Man Who Loved God (26 page)

What rotten luck! Her first two candidates hadn’t panned out at all. And all this time she’d thought she was in a win-win situation. She couldn’t lose; none of her candidates could have passed all three tests. But the first two, indeed, had.

The other two she had scheduled for tomorrow. They would not fail her. She had a premonition. Her intuition was very strong on this.

Still, she wasn’t as confident as she had been. Perhaps she would never again be that confident.

“How’d it go this morning?” Lieutenant Tully sipped from a cold beer can.

“Not bad.” His brother slowly swirled the ice cubes in a glass containing a rough blend of gin and tonic. “Not bad at all, considering.”

“Considering,” Anne Marie observed, “that you didn’t even know the deceased outside of meeting him briefly at dinner.”

“True,” Father Tully acknowledged. “But I think I could sense correctly the feeling of those who truly came to mourn at Al Ulrich’s funeral.”

“‘Truly’?” Lieutenant Tully raised an eyebrow. “Who truly came to mourn?”

“I think I know what Zachary means,” Anne Marie said as she worked over the pasta salad. She was preparing dinner as the two men sat at the kitchen table. “We’ve seen it often enough ourselves, Zoo. For lots of the people—maybe most—who attend a given funeral it’s an obligation. They’re friends of the deceased, or of the deceased’s relatives, or maybe business partners. But they’re dry-eyed and present only because they feel an obligation.”

Zoo nodded in agreement. Although he attended few funerals, generally, they were those of fellow police officers. Such occasions affected him deeply. He always felt a sense of pride in the solidarity that drew together an otherwise disparate group of law enforcement officers. Contrasting uniforms of police from other jurisdictions as well as those of state police and, of course, the Detroit police were evident.

It was, as well, a somber reminder of his own mortality and the innate danger of his work.

Father Tully sipped his drink. “I didn’t get the impression that many there this morning were truly grieving. The person who seemed most moved was Al Ulrich’s boss, Thomas Adams.”

“Not the widow?” the lieutenant asked.

“I don’t know for sure. She may just have been numb. Actually, she just didn’t seem to really be there.”

“Not there?” Anne Marie had almost finished the dinner preparations.

“I don’t know; she just seemed to be in her own little world. Maybe it’ll hit her later on. Sometimes it works that way—especially when it’s a spouse. When the other partner is gone, the tendency is to expect him to show up for supper. Or for her to be the first one up in the morning. There’s just a huge hole in a person’s life when someone whose presence is really important isn’t there as he or she always was. Maybe that will happen with Mrs. Ulrich.”

“So,” Anne Marie said, “there weren’t many real mourners at your wake service.”

“Not as such, no. Mr. Adams, as I said. But there seemed to be a pretty general kindred feeling.” Father Tully set his glass on the table. He didn’t want too much alcohol on an empty stomach.

“What I sensed was a feeling of bitter defeat. Most of those at the wake appeared to be discouraged that a much needed program had gotten off to such a tragic start. I mean, just about everyone at least wishes the city good luck. And branching into the inner city is a tangible step toward redevelopment. I think a lot of people were counting on this move by Adams Bank and Trust to be a success. Instead, they end up with a murdered bank manager.

“It hurt the city as well as the city’s image. I think most of the people at this morning’s wake shared that feeling.”

“Here it comes, boys.” Anne Marie brought serving dishes to the table. Neither brother needed to move; they were already at their dining places.

Father Tully led them in a preprandial prayer—a formality his brother thought would not outlive the priest’s visit.

Anne Marie began to fill their plates. “Did you have a chance to talk much with the widow?”

Father Tully hardly knew where to begin. All the food looked so appetizing. “Yes, I did. I thought I’d at least try to console her. But she just seemed to want to talk about her husband’s death and what caused it.”

Anne Marie looked at her brother-in-law inquiringly. “I thought that was open and shut—what Zoo calls a platter case.”

Before Father Tully could reply, Zoo, smiling, said, “It’s something like the Kennedy assassination. There’s the school of thought that Lee Oswald alone killed the President: one shooter, one killer. Then there are the conspiracy theories: it was a CIA plot. Or maybe FBI. Or maybe Cuban. Or maybe a mob hit. Two shooters. More than two shooters. An army!”

“Come on!” The priest winced.

“Okay,” Zoo relented. “So this one doesn’t have that many theories. But my brother here has been worrying over one like a dog with a bone.”

“What’s that?” Anne Marie was genuinely interested.

“It involves three executive vice presidents of the Adams Bank,” Father Tully said.

“Why three?” Anne Marie pursued.

“The way I understand it,” the priest explained, “there is no set ruling on the part of any governmental agency, state or federal, with regard to this. But most banks, especially small banks, segregate the hierarchical duties. And that usually spells out to business loans, mortgages, and financial control—in other words, a comptroller.”

“The employee who gets to manage the new Detroit branch,” Zoo said, “eventually gets rewarded for being so civic-minded. He—or she—gets to leapfrog to right next to the top: an executive vice presidency.

“By simple math, if there are only three VPs at the top, one of them gets displaced. So—and this seems to be the bottom line—find the present VP who is most likely to get bounced and you find the man who took out a contract on Al Ulrich … that about it, bro?”

Zachary chuckled. “Every time you tell that story, it sounds more humorous. I could give it a far more serious delivery. But I gotta admit: that’s the essence.”

The two men laughed. Anne Marie didn’t. “If that theory were true, what about whoever was appointed to take Ulrich’s place as manager?”

“Yes,” Father Tully said, “the new manager—and the only other candidate who was considered for the job—is Nancy Groggins.”

“Well, if there’s any substance to your theory, Zachary, then wouldn’t the same reward system apply for her?” Anne Marie pressed. “And in that case, wouldn’t she be the target for another contract killing?”

“Now, wait a minute,” Zoo said. “The next thing you’ll be saying is that the manager of that bank needs round-the-clock protection!”

“I’ll tell you the same thing that Al Smith is supposed to have cabled the Pope after losing the election: unpack.” Father Tully was chuckling.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zoo asked.

“Two things really,” Father Tully replied. “First, I was surprised to find that the widow, Barbara Ulrich, is maybe the only one in the world who agrees with my theory about a contract murder.

“And second, she feels very strongly that none of the executives would bother with a contract on Nancy Groggins.”

“Why’s that?” Anne Marie asked.

“Because Nancy Groggins is a woman. And, according to Mrs. Ulrich, in Tom Adams’s M.O., no women need apply.”

“What!” Anne Marie exclaimed.

“I have that on Barbara Ulrich’s testimony alone. I’ve got nothing to back it up. But she seemed convinced that her theory was incontrovertible. According to the widow, Mr. Adams believes there is a place for women—and that place is anywhere in his organization except near the upper echelon.”

“So,” Anne Marie clarified, “none of the executives would need to have her killed: she’s no threat to their position because she’s a woman.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Seems to me,” Anne Marie said, “you gave an award to a man unworthy of it!”

Father Tully shrugged and dug into the vegetables. “No one’s perfect. Tom Adams has done a lot for our missions, there’s no doubt of that. Besides, I have reason—plenty of good reason—to believe that Tom Adams lives his life closely patterned on the Bible. And remember: women do not fare all that well in Scripture.”

“Not too badly though,” Anne Marie pointed out.

Father Tully studied the ceiling for a moment. “True enough,” he admitted. “There were some heroic women in the Old Testament: Esther, Ruth ….”

“And in the New Testament,” Anne Marie added. “Mary Magdalene, Martha and Mary, the Blessed Mother, the women to whom Jesus appeared after His resurrection … and so on.”

“Right you are, Anne,” Father Tully said. “But, by and large, it
is
a man’s story. And besides, Tom Adams is, or seems to be, an extremely faithful son of the Catholic Church. And we all know where women stand in the Church: absolute equality except where it counts—the priesthood … bishops. So he’s got a lot of heavy example there.”

“Conceded,” Anne Marie said.

“I didn’t know this wrinkle, about women not being allowed in the upper echelon of Adams Bank,” Zoo said. “Interesting, but a detour. So Nancy Groggins is not in danger as manager of the bank—not from any of the execs, that is. But you two are overlooking the point that neither was Al Ulrich in danger from the execs. He was in danger from his new neighbors. One of them, stoned on dope, killed him. End of case!”

“Easy, easy, brother.” Father Tully laughed. “If my short-term memory serves,
you
were the one who brought up my theory a few minutes ago. But you see, I’ve abandoned that theory; I agree with you. In fact, when I talked to Barbara Ulrich about it, I went out of my way to try to convince her to let the police handle it. I told her
not to
meddle or get involved in something that is distinctly and exclusively police business.

“Now, I ask you, brother, have you ever heard that sentiment before?”

Zoo chuckled as he dug into some pasta. “My very own words. I wasn’t sure you were paying me any mind.”

“Case closed.” Father Tully stabbed an asparagus spear, dabbed it in hollandaise sauce, and nibbled on it.

He noticed that Anne Marie seemed to be toying with her food rather than eating it. “Something wrong, Anne?”

She smiled briefly. “Oh, I was just thinking … your visit with us is almost over. That makes me sad. We’ve had so much fun together. Isn’t there some way you can extend your visit? Maybe you could get a Detroit parish? They seem to be short of priests around here ….”

“Hey,” Zoo said, “that’s a great idea. How much longer can you stay?”

“Until Bob Koesler returns. That’s open-ended, sort of. He could be gone a month. But I’m betting he’ll show up any day now. And I don’t know about getting a Detroit parish. By the way, Anne, is the coffee done?”

She glanced at the counter. “I think so. Let me get you some.”

She poured the coffee. He tasted it. Hot. And good. He had yet to divine Father Koesler’s technique that turned out such unpotable brew. “The major problem with my staying in Detroit on a permanent basis is that I’m a Josephite—an order priest. The Josephites don’t have any benefice in this part of the country. Not a parish, a seminary, or any other operation.

“So, as a Josephite, I’ve got no reason to be here full time. I guess when my time’s up, I’ll just have to return to Dallas.”

“Wait a minute,” Zoo said. “It seems to me we’ve been through this before. A couple of years ago there was this priest who belonged to some missionary outfit … can’t think of the name just now …”

“Maryknoll,” Anne Marie supplied.

“That’s a foreign missionary order,” Father Tully said.

“You know about them?” Zoo asked.

“Sure. They’re distinctively an American order—as are we. Except that they aim at evangelizing in places like China and Africa and South America. What was a Maryknoller doing here? If he found a way to stay, maybe there’s hope for a transient Josephite.”

“I’m not sure how that worked,” Zoo said. “You’d have to ask Father Koesler.”

“Or me.” Anne Marie smiled. “I remember the priest. He was on sort of a sick leave from his Latin American assignment. He got mixed up in a homicide case. He was cleared, of course, and then he decided to stay here. He went through some sort of Church process. He’s still here, so I guess he was successful in becoming a regular fixture. Now he’s pastor of a southwest Detroit parish.”

Father Tully had emptied his plate. “He must’ve gone through excardination and incardination. I assume that when he came to Detroit, he still belonged to Maryknoll. He was incardinated in that religious order. Evidently he wanted to belong to Detroit, for whatever reason. In effect, he had to belong to somebody—in this case, either Maryknoll or the Detroit archdiocese.

“It’s something like passing the baton from one runner to the next in a relay race. Only in this case it’s a priest who’s being passed from one organization to a diocese. Maryknoll agrees to free up this priest—and excardinates him. The Archdiocese of Detroit agrees to take him and authorizes him to function as a priest here—incardination. That must be what happened in the Maryknoller’s case.”

“So,” Zoo said, “what’s stopping you? Get on the stick and start the process going.”

“There’s only one problem with that, Zoo: I like being a Josephite.”

Silence.

Clearly, neither Anne Marie nor her husband had considered that there could be a contest between keeping this newly formed family together and their brother’s religious, order. “You mean you’d rather belong to your order than stay with us? At least within visiting distance of us?” Zoo asked.

Father Tully compressed his lips in concentration. “That’s a tough one. I’ve been wrestling with this the whole time I’ve been here.

“It was one thing to learn about your existence from Aunt May. That was exciting. And I couldn’t wait to meet you. But the reality of being with you has been so much more than this. In no time at all, I’ve come to love you—twice as much because we’ve missed so much of each other’s life.

“All I can tell you is … I’ve been thinking and praying about this. I haven’t reached a decision yet. But I’m trying to. And it’s not that I don’t love you … or even that I love you more—or less. It’s that I loved my order before you came along.