Free The Sacrifice by William Kienzle

him.”
    â€œAn old friend,” Koesler said. “I hadn’t seen him in ages.” Koesler was startled that Tully had been aware of their conversation. Either the lieutenant was extraordinarily perceptive or he had been bored out of his mind. Or both, Koesler concluded.
    Tully turned back to Lloyd. “Let me know, will you? I mean, whichever way it turns out. Whether you come up with any parallel between the German bombing and what we’ve got here? And, whatever you turn up in this bombing. Maybe the perp overlooked something. He wouldn’t be the first to figure he thought of everything, but goofed up.”
    Gil Lloyd nodded and returned to his investigation as Tully and Koesler left the scene and headed for the rectory.
    As they passed down the aisle of the church they noted many police officers, some in uniform, others in plain clothes, interviewing possible witnesses. The police were being fed more than they ever wanted to learn about the cataclysm that was the Second Vatican Council, how the Church had abandoned the spirit of that Council, and the pros and cons of ordaining women. But as time went by, it was becoming increasingly clear that virtually no one had seen or heard anything helpful.
    For now, Tully and Koesler were going to talk to the main players in this drama.
    As they excused themselves through the crowd, Tully mused, “Hitler escaped death because the bomb was moved—by someone who didn’t know that the briefcase he was moving contained a bomb. Whoever was the target of today’s explosion just wasn’t there when this bomb went off.” He turned to Koesler. “Why was that, do you think?”
    The thought crossed Koesler’s mind that they were taking it for granted that Father Farmer had not been the intended target—that his maiming had been unwitting. There was that word again. The bomb meant for Hitler had been unwittingly moved, putting Hitler out of harm’s way—presumably Joe Farmer had unwittingly moved into harm’s way. Or …?
    â€œQED,” Koesler said to himself … that would have to be ascertained.
    For now, he returned to Lieutenant Tully’s question. “They were late. I don’t know why. But for some reason they were late.”
    â€œI thought so. You seemed nervous about missing the procession.”
    This guy, thought Koesler, is really observant. “It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a church service started late.”
    â€œI suppose that’s true,” Tully agreed, without any real experience in church services, late or otherwise. “But this time, being late saved X numbers of people from injury or even death. I think it would be helpful to know who or what caused the delay.”
    â€œSo do I,” Koesler said.

F IVE
    What might be termed the core group was assembled in the combined living-dining room of St. Joseph’s rectory.
    Nan Wheatley was on the couch next to her husband. She sat at an angle facing him, as she held his hand. Father Wheatley was ashen faced. Seemingly in shock, he sat passively as his wife gently stroked his arm.
    Father Tully had been standing motionless, gazing out a window at the late winter landscape. He turned when his detective brother entered the room along with St. Joseph’s former pastor, Father Koesler.
    Then there was auxiliary bishop John Donovan. It was difficult to ascertain exactly what was going through his mind. His face had a faint reddish glow. It might have been anger. Or, perhaps, impatience. Or vexation at having his plans for the day disrupted. Or perhaps a tad too much port taken to brace himself for George Wheatley’s formal ordination.
    The ordination rite—of course canceled, or at least postponed now—would have required little of the bishop. An alert master of ceremonies, in this case Father Tully, would have handled everything. He would point to the spot in the missal where the bishop was to