Free Ash Wednesday by Ralph McInerny

efforts of Helen Burke and her son, after the conviction, to take possession of the money that Florence had brought to her marriage. Nathaniel had killed Florence; he shouldn’t be allowed to benefit from his crime. At the time, it had sounded like a good argument to Tuttle. Unfortunately the Burkes had first tried to enlist Amos Cadbury in their cause.
    Cadbury had pointed out that the money was Nathaniel’s before and independently of the crime he had been convicted of. That was when Jason Burke came to Tuttle, wanting a second opinion.
    “The claim has merit,” Tuttle said carefully.
    “You think we can win?”
    “Only if the case is properly handled.”
    Helen Burke had been furious with her son when he told her he’d taken their case to Tuttle. Jason called to tell Tuttle it was all off.
    “It’s only money,” Tuttle said. He was thinking of his fee.
    Jason groaned.
    “Now, of his own volition, the paroled killer is turning his fortune over to Helen Burke and her son.” Tetzel seemed to be composing the sentence as he pronounced it.
    Tuttle shook his head. “Just the mother. Helen.”
    “What’ll he live on?” Tetzel wondered.
    “Nathaniel? What does everybody else live on?”
    “Tell me.”
    “Social Security. It may not be much, but it’s certain.”
    Tetzel looked as if he were about to dispute that.
    Even without the bourbon, Tetzel would have been excited by learning this new twist in the story he was writing. It wasn’t just about the past. The future had intervened in the form of a will. The bar was getting noisier and noisier, and Tetzel cocked his good ear toward Tuttle, trying to hear.
    “We could go to my office,” Tuttle suggested. Hazel would have left by now.
    “You got anything there?”
    “Pepsi.”
    “Let’s go the pressroom.”
    That was closer, and Tetzel had a bottle in his desk. Tuttle refused the offer of a drink. He took one taste of the coffee he had poured, then put it on the desk. Rebecca’s desk. He was in her chair and swung toward Tetzel.
    Tetzel put down the glass after taking a long pull. He turned to his computer. “Now tell me the whole thing again.”
    “In my own words.”
    “Monosyllables will be fine.”
    Like Tetzel earlier, Tuttle felt he was composing as he talked, Tetzel banging away at the keyboard with a minimum of fingers.
    “Meanwhile Nathaniel has possession of the money?” At the thought, Tetzel stopped writing.
    “While he’s alive,” Tuttle conceded. “He said he wouldn’t touch a penny of it.”
    “He could change his mind.”
    “He could die in his bed tonight.”
    Tetzel thought about that, then nodded. “It doesn’t matter. He’s still doing now what he’s doing.”
    “Done,” Tuttle corrected. “The will is registered. That’s how you found out about it.”
    Tetzel nodded. “What’s his motive?”
    “I told you. He doesn’t want to benefit from his wife’s death.”
    “Who’ll believe that?”
    Tetzel was obviously thinking what Tuttle himself had thought. This was Nathaniel’s way of getting back at Helen, for her attitude during the trial, for her attempt to take from him her sister’s money, for the shunning at the St. Hilary parish center. “Tell me about that.”
    Tuttle told him what he had heard from Herman the German.
    “Who the hell is Herman the German?”
    “Janitor at St. Hilary’s. A classmate of Nathaniel’s.”
    “Joliet?”
    Tuttle nodded.
    Tetzel shook his head. “How does Father Dowling get these guys paroled to him?”
    “The chaplain at Joliet. Jerome Paxon is their parole officer.”
    “Both of them?”
    “You might talk to him.”
    Tetzel said something noncommital.
    “Tell me how your story is shaping up.”
    “I have to protect my sources,” Tetzel said pompously.
    “I don’t want protection.”
    Tetzel understood. He nodded.
    “What’s the name of Helen Burke’s son?”
    “Jason.”
    That had been two days before, and now Tetzel’s story had appeared. Tuttle liked it.