The Sacrifice (22 page)

“I see. Well, before that, did you see anybody in the sanctuary? Somebody who maybe shouldn't have been there?”

“I didn't see nobody. I was talkin' to this guy from my parish. Then it went kerflooey! A big blast. Maybe, because the altar sort of held the blast inside the sanctuary, it saved a lot of lives. I can tell you, I wouldn't be standin' here talkin' to you if whoever planted that bomb hadn'ta put it up against the altar.” He shuddered again. “I hate to think what woulda happened if anybody was on the other side of the explosion. I mean, besides the poor guy who got blown away.”

“That's St. Joseph's!” Grace said needlessly. “We used to belong there.” She turned to her husband. “You still go there, don't you, hon?”

“Yeah. But on Saturdays. Not on Sundays.”

“Well, it's a good thing you didn't go today. You coulda got hurt.”

“Or killed … like that priest!”

“So”—the camera again focused on the reporter—“what really happened here? We have learned that the priest who lost his life in this sacred place was just visiting. He planned on attending the ordination ceremony of The Reverend George Wheatley. He appears to have been an innocent bystander. Apparently something in the altar area may have attracted his attention. Curiosity led him up the sanctuary steps—and to his death.

“We have a police officer here who can fill in some of the gaps in this story.” Again the lens widened to reveal another figure standing next to the reporter. “This is Officer John Nader.” He turned to the policeman. “Officer Nader, can you tell us what happened here? As much as you know at this point?”

“The investigation,” said the uniformed officer, “is just beginning. One thing we know: The procession was late in starting. We are not at liberty at this point in time to divulge why the procession was delayed. But if it hadn't been late, all those clergym—uh, persons would have been in their places. They would have been in the direct line of the explosion. Whatever the reason, it was just plain lucky that the delay halted the procession before it entered the church.”

“I see. What can you tell us about the priest who was killed?”

“His name was Farmer—Father Joseph Farmer. Earlier, he was sitting in one of the front pews. For his own reasons, he didn't want to be in the procession. Apparently something caught his attention. That something may have contained the bomb. Our first order of business is to find what attracted his attention … if such an object is still identifiable.”

“Speaking of that procession again,” the reporter said, “you mentioned to me off-camera a likely scenario. Can you tell us about that?”

“Well, yes. That altar is made of granite. It's built something like a packing crate, like you'd use for packing and moving. There's a slight indentation in the middle of the side that faced the rear of the sanctuary. So the greatest force of the blast would be channeled right in that indentation. Anybody standing near the center of the altar would receive the full force of the explosion.”

“And what would that do?”

“Anybody standing there … well … pardon the reference, seeing we're in a church. But, anybody standing there would end up like that priest who got killed. And if that priest had been a little closer to the center … well, we'd have picked him up with a blotter.”

“And,” the reporter said, “have you identified who would have been on that spot at that fatal moment?”

“Yes. The Reverend George Wheatley would have been dead center. And Father Tully, the pastor, would have been right next to him.”

The camera swung back to capture the reporter's face staring into it. “So there you have it, Floyd. To recap: Just a little while ago, a powerful explosion occurred in St. Joseph's church in downtown Detroit. It caused serious but confined damage. One person was killed by the blast. He was a priest, Father Joseph Farmer, a missionary priest who had spent much time conducting services in this city. As far as we know, no others were injured.

“The police, particularly the Bomb Squad, are beginning their investigation to find the person or persons responsible for this horrible crime.

“An accident of timing apparently saved the lives of numerous clergypersons. It caused the cancellation, or at very least postponement, of a ceremony inducting The Reverend George Wheatley into the Roman Catholic priesthood.

“Father Wheatley is extremely well known and well liked in this community. He writes a weekly column in the
Detroit News,
and hosts a local radio talk show. He is much loved by many people he has helped.

“Father Wheatley has been taken to the rectory, the priests' home, for questioning and debriefing, along with several others who were to play principal roles in this afternoon's rite.

“We will keep you informed of details as they develop. And now, back to you in the studio, Floyd.”

“And there you have it,” said Floyd, now on camera. “We return you now to the golf match still in progress.”

There was a stunned silence in the Harkins living room.

It was not infrequently that violence, often senseless, erupted in the big city. But that that violence occurred in a church was very much out of the ordinary. That, plus the fact that Leon and Grace were extremely close to the church and the parish of St. Joseph, invested this news announcement with special interest.

A bomb in a Catholic church? Unimaginable.

“Is nothing sacred?” Grace asked of no one.

Leon did not reply. His eyes were once again following the golf match. But his mind was far distant from the greens.

Just minutes ago, Leon had been thinking that it was inconceivable to kill a priest. The question was: If it is impossible to rid God's chosen people of this stye in the eye of the Church by any other means, is it permissible to murder him? The answer was: Of course not. Don't be a damn fool!

Suddenly, it appeared to be open season on priests. Someone, for whatever reason, had killed one by accident—allegedly—and just missed killing two more deliberately.

It was like the four-minute mile. It was a given that that record could never be broken—until Roger Bannister did it. Fifteen feet was the untoppable height limit for the pole vault. Six feet for the high jump. And on and on. Records, achievements, almost anything can be improved upon. Records were made to be broken. Impossible dreams become possible.

The irony of today's disaster was that someone almost did the trick—if you could believe that cop at the scene of the crime.

Leon was going to get all the newspapers he could find. He would watch every TV news program starting tonight and running through at least tomorrow. He would have to gather all the data surrounding this event. He would have to plan with greater precision than he had ever invested in any previous enterprise.

Concentrating intensely, he gave serious thought to precisely what had gone on at St. Joe's today.

What if the thing had worked exactly the way it seemed to be planned? The perpetrator likely would have involved not one but two priests. Which one—if only one death was intended—was the real target? Which one was a stalking horse? Which one was taken along for the ride?

This special challenge faced the investigating police as well.

The cops would have to find a bond that might link the two priests. Maybe the perpetrator really intended to kill both priests. Lacking that bond, which of the priests was the real target?

What a marvelous mystery! That could keep the cops busy till doomsday.

Meanwhile, Leon's challenge was to find another occasion when more than one priest might be the intended victim. That could be really tough. But he'd give it a try. Yet he couldn't waste too much time building this straw horse. Within a relatively short period, he would have to go after Father Tully.

Who said a priest can't be murdered? Well, Leon had—earlier this very day.

“What's got into you, Leon?” She'd actually stopped knitting.

“What? What!” He did not want to be distracted from plans that had to be carefully and discreetly laid.

“You're not watching the golf match. I can tell.”

“Can you watch it? After what we've just seen?”

“Well, no. I guess not.”

Leon hoped that he could silence his wife. His imagination was trying to work overtime. To do this successfully, he wanted—needed—quiet. He didn't care whether Grace got absorbed in thoughts of murder in St. Joe's church, the golf match, or her knitting. Just as long as she left him in peace.

“I don't think it's healthy for us to dwell on the trouble at St. Joseph's,” Grace said. “After all, I know how you feel about Father Tully. You probably wish that he was the one who's dead. That's not nice.”

She knew how he felt about Tully.

It's true, thought Leon. He didn't share everything with his wife by a long shot. But obviously she was plugged in to his feelings toward the traitor-pastor.

Would he have to kill Grace, too? To shut her up during the investigation that would inevitably follow the second killing?

He was so fortunate that whoever had planted that bomb had set it up so that there were two possible victims. The cops would have a lot on their plate.

Once he killed Father Tully, the police wouldn't have time to concentrate on that death in any exclusionary way. The Wheatley bombing would still demand their attention. This was a lucky break for Leon. Particularly if he could get the two men together again and, hopefully, kill two birds with one stone.

But what if Grace stuck her nose into this business?

He'd have to really think this thing through.

“I'm going to turn the TV off,” Grace announced. She had been talking nonstop all this time. No wonder he was confused. He needed silence. But he knew from experience that she would just switch the TV off and turn herself on. He couldn't have that.

“I'm going to turn it off,” she repeated. “Then we can talk.”

“I'm going to the basement for a while,” he said. “You go ahead and knit. I've got some stuff to work on.”

He rose and left. She didn't attempt to stop him. They were playing an oft-repeated game.

The nice thing about this, Leon thought, as he descended the basement stairs, was that if he killed his wife it would be a necessary evil. Yes, that was it: a necessary evil. To the best of his recollection, that's what they'd called such a secondary effect in parochial school.

Come to think of it, the same could be said for that Wheatley man. Although on second thought he would try not to take Wheatley out if he could avoid it.

But of one thing he was certain: Killing Father Tully would definitely be God's will.

F
OURTEEN

Dinner was winding down at the Koznicki home. Hosts and guests were enjoying coffee and dessert.

Father Koesler had held center stage throughout the meal. He was the only one in this group who had known Father Joe Farmer. And, as it happened, Koesler had known Farmer very well.

Responding to the questions and to his memory, Koesler had begun at the end. For he had been the last one to speak with Farmer before the fatal explosion.

But now he tried to keep it on the light side. There really had not been a dark side to Joe Farmer. If he had not become a priest, he might have been quite successful as a traveling salesman. In a sense, that term described him fairly accurately.

He was on the road pretty regularly, mostly throughout the Midwest … one of the last of the old-time preachers who proclaimed his version of Catholicism.

When it came to the essence of Christianity—Jesus Christ—Joe Farmer was not forceful. When it came to the Commandments, the rules and regulations of the Roman Catholic Church, the position of the Pope as solitary, supreme, and singular in authority, he was not wimpish.

In fact, Koesler told his listeners, it was this very mission Father Farmer was working on when, apparently, curiosity had led him to pay the ultimate price. He had voluntarily entered the enemy's fortress to gather material for an upcoming retreat to be conducted for a group of conservative Catholics. A group who would be shocked by such revelations as Father Farmer would put before them.