Dead Wrong (2 page)

Her excruciatingly labored breathing sounded ghastly. Foam oozed from her nose. A deep bruise was forming where the weapon had struck.

While this ineluctable process progressed, he moved about the room, making sure everything would be left in perfect order. He paid no attention to her until he was done.

It was now about forty-five minutes since the attack. He checked for vital signs. There were none. No pulse, no breath. Her face was a bluish purple. Her eyes, which had been open when she was struck, would remain open.

Awkwardly manipulating her dead weight, he maneuvered her body into a heavy sack, hoisted it over his shoulder, turned out the lights, and left.

P
LAN
A was to drop the body from the Belle Isle bridge into the Detroit River, whose strong current would carry it to the depths, thus effectively burying it for the foreseeable future. Unexpected traffic rendered that plan infeasible.

Reverting to Plan B, he drove down Atwater, at the river’s edge near the foot of Woodward, until he came to a deserted stretch. He pulled over, got out, wrestled the sack from the trunk, dragged it to the water’s edge, and let it tumble in.

He wasted no time at the scene, but reentered his car and drove away.

1993

C H A P T E R

2

R
EPRESENTATIVES
of what passed for civilization named the land Ville d’étroit, or City of the Strait. It became known as Fort Detroit.

Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac introduced the French to native Americans here. It was an ideal location for a settlement. One segment of the Great Lakes, from Lake St. Clair to Lake Erie, squeezed through this narrow passageway named the Strait River, or Detroit River.

To this day, the river continues to flow between Windsor and Detroit, between Canada and the United States.

Over the years, the city of Detroit grew. Unfortunately, the city’s southward growth occurred largely along the river’s bank, so that the majority of inhabitants had precious little unobstructed access to the water’s dreams and memories.

This river—so near and yet so far—was on the mind of Father Robert Koesler as he drove east on Jefferson Avenue.

Father Koesler was pastor of St. Joseph’s parish—or Old St. Joe’s as some called it to distinguish it from all the other St. Joseph’s; it very definitely was the eldest by far.

The river was within walking distance of his church, but he could not actually see the water until almost on top of it. It was not unlike this avenue called Jefferson: It ran along the riverfront, but the water was a rare sight.

How could this situation be remedied? By planning such as that of Minneapolis with all its city lakes. In Minneapolis, there is no private property abutting any of the lakes. There is the lake, then the shore, then the street, and only then does one find housing. It could have happened in Detroit. All these apartments, businesses, and factories might have had to locate removed from this glorious river. Then not only would it have been completely open to the public, but it would have been spared a measure of pollution.

The few parks that dotted the shoreline were insufficient for general patronage. Hart Plaza, across from the City-County Building, was an exception. Still, even that area offered no free parking, and the city’s mass transit was a nightmare.

Another exception was beautiful Belle Isle, nestled midway between Windsor and Detroit at almost the halfway point of the strait. A bridge connected the island to Detroit. There was no such connection between the island and Windsor. And there was no charge for parking on the island.

There it was, even as he thought of it. Belle Isle. And across from it, on this side of the river, was his destination, one more highrise. However, girded as it was with greenery, this building did not completely block a view of the river.

Father Koesler parked in the visitors’ lot. He studied the building, recalling a time some years earlier when this complex had been the scene of a murder. A professional football player had been killed in this very building, and Koesler had been drawn into the investigation of his death.

He shook his head. The longer he lived, the more Detroit sites held personal significance for him.

He shrugged and started toward the building, pulling up the collar of his coat as he walked.

A Michigan axiom has it that if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute and it will change. Take March, for instance: One might expect spring, and one might get it. Or one might get a blizzard. This day, with a stiff wind off the river, was bone-chilling.

Koesler registered with the guard in the lobby. This building’s security had been beefed up following and because of the murder.

The guard checked. Yes, a Father Koesler, identified by his driver’s license, was expected by Mr. Nash. The guard gave directions to the penthouse suite. A bit redundant, since the penthouse occupied the entire top floor. One just went up until there was no more up.

He stepped off the elevator into a rather stark foyer. Behind him was the elevator, doors now closed and descending; on his left a full-length mirror, on his right a nondescript painting, and ahead of him a closed door.

A young man in a white uniform opened the door and invited Koesler in. The guard had obviously alerted the occupant.

The room he entered was large, taking up one corner of the penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed Detroit’s east side, and the Pointes, as well as a healthy slice of Windsor, including the airport, and, of course, the river. If not breathtaking, the panorama was at least dazzling.

The man, obviously a servant, took Koesler’s coat and hat and said he would get Mr. Nash. He disappeared through a door at the far side of the room.

Koesler, alone with his thoughts, gazed absently at the scenery. Old Charlie Nash! It had been ages since Nash had packed it in as far as personal publicity was concerned. Although much younger than Joe Kennedy, Charlie Nash in his heyday had been Detroit’s version of the late patriarch. Though not quite as wealthy as Kennedy, still Nash was well within the
Forbes
400.

Like Kennedy, Nash was very much a Catholic, though only by his definition, not the Church’s. Charlie’s personal life was reportedly unbridled and his business affairs allegedly unprincipled. Unlike Kennedy, Nash had but one child, a son—though gossip suggested the boy was the only offspring Charlie knew of or admitted to.

In any case, some fifteen years ago, Nash had handed the business—real estate development—over to Teddy, who, according to knowledgeable reports, was a chip off the old block.

The far door opened, and Charles Vincent Nash entered the room in a wheelchair pushed by the young man in white.

K
OESLER WAS SHOCKED
. Nash could not have been more than in his midseventies, a little more than ten years older than Koesler. Yet he easily could have passed for one in his nineties.

Nash had no picture of Dorian Gray in his attic.

The two men regarded each other for a few moments. Then, without taking his eyes from Koesler’s, Nash barked, “Get outta here, kid!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the servant left, closing the door behind him.

“Yer better than six feet, aren’tcha?”

“Six-three,” Koesler replied, “… or at least I used to be.”

After a second, Nash began to laugh, a near-cackle that segued into a violent coughing fit—the harsh hack common among smokers.

Koesler, thinking there must be something he could do to help, started forward. But Nash, while continuing to cough, waved him off. “Emphysema …” he managed to gasp. “It’ll pass.”

He pulled a device from a pouch at the side of his wheelchair, and inserted the instrument into his nostrils. The inhaler helped.

While Nash struggled with his breathing, Koesler took a more observant look around the room.

It was a study in white—all four walls and ceiling plus a pristine white carpet. It reminded him of … a hospital room, but larger of course. He noticed that one corner of the room actually seemed to be a duplication of a hospital room, complete with hospital bed. One does not normally expect to find a hospital bed in a private living room.

Koesler was reminded of a change of pastors in a suburban parish many years previous. The outgoing pastor, a modest-living and pious priest, had required but a small pickup truck and his own car to move all his earthly goods in one trip.

The incoming pastor, the notorious Ed Sklarski, arrived accompanied by two large moving vans, the combined contents of which threatened to require the building of an additional rectory. Along with a collection of furnishings that included a concert grand piano was a hospital bed, “just in case.”

Quite obviously, in the case of Charles Nash, the bed served a pragmatic need.

“Used to be six-three, eh?” The inhaler had done its job. Nash’s words were accompanied with the hint of what might generously be described as a smile.

“Uh-huh. It’s been a while since I measured. I suppose we all settle in with age,” Koesler said.

Nash raised his eyebrows and gestured to include the chair, the bed, the medical equipment that spelled out the life-style of a chronic invalid. The effects of age were no stranger to him.

Except that he lived in a penthouse and had everything money could buy, Nash might have been any abandoned old man in a nursing home. His skin seemed to shrivel into deep wrinkles—creases that threatened to bury his eyes in some sort of cosmetic implosion.

But those eyes were lively. His gaze never left Koesler’s face. Nash appeared to be carefully studying the priest. Koesler wondered why; as far as he could recall, they had never met before. Of course once Nash had begun to build his empire with the creation of strip malls, he had basked in celebrity status. He went on to the construction of more pricey shopping centers. Then, seemingly, no report of any top society affair was complete without the notation that Mr. and Mrs. Charles V. Nash had been in attendance.

But as quickly as he had broken the plane of prominence, after many years of notoriety Charles Nash slipped into seclusion. Some surmised he was in the throes of a fatal illness. There was even a rumor that he had “gotten religion,” and was dedicating the remainder of his life to repentance. No one really knew for certain. His wife had joined him in seclusion until her death several years ago. And his son Teddy had, without a backward glance, taken over the business with a vengeance.

With all this in mind, Koesler was wondering why he had been invited into the inner sanctum. He now broke the lengthy silence: “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Nash?”

Nash wheezed. “Maybe.”

Another pause which Nash did not seem inclined to interrupt.

“You’re not a parishioner of St. Joe’s,” Koesler said finally. “As a matter of fact, this building is not even in my parish.”

“The value of one immortal soul,” Nash said.

“What?”

“I heard you say that once in a sermon.”

“When did you …?” Koesler stopped himself in midquestion. Of course he would have been able to recognize Nash in that small but growing and faithful congregation at St. Joe’s. But he’d been a priest for almost forty years. There’d been lots of congregations, many of them so large he would be hard put to remember some few individuals, let alone everyone. Besides, the “value of one soul” phrase he used with some frequency.

“Yes, of course, the infinite value of one immortal soul. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Nash. We parish priests do tend to become a little provincial … only we call it parochial. So, back to the beginning. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Maybe.” Nash’s breathing was less labored. The inhaler apparently continued to help.

“Did you want to go to confession?” It was a natural question in these circumstances.

“Maybe I want a spiritual guide.” Nash’s eyes danced as if he were enjoying some private whimsy.

“Confession is for the past. Spiritual direction is for the future.”

“Cute.” Nash cleared his throat, accompanied by that mucus gurgle in his chest. “So, you think the past’s gotta be cleared up before you go on to the future?”

“Seems to make sense. At least to me.”

“I got a problem with that.”

Koesler waited for an explanation.

“You gotta be sorry … don’tcha? You gotta stop sinning … promise never to do it again?” Nash wiped his lips with a napkin that he carried on his lap.

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, I’m not sure I am.”

Koesler smiled. “Our old moral prof told us a story you may find helpful. Seems an old sailor was dying in a rundown room in some remote port. A priest came to give him the last sacrament.

“In trying to remember the sins of a long life without confession, the sailor could recall lots of fights, most of which he’d lost. He was sorry about that—especially the losing part. His language had been … well, salty. But that was the only way he could be understood aboard ship. He’d missed Sunday Mass just about all the time. But most of that time, he’d been out to sea.

“Then there were all those women. At least one per port. When he got to that part he paused. No excuses, no explanations.