The Book of Kills Read online

  THE

  BOOK

  OF KILLS

  ALSO BY RALPH MCINERNY

  MYSTERIES SET AT THE UNIVERSITY OF NOTRE DAME

  On This Rockne

  Lack of the Irish

  Irish Tenure

  FATHER DOWLING MYSTERY SERIES

  Her Death of Cold

  The Seventh Station

  Bishop as Pawn

  Lying Three

  Second Vespers

  Thicker Than Water

  A Loss of Patients

  The Grass Widow

  Getting a Way with Murder

  Rest in Pieces

  The Basket Case

  Abracadaver

  Four on the Floor

  Judas Priest

  Desert Sinner

  Seed of Doubt

  A Cardinal Offense

  The Tears of Things

  Grave Undertakings

  ANDREW BROOM MYSTERY SERIES

  Cause and Effect

  Body and Soul

  Savings and Loam

  Mom and Dead

  Law and Ardor

  Heirs and Parents

  THE

  BOOK

  OF KILLS

  A Mystery Set at the

  University of Notre Dame

  RALPH MCINERNY

  THE BOOK OF KILLS. Copyright © 2000 by Ralph McInerny. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McInerny, Ralph M.

  The book of kills : a mystery set at the University of Notre Dame / Ralph

  McInerny.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-20346-2 ISBN 978-0-312-20346-7

  1. University of Notre Dame—Fiction. 2. Indian land transfers—Fiction.

  3. South Bend (Ind.)—Fiction. 4. Brothers—Fiction. I. Title

  PS3563.A31166 B66 2000

  813’.54—dc21

  00-040257

  First Edition: September 2000

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Father Jim Riehle

  THE

  BOOK

  OF KILLS

  PROLOGUE

  THERE IS A WILLOW GROWS aslant Saint Mary’s lake on its northwestern shore where the path passes beneath Fatima Retreat House. An elderly figure sat on a bench beside the path surrounded by ducks, to whom he was doling out bits of bread. The ducks were always indiscriminate in waddling toward dispensers of food but this morning, after a first unseasonable snowfall, they would willingly have been fed by a butcher. But the old priest ignored that, preferring to think of himself as Saint Francis, who could charm the birds from the trees and talk to animals in their own language.

  “Venite ad me omnes,” he murmured, on the chance these ducks spoke Latin.

  There was a lesson to be learned from the mindless greed with which the ducks responded to sense appetite. Only man must subsume his natural desire for food and drink under the governance of reason. It was a lesson Father James had taught in a lesser college of the Congregation for years, but of late he had been assigned to Fatima Retreat House as a preacher of retreats.

  Mid-October was a slack time for retreats, and the snow brought thoughts of Christmas and the weeks when the house would be empty and he need think only of his own soul. The creche would remain in chapel long after Epiphany and the smell of pine would perfume his prayers. And, of course, the students would be gone on vacation and the campus, too, all but empty. But this morning’s snow was already beginning to melt and soon autumn would be back in full force.

  When the bread was gone, the ducks continued to crowd around. He showed them that the bag was empty but they remained. He had neglected to say grace on their behalf before feeding them and said it now.

  “Benedic nos, domine, et haec tua dona . . .”

  The ducks began to go quacking off to the lake. Perhaps they spoke French or Italian. The priest flattened and folded the empty bag and put it into the pocket of his coat. He rose from the bench. It was time for exercise. He started along the path in a westerly direction, moving slowly. He did not really believe in exercise. Exercise was a poor substitute for genuine labor in a generation gone soft with luxury. He smiled away the thought. He was Francis not Jeremiah.

  This thought was reenforced when half a dozen ducks accompanied him along the path. Clearly they were not land animals, only imperfectly amphibian. But their pace suited his. He was in no hurry. From time to time he stopped and looked back the way he had come, at the spire of Sacred Heart, at the great golden dome of the Main Building. Once, Father Sorin’s eyes had rested on them. He felt a profound solidarity with the founder of the Congregation in which he had labored for some forty years.

  When he turned he found that his escort of ducks had continued up the path. One had wandered from it and was seeking to conceal what it had found. But the other ducks were not deceived. They waddled across the snow and soon there was a quacking contest for the prize. Father James wondered vaguely what it could be? What foodstuff could they have come upon?

  When he reached the point on the path from which they had set off to the quarrel, he stopped again to look benignly at his feathered friends. What they were fighting over seemed feathered, too. His curiosity, usually dormant, was piqued. He went across the snow and found that they were playing tug of war with what looked like an Indian headdress. And then he saw the body.

  The man was all but covered with snow and there were now many duck tracks around the body. Father James hurried forward and knelt before saying the formula of absolution over the man. Who knew how long the soul would take to leave a frozen body? The back of the head was exposed now that the headdress had been removed. Masses of blood had blackened and frozen in the matted hair. Father James struggled to his feet and as he returned to the path he shooed the ducks before him. Stupid beasts.

  And then he went on, in what an undemanding observer might have described as a jog, back to the house to spread the alarm.

  1

  THE TROUBLE BEGAN ON AN October Saturday at the log chapel.

  Two stretch limos came up the road behind Bond Hall, which housed the architecture department, and parked. Out of them poured a wedding party. The bride wore a traditional white gown, the bridesmaids were in blue, the men in formal attire. The groom was an alumnus, the bride his childhood sweetheart, and he was fulfilling an undergraduate dream of being married in the log chapel on the Notre Dame campus, a venue in even more demand than Sacred Heart Basilica, the university church. Father Burnside, who had been rector of the groom’s undergraduate dorm, was to meet them at the chapel door.

  But there was no sign of the priest.

  The chapel door was guarded by two men done up in traditional Indian garb.

  “Have you seen a priest?”

  “He’s inside.”

  They did not get out of the way. The best man, another alumnus, had made the football team as a student, a tight end who had played a total of eight minutes in a game that had been won already in the first half. He stepped forward, expanded his chest, and explained that a wedding was scheduled.

  “The priest is our prisoner,” one of the Native Americans said. “We are reclaiming our property.”

  In Cedar Grove Cemetery, the sexton was appalled, the more so because he had not noticed the outrage when he came to work that morning, though he must have driven right past the toppled grave markers. One had stood six feet tall and when it fell had done da
mage to a number of neighboring graves. The sexton called for his crew to make a thorough reconnaissance to see if there were other instances of vandalism.

  He assumed that it was vandalism, kids from town in the momentary grip of adolescent madness who had thought pushing over gravestones made some profound statement to the universe. There were three desecrated graves, if that was not too heightened a way of putting it. The sexton did not think so. He used the term five times in speaking to campus security. To the provost he spoke of sacrilege.

  Cedar Grove Cemetery was as old as the university itself. It was located on Notre Dame Avenue, as good as on the campus, just south of the bookstore and Eck Alumni Center. For some years there had not been a single unspoken-for grave site in Cedar Grove, but more land had been acquired to the west when the golf course was relocated and now a fortunate few more could look forward to awaiting the last trump in the company of the earliest generation of South Bend.

  It was Roger Knight, the Huneker Professor of Catholic Studies, who later noticed a pattern in the vandalism.

  Coquillard, Pokagon, Pokagon’s son.

  Old Father Carmody nodded. “Contemporaries of Father Sorin.” Edward Sorin was the founder of the University of Notre Dame, a visionary French priest of the Congregation of Holy Cross who had found a small trading community on a bend in the Saint Joseph River when he came to claim the property he had bought for what he grandly called his university. “Frenchmen like himself,” Carmody added.

  “Not entirely, Father. Some of them had Indian blood as well. And Pokagon was a chief.”

  Meanwhile, Father Burnside had been released from custody and the wedding in the log chapel went on as planned. But when the happy couple and their party returned to their rented vehicles to be driven away to the Morris Inn for the reception they had to pass between ragged rows of half a dozen surly men all dressed up as Indians.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Keno sabe?”

  “Be careful.”

  On the following day, Wednesday, the university chancellor did not return as scheduled from a trip to Hong Kong. A call to the Michiana Airport revealed that he had arrived in South Bend on the appropriate flight.

  “Johnny!” said Miss Trafficant impatiently. Anita Trafficant was the chancellor’s secretary and Johnny the chancellor’s driver. There was enmity between her and Johnny. The chauffeur had an annoying habit of acting as if he worked directly for the chancellor and was on an equal footing with Miss Trafficant! She would not have been human if she did not relish the thought of scolding him for whatever had happened. But he did not answer his car phone.

  Miss Trafficant believed in scheduling. Her success at her job depended in large part on the efficient way in which she arranged the chancellor’s day. Without her precise allocation of his time, he could not have done half of what he did. She had allowed an hour and a half from the time of his arrival at the airport to the first appointment of the day. Father Bloom should be well rested from his long flight in business class across the Pacific.

  Two hours passed and the chancellor had not arrived on campus or come to his office. The tenth call to Johnny’s car got an answer. His speech was slurred and he made little sense.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  The answering obscenity was sufficiently garbled that she could honorably ignore it. She managed to learn where he was.

  “You were supposed to pick up Father.”

  There was a call on her other phone. She cut off Johnny and took the call.

  “This is the Blue Cloud Nation. The chancellor of Notre Dame is our prisoner. Stand by for further instructions.”

  The phone went dead.

  The consensus in the lounge of Corby, the building where lived priests who were not rectors of residence halls, was that it was a student prank. Johnny had been slipped a mickey and the students who met the chancellor’s plane hit upon the politically incorrect excuse that Indians had kidnapped him in an effort to reclaim the property on which the university stood. True, this theory had been floated recently in an allegedly humorous column in the student newspaper, but then it was difficult to distinguish intended from unintended humor in that publication.

  “They got the idea from the log chapel incident.”

  “Or the vandalism in Cedar Grove.”

  “What if they’re all connected?”

  “How?”

  The speaker had held up one hand as he spoke, but then immediately let it drop to the arm of his chair.

  In the faculty senate the Quinlan Resolution was being debated. If passed, it would become the sense of the senate that the administration should appoint a committee to meet with the Blue Cloud Nation in order to review with utmost seriousness their claim that ancestors had been bilked out of the land on which Notre Dame stood.

  “It doesn’t matter,” one phlegmatic senator observed. “There isn’t a patch of earth that was not at one time inhabited by someone other than those currently inhabiting it.”

  “These people weren’t even alive at the time.”

  “Their quarrel is with Sorin.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “So are their ancestors.”

  “It’s a matter of justice.”

  “You want to give the place back to the Indians?”

  “If they’ll have it.”

  “If it is theirs it would not be a gift.”

  An observer from the Observer thought that the senate as a body was inclined to think that Notre Dame had been built on a foundation of injustice and crime.

  A video of the captive chancellor was delivered to Corby Hall. He looked disheveled and unfocused, but then he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He seemed to be reciting when he spoke.

  “I have pledged to correct any injustice that has been done against the Blue Cloud Nation by the University of Notre Dame.”

  His eyes lifted to the camera and filled with tears. His lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “He didn’t know what he was saying.”

  “So what’s new?”

  “He was just reading words written for him.”

  “So what’s new?”

  “You can’t just wish away an institution that has been situated on this land for over a century and a half. What would the Indians do with the land?”

  “A casino?”

  “They’d sell it.”

  “That’s the answer! Give it back to them and then we buy it right back. If all they want is money . . .”

  This turned out not to be true. They wanted the land. They wanted the lakes. They wanted the woodland. They wanted their old burial ground back.

  “Where is it?”

  “It has yet to be located.”

  2

  IN A CONFERENCE ROOM IN Decio a few days before the trouble began, the graduate committee of the history department was in session. The first order of business was the fate of Orion Plant, a doctoral candidate.

  “We’ve already extended him two times.”

  “Who’s his director?”

  Professor Otto Ranke raised his hand but not his eyes. He had lied for Plant too many times and he was not inclined to do so again. The inevitable question was asked.

  “Has he made progress on his dissertation?”

  “No.”

  “Is there any reason why the rule should not be applied?” The rule was that a doctoral candidate must submit his dissertation for reading and defense within seven years of getting approval of his topic. Plant’s dissertation had been approved eleven years ago. Ranke was not only the director, he was the only survivor of the original committee. All the others were retired or dead. Or both.

  “The rule should have been applied earlier.”

  A vote was taken. The decision was unanimous. Sencil, the director of graduate studies, said he would convey the decision to Plant, but Ranke said that task must be his. The others might rightly feel that they had condemned someone in absentia. Had they even known Plant? Ranke felt
that he had just bade adieu to his golden years. Plant was the last candidate who had sought to do a dissertation under his direction.

  “What was the topic anyway?”

  “The relocation of Indians to the southwest.”

  The love of learning takes many forms. In some, it is a pure gemlike flame that warms and does not consume the student. In others, it is a means to ameliorate the human condition, first of all in their own case. In a few, as for Nietzsche, it is a path to power for whom knowledge becomes a weapon. A blunt weapon in the case of science, a remote and transcendental one in the case of philosophy, but subtle and sure in the case of history. From the outset, Orion Plant had seen history as revenge upon the present.

  As a boy in Toledo he had spent hot summer afternoons in the attic of his grandmother’s home, turning over the pages of old albums and ledgers, pondering the facts entered on the flyleaves of old family bibles. He was fascinated, a question grew in him, he followed the spoor of possibility. It was there in the attic with lungs filled with dusty air and sweat running down his broad freckled face, that he had discovered he was not his parents’ child. His family was not his family. He had not even been legally adopted. His apparent parents had taken him in when a neighbor went on a trip. The neighbor never returned. With time, the family gave Orion their name and neglected to tell him he was not one of their own. After a moment of vertigo and a pang of sadness, Orion found the discovery oddly exhilarating. What he would learn to call research was a means of overturning the apparently real world.

  Acquiring the academic credentials to pursue the surprising secrets of the recorded past as a lifetime task turned out to be more demanding and less interesting than Orion had supposed. But he persisted. He got an undergraduate degree at a small college in his native state and was then admitted to graduate studies at the University of Notre Dame. When he left Toledo he metaphorically shook its dust from his sandals. At Notre Dame he took with diminishing interest the required number of courses. Availing himself of the unofficial archives kept by generations of graduate students in history, he passed the written and oral examinations and was admitted as a candidate for the doctorate. Resentfully prowling through the past of the area, he chose a topic and it was approved. Professor Ranke nodded sagely through clouds of the sweet smoke rising from his pipe. Orion would chronicle the forced march of local Indians to Kansas just prior to the founding of Notre Dame. He would focus on the martyred devotion of Father Petit, who had accompanied the Indians on their death march. The benign official version of the transfer of the land to Father Sorin invited skepticism.