22
Inspector Koznicki followed Koesler out to Norman’s Eton Street Station in his own car, so they arrived at about the same time. Norman’s was a restaurant in what had once been a railroad station. Koesler had selected it because it was managed by a parishioner, so they would be able to order very little, enjoy privacy and, at the same time, not vex the staff.
Once inside, Koesler introduced the inspector to James McIntyre and explained the purpose of their visit. The personable manager showed them to an out-of-the-way alcove table and gave instructions to their waiter.
Both Koesler and Koznicki ordered decaffeinated coffee. The waiter promptly brought the coffee and a basket of breadsticks. He would return periodically to refill their cups.
It had been longer than usual since the two had last met, so initially they filled each other in on what had been happening in their lives. Koesler spoke of Christmas, always an especially joyful event in his parish, with the crêche, the decorated evergreens, the sanctuary filled to overflowing with poinsettias. The choir had done exceptionally well this year.
Koznicki spoke of Christmas with his wife and, for a change, all of his children, their spouses, and their children. It was rare that all were free to gather together for the holidays. After a few minutes, the Inspector paused. He sensed his friend was distracted by what had occurred earlier.
“Troubled, Father?”
“Oh, I guess so. A bit.”
Koznicki waved a massive hand. The waiter approached to fill their cups. He checked the breadbasket, but it was still nearly full.
“You should not be troubled, Father. A case is solved and you were pivotal in its solution. That should give you a feeling of satisfaction.”
“Huh? Oh, I suppose so . . .”
“Yet there is something. What is it?”
“Would you police actually have checked Peter Harison’s typewriter? Would you have discovered who really invited those others to write to Ridley? Would you have found ‘the smoking gun’ without my lucky guess?”
Koznicki smiled briefly. “You do yourself a disservice, Father. It was not a lucky guess. It was an excellent piece of deduction. As for whether we could have checked and found Mr. Harison’s typewriter,’” Koznicki spread his hands, “well, that is a matter of pure speculation.”
“Then, would you mind speculating?”
“Difficult.” Koznicki sipped the coffee. “I suspect we would have gotten around to it, providing we spent enough time on the case. We were trying to cover every angle. There was the syringe under the desk—which, as far as we could ascertain, turned out to be quite innocuous; there was nothing in it but traces of insulin. Then there was the AIDS question; we asked Mr. Harison to undergo a test for that—which, as you now know, turned out negative. As for the ‘smoking gun,’ as you term it, in all likelihood, we would have first tried to exhaust the possibility that any of the original four might have used a typewriter other than their own. While that would have taken many man hours, we already had several detectives on the case besides Sergeants Papkin and Ewing.
“Failing that, I suspect we would have searched among those who hated Groendal—and I take it there were many.”
Koesler exhaled audibly. “As the stars in the sky or the sands of the desert.”
“Perhaps out of sheer desperation we would eventually have come to Mr. Harison. But, of course, we were looking for an enemy—of which, as you state, there were many—not a friend.”
“Then I misled Peter when I told him the police would have discovered that his typewriter was the one they were looking for.”
“Not necessarily. It was a fair assumption. And, in the end, probably was true.”
“There’s something nagging at me, though,” Koesler said. “Why didn’t Peter just destroy those four letters, I wonder? I mean after Rid had his fatal seizure? Then everyone would just have thought Ridley had merely suffered a heart attack. With his medical history, it certainly would come as no surprise to anyone that Rid would go that way without any outside provocation.”
“It is a good point.” The Inspector pondered as he sipped more coffee. “Why did Nixon not destroy the tapes? Probably because enough people knew the tapes existed that, had they been destroyed, and had their existence been subsequently revealed, their destruction would have aroused suspicions. Even more so in this case. Each of four people knew that he or she had sent a most inflammatory and threatening letter to Groendal. It would be only natural for one—or all, for that matter—to wonder what had happened to his or her letter. All that needed to happen was for one of them to raise the question—to poke around the Suburban Reporter’s newsroom, to ask someone in the news media. Just to become inquisitive about what had happened to the letter. If one questioned the matter, certainly the others would join in. At that point, Harison, as the one who sorted and presented all Groendal’s mail, would be hard-pressed to explain the absence of these letters.
“Better to let the letters alone and let them point to the writers as the probable guilty parties.
“Harison simply could not know that the instigation of the letters would be traced back to him. Or, he took the chance they would not be.”
Koznicki caught Koesler gazing longingly as a diner some tables away lit a cigarette. It had been many years since the priest had given up smoking. If he was being tempted at this late date, Koznicki concluded his friend must be in a very distraught state. Koznicki leaned forward. “It is Peter Harison, is it not? You are concerned over what is happening to him.”
Koesler looked intensely at Koznicki and nodded.
The Inspector glanced at his watch. “He should be processed by now. It may be time enough to check on what is happening. Would you excuse me, Father?”
“For that? Gladly.”
During the approximately fifteen minutes Koznicki was gone, Koesler absently gazed at the Christmas decorations. In addition to the basic green and red, there was a generous sprinkling of attractions for children, including a Santa. All in keeping with the restaurant’s merited claim to be a “family” dining establishment. Because his parishioner managed the place, Koesler felt especially pleased by its success.
So lost in thought was he that he was taken by surprise when Koznicki resumed his chair. The inspector wore just the hint of a smile.
“Good news?” Koesler was eager.
“Tentative, but, yes, good news. At least as good as the news could be at this stage.”
“You’ve talked to Peter.”
“No, to Sergeant Ewing. After he processed Mr. Harison and put him in a holding cell, he phoned the chief deputy prosecutor and explained the case. It was the prosecutor’s opinion that we have here a most rare, if not unique, case and that he would have to check it out first thing in the morning.”
“Excuse me, but check what?”
“Various statutes and cases, to determine what, if any, charge to bring. He will, after all, be the one to prosecute the case.”
“What happens to Peter in the meantime?”
“That is the part I think you will like. The prosecutor asked Sergeant Ewing if he thought Mr. Harison would try to escape if he were released overnight.”
“And?”
“And the sergeant said he thought not. And, in very truth, I must agree. So, Mr. Harison was ‘released to appear.’ That is a term we use to indicate that when we get a warrant, the prisoner must return to our custody.”
“That means that Peter will at least be able to attend the funeral tomorrow morning?”
“I would think so, yes. It probably will take several hours to formulate the case against him. So it should be at least midmorning before a determination is made.”