What was it? Something he had just been thinking of. They grew up watching mother pray the rosary. They grew up watching mother pray the rosary.
Thoughts tumbled into his mind. Unbidden, the thoughts came in no particular order. It was as if he had dropped the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle in the center of his brain with the accompanying urge to put them together so that the puzzle would make sense.
Klaus Krieg grew up watching his mother say the rosary? No, that wasn’t it. But something like that. What had the little boy watched his mother do?
Before Koesler could answer that, other pieces needed placement.
Instead of trying to find vestiges of Catholicism in what he’d seen of Krieg, Koesler tried to simply take an objective view of what he’d actually seen and heard Krieg do and say.
Gradually the jigsaw picture began to take shape. It revealed quite a different image than anyone had been looking at up to this time.
The question facing Koesler now: Would this picture hold up in the face of strong arguments against it? And he was not kidding himself: He was sure that even if he could join these fragments together so that they constituted a brand new theory of what had been going on here, he would face determined opposition. Indeed, opposition from the police who had been investigating the case. Opposition from the experts.
Koesler quite nearly quit at this point. Who was he kidding? He was no expert at solving crimes. The experts were upstairs now, questioning, challenging, solving the crime. And they were not even considering the scenario he’d seen with his mind’s eye as he put his own peculiar jigsaw puzzle together.
The trouble he faced now was that he was hesitant to test his theory. It seemed to him almost as if the theory were his baby, and he was afraid the baby was about to be declared ugly. But he could envision only two alternatives. One: swallow it; forget it. The police knew-or thought they knew-they were in the home stretch: They were homing in on the guilty party. They had hard evidence now that they’d found the remnants of the gasoline that, on the surface of it, was meant to blow Klaus Krieg sky-high. The temptation was strong to sit back and do nothing. It would be interesting to watch the remainder of this drama much like attending a movie. It seemed that the police were mere minutes away from a solution. But was it the solution?
Interesting question: Could it be possible for the police to solve this case incorrectly? What possible reason could there be for the police to be mistaken?
Two: The second alternative was to play out his hand as far as it would reach. The reason: It was probable the police lacked the insight he had as a Catholic priest and one who was interested in all aspects of religion. He owed it to his friend Walt Koznicki to test his hypothesis. He owed it to justice for the innocent as well as the guilty.
With any luck, it would require no more than a few phone calls. With a lot of luck, one call would do it.
Koesler walked to the general office. As he expected, Marygrove had a Catholic Directory of the Archdiocese of Detroit.
If nothing else, it had been a long time since he’d talked to his classmate, Father John Dunn. It would be pleasant to chat with him. And chat they would; John never used one word when he could think of two or three.
Koesler dialed 1-724-1135. Please God, let John be there and let this be the only call I have to make.
“You have reached Sacred Heart parish. This is the real-life Father John Dunn speaking. .”
“It’s Bob Koesler, John-”
“Bobby! It’s so nice for us out in the boondocks when one of you big city slickers remembers us.”
“John, though we seldom write, we never forget. But, as it is, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can we get down to business?”
“Ah, ’twas ever so.”
“John, I need some information you may have in your records about an individual-maybe a family. It should be a baptismal record, maybe a marriage record.”
“Are you going to take care of the bill for all this?”
“Quit kidding.”
“All right, what’s the name?”
“Krieg.”
Silence. Then: “What is this, a run on that family this week?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the second call I got this week on the Kriegs.”
It was Koesler’s turn to be taken aback. “Who else?”
“I forget the priest’s name. Said he was with the tribunal in Windsor.”
Koesler did not know what to make of this. It was completely unexpected-and was certain to require more phone calls. But, sufficient for the moment the mystery thereof. “Well, John,” he said, “let’s get with this before it’s time for the World Series.”
“Say, Bob, what about those Tigers? Things look pretty bleak for them this time around. Puts one in mind of ‘The score stood six to five for the Mudville Nine that day. .’”
Casey at the Bat! Well, it was small enough price to pay for finding Father Dunn at home and able to take nourishment.
23
When Father Koesler reached the classroom that was being used for the interrogation, he found it cordoned off by uniformed Detroit police. Evidently they had been instructed to allow him entree because, even as he hesitated, they opened a path for him.
He halted at the door of the classroom. A large two-way glass in the door permitted him to see into the room even if he could not hear what was being said. Whatever was going on must have been deadly serious judging from the expressions of those whose faces he could see. Sister Marie and Martha Benbow seemed to be in tears. The men looked as if they would be if it had been socially acceptable. He had arrived none too soon.
His knock at the door caused a look of surprise to supplant the intense grim expression everyone had been wearing. Lieutenant Tully appeared annoyed at the interruption. It was Inspector Koznicki who opened the door to Koesler.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your proceedings,” Koesler said.
“Quite all right, Father,” Koznicki said. “I fear we forgot you in the rush to begin this interrogation. Come right in.” He stepped back to let Koesler enter.
“If it’s all right with you, Inspector, instead of my coming in, I’d like to invite you to come out.”
Koznicki was clearly startled. “Come out? You want me to leave this interrogation?”
Koesler took a deep breath, then forged on. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. “Yes, Inspector, you, Lieutenant Tully, perhaps Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore. And … the Reverend Krieg.”
This select subcast of characters did consent-after some hesitation- to assemble in the office opposite the classroom. The police guards would ensure that the others, suspects all, would remain in their present classroom.
There was an air of expectancy in the office. Tully, Moore, and Mangiapane, as well as Koznicki, had, to a greater or lesser extent, worked with Koesler before. All knew that it was not like him to go out on a limb without good reason. It had better be considerably stronger than merely good to justify interrupting an interrogation that could and should close this investigation. Or so, at least, Tully thought.
Koesler easily dismissed the temptation to open with, “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.” Instead. .
“Something occurred to me,” the priest said, “that may make a considerable impact on this situation. It happened when you”-he nodded at Moore-“gave me Reverend Krieg’s-what shall I call it? — his curriculum vitae, as it were.”
Krieg, to this point, had appeared politely interested, even amused. Now, for just a split second, a look of apprehension crossed his face. The expression was noted by both Koznicki and Tully.
“Allow me to recapitulate,” Koesler said, “not because any of us is unaware of what’s happened, but because, to suit my purpose, I have to separate the facts-what we know happened-from an interpretation of those facts.”