they came from newspapers, magazines, other publications. Just these words cut out.

“The guy couldn’t figure out why he got this threatening letter, but he was plenty scared. And he stayed scared, getting dead-bolt locks on his doors, double-checking the back seat of his car before getting in, parking near street lights at night, the whole thing.

“Then about ten days later, he gets another letter. Just like the first one, this has no return address. Just a plain envelope containing another plain piece of paper with threatening words cut out of various types of publications.

“By this time, the guy is scared enough to come to us. We took it pretty serious too. In fact we started an investigation. Sure enough, in another week, the guy gets another anonymous threatening letter. Now, none of these letters specifically threatens him personally; they’re just filled with life-threatening words. And we keep adding to the file.”

Koesler interrupted. “Did you put him under-what’s it called? — protective custody?”

Mangiapane chuckled. “You mean like they do in the movies, where almost an entire police department stops everything they’re doing and guards some potential victim for twenty-four-hour periods? So nobody can get close?”

The way Mangiapane rephrased the question, Koesler knew the answer was no.

“That just doesn’t happen in real life, Father,” Mangiapane said. “There’s no possible way we can protect anybody who decides he’s gonna do what he ordinarily does. If he’s gonna go to work, walk outside, go out to eat, his regular routine-he’s fair game.

“The only way we can protect somebody is if he agrees to retreat to a safe place. Say a hotel room or a jail cell. We’ve got to control the environment before we can offer secure protection.

“Anyway, this file we were keeping was filling out pretty good when, finally, he gets a piece of mail identical to the others, except this one promises the murder is gonna take place on Mackinac Island-at the Grand Hotel. And this time there’s a return address-a travel agency in Royal Oak.

“Needless to say, the guys working this case hopped right over to the agency and really rattled their cage.

“The thing turned out to be a brand new enterprise for the agency. They were sponsoring a ‘Mystery Weekend’ at the Grand Hotel. . not an awful lot different from your little psychodrama here. The agency was sending out fliers to likely customers. It turns out that this guy and we were the only ones who were taking it serious.

“When our guys were pinning this travel agent to the wall, all the poor guy could say was, ‘But it was just promotion.’ I can tell you one thing, Father: It’ll be a long time before that guy tries another tricky promotion like that.”

“And,” Tully added, “it’ll be a long time before we fall for another stunt like that. By the way, Father, that story was meant for your consolation-not for publication.”

“I can keep a secret,” Koesler assured.

“Yeah, you can, can’t you,” Tully replied.

“And,” Koesler added, as the two detectives were leaving the building, “thanks.”

Koesler returned to the dining area. Finding no one there, he assumed-correctly-that the others had retired for the night. He decided to do the same.

Before entering the room, he noticed a sign on the bulletin board advising that Mass would be at 8:00 a.m. in the chapel. On entering his room, he found a note from Sister Janet, asking him to say the morning Mass. The note had a postscript regarding the condition of Father Augustine: A doctor had pronounced him indisposed but very much alive.

It was only then that Koesler realized he had completely forgotten Father Augustine. He had moved from reported death to a healthy snore to a normal prognosis. Koesler had been so distracted by other developments that, for all practical purposes, Augustine’s condition had been blocked out. How soon they forget!