Free The Sacrifice by William Kienzle Page B

pursued.
    â€œIt’s sort of a generic name.” Koesler pondered for a moment, searching for a simple yet valid explanation that would satisfy Zoo Tully. “It’s like this, Lieutenant: All Episcopalians are Anglican. But not all Anglicans are Episcopalians. And for the modern example of how this works, it was the Episcopal Church in this country that first ordained women priests. At which point, the broader Anglican Church was forced to deal with the fait accompli. So now, throughout the Anglican Communion, women now can be priests—even bishops.”
    â€œBut it’s okay to use either name?”
    â€œI suppose so,” Koesler said, after a quick glance at George Wheatley. “Unless in some given instance there’s some sort of variance. At the outset, you’d have to say that the Episcopal Church in the United States approved the ordination of women. However, the Anglican Church did not—until the Anglican Communion endorsed what their daughter Church had done.”
    â€œOkay,” Tully pronounced as he looked around. “Everyone clear on that?”
    All heads nodded. Tully did not advert to the fact he was the only one present for whom the appellations were subject to question.
    All eyes turned to a sound at the door. After a short, peremptory knock, the door opened. Koesler thought it odd that someone would knock at a door and immediately come in without being invited to do so. And if someone was going to enter in any case, why bother to knock?
    The priest had only a brief moment to ponder this as a tall, bulky man strode into the room. Koesler’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
    Walter Koznicki.
    Inspector Walter Koznicki.
    Walt Koznicki had retired as the very long-term chief of the Detroit Police Department’s Homicide Division several years ago. For the past couple of years he had indulged his wife’s great desire to travel. “Around the world and more,” as he enjoyed describing the grand excursions they were taking.
    What with one thing and another, Koznicki and Koesler had seen little of each other in recent years. The priest had been unaware of his friends’ return from their latest trip. So the inspector’s presence here now was truly a surprise.
    Koznicki surveyed the group. His eyes met Koesler’s; he winked, and smiled for just the briefest moment. Then his gravely serious demeanor returned. He bent to whisper in Lieutenant Tully’s ear. The lieutenant’s face remained impassive, but when Koznicki straightened up, the lieutenant announced to the others, “I have bad news.” He had their attention. “The priest who was injured in the bombing has died. We are now talking of murder … Murder One.”
    Then, indicating the newcomer, “This is Walter Koznicki. Formerly inspector and head of the Department’s Homicide Division.” He turned back to Koznicki. “How about it, Walt: Want to sit in?”
    â€œIf you do not mind, I would very much like that.” Koznicki lowered his bulk into a chair next to Koesler. The two old friends beamed at each other.
    At that moment, two caterers entered the room and proceeded to lay out a coffee service on the dining table. Father Tully stood. “Coffee, anyone?”
    Bishop Donovan sprang from his chair as if catapulted. Coffee, yes! Hot, strong, and black.
    That’s the way he got it. If truth be known, the preceremonial port had not been his first alcoholic drink today.
    Most of the others lined up behind the bishop. Nan Wheatley poured for herself and her husband.
    Koesler, recovered from the surprise of seeing his old friend again, was sobered by the news that Joe Farmer had passed on. After seeing the horrible injuries inflicted by the bomb on Father Farmer, Koesler’s assumption had been that death was the only possible outcome. Even Receiving’s renowned Emergency Services personnel could not put the priest together