Marked for Murder

25

The thought had crossed Father Koesler’s mind many times before. And it occurred again as he helped Sister Therese take off her overcoat.

She was wearing a trim suit that nicely accentuated her trim figure. The only bow made to the fact that she was a religious was a small silver cross on the lapel of her jacket. The color of her suit also was a clue, but only to the practiced eye. Among the few contemporary Catholics who were able to distinguish it, the color was called IHM blue. The reference was to the distinctive dark blue that was the traditional habit of the Sisters Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary—the IHMs, headquartered in Monroe, Michigan, whose other claim to fame was that it had once been home to General George Armstrong Custer.

Sister Therese was a member of the IHMs. Not too many years earlier, she had worn the full traditional habit of her religious order. For most of her years as a religious, all people saw of her was a face and hands. The rest was covered by either starched linen or the IHM blue wool. Now she wore modest lay clothing, albeit usually IHM blue, and a small cross. And here he was in cassock and roman collar, a uniform that was old when America was discovered.

The first time a similar thought occurred was shortly after he’d been ordained some thirty years previous. During summer in a suburban parish, it had dawned on him, as he walked around perspiring freely under a black cassock, that he was somewhat overdressed compared with the common garb of shorts and halter worn by most of the neighborhood women.

It seemed to him that everything in the concept was reversed. It was common knowledge that, since Adam, men were stimulated by the sight of women. The more they see, the greater the stimulation. Whereas Eve and her daughters were stirred by deeper and more subtle qualities.

However.

It would not do to invite Sister Therese into one of the offices, although the thought occurred to him. She was, all things considered, a colleague. So he ushered her into the living room.

No, she would not have a drink. And yes, she was nervous and upset.

About halfway through their earlier telephone conversation, Koesler had felt he knew exactly how this meeting would develop. He would listen—which he did quite well—while she trotted out all her fears, anger, perhaps despair. After all this, she would feel better for having talked it out. And he would be able to improvise, which he despised, back into some sort of routine.

Thus he was totally unprepared when she said, “That’s right, I want you to help him.”

“Help him!”

“Look . . .” She leaned forward in her chair. “. . . you and I are about the only friends he’s got. And I’ve spent hours trying to think of some way I could help him. About the only thing I’ve come up with is prayer.”

“There’s nothing wrong with prayer.”

“Of course there’s nothing wrong with prayer. I can supply the ora but somebody else is going to have to contribute the labora.”

“But, ‘friend’? I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as his friend. And I’m sure Dick probably feels the same way.” Getting involved in this case was the furthest thought from his mind. The prospect of such an involvement was so overwhelming that he was reduced to fending off each and every reason she could present for his committing himself to this project.

“Father Koesler.” She seemed to revert to the schoolteacher she once had been. “You know very well that Dick Kramer is a workaholic, completely dedicated to his parish. He’s never had the time, or the inclination, for that matter, to pal around with his fellow priests. He has few clerical friends. No, I guess it would be fair to say he hasn’t any. But you came to see him the other day.”

“Yes, but—”

“You came of your own accord . . . and I can tell you he was grateful for your interest. He may not have made it evident. He isn’t a very demonstrative person. But I sensed it. After you left, he came back to the rectory and he was like a new man. He was more open than I can remember seeing him in ages. He started telling me little, gossipy things. He was more relaxed than he’d been in a long, long time. And you did that for him . . . isn’t that one description of what a friend is?”

“Sister, you should know that I didn’t come spontaneously. I had visited Monsignor Meehan. He suggested that I visit Dick.”

“Yes, after you left that afternoon, Dick mentioned Monsignor Meehan. Telling me funny stories about their days together in Inkster at . . . what parish?”

“St. Norbert’s. But don’t you see, if Dick has a real friend, it’s Monsignor Meehan. If it weren’t for him and his request, I wouldn’t have visited Dick and you probably wouldn’t be here now.”

“From all Dick told me, I know that Monsignor is a dear man. But I also know that Monsignor is a very ancient man, in a nursing home. I surely hope that he will pray for Dick. But we need somebody who can get around and do something practical for him.

“Besides, Monsignor couldn’t do any more than ask you to see Dick. You didn’t have to do it. All right, so somebody else suggested that you visit Dick. The fact is: You did it. And that stands for something.”

“But what can I do? Dick is in jail. What he needs now is a good lawyer.”

“And we’ll see that he gets one.”

“I’m sure that’s true. That brings us back to praying, which is what the rest of us could best do for him.”

“Most of the rest of us. But not you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are just about the only priest in this archdiocese who has an easy entree with the police.”

“That’s not so. That’s just not so. For one thing, there’s the police chaplain.”

“I know there’s a police chaplain. But he mingles with the police on a professional basis. Counseling, visiting them, conducting services for them.”

“Well? So?”

“So, he has not worked with them on murder cases.” Her body language emphasized that this was the heart of the matter, the point she most wanted to make.

It took Koesler a moment to absorb her implication. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “You’ve got this all out of proportion.”

“Have I.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Indeed. I assume you’re alluding to the fact that I happen to be a friend of Inspector Koznicki, who happens to head the Homicide Department. Well, that’s no secret.”

“It’s also no secret that you’ve been in on a few investigations too.”

“It’s a fairly good secret. But, even knowing about that, it’s obvious that you don’t know how I got involved in those cases. And since it seems relevant, let me explain.

“You seem to think that I’m some sort of latter-day Father Brown, dreamed up by G.K. Chesterton. I’m no detective, Sister. Granted, over the past several years I have gotten involved in a few investigations because I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But whichever way you care to look at it, I’ve never volunteered to assist in an investigation. That would be presumptuous, to say the least. I have no training in police work . . . not even an inclination to be a detective. It’s just that every once in a while a crime takes place and I seem to be in the middle of things.

“But that’s certainly not the case here. This time, crimes have been committed—a couple of extremely heinous murders—and I am not involved in any way. For a change, I’m peacefully minding my own business in my—for the moment, anyway—peaceful little parish.”

“But you—”

“If you’ll let me finish, Sister, I think I may speak to the question I think you have in mind.

“There is nothing particularly ‘religious,’ let alone Catholic, in the murder and mutilation of prostitutes. It’s true that your friend and my brother priest has been arrested as a suspect in the case. And that is tragic. We all ought to pray and do whatever we can to help Dick. But I am no more equipped to intervene in this case—even if the police would tolerate such an intrusion—than any other priest. Monsignor Meehan, for instance.

“In the past, don’t you see, I have been drawn into some homicide cases by some accident, some quirk of fate, through no voluntary act on my part. But that’s not true here. I’m not involved in this in any way. So your appeal to things that have happened to me in the past doesn’t apply here. It’s apples and oranges. I’m sorry.”

Koesler fervently hoped she would not cry. He never quite knew what to do when women cried. Often he felt drawn to offer a shoulder. But he never could get beyond his position as a priest to do anything even that innocently physical. At this moment, Sister Therese did seem so perilously close to tears that he felt like putting her on his lap and just holding her. But he could not.

Fortunately, the tears did not appear. She merely grew reflective, gazing at her hands folded in her lap. When she finally spoke, it was without looking up. “I can’t argue with anything you’ve said. And I know it’s getting late.”

It is late, he thought.

“I just want to say one more thing, and then I’ll go,” she stated. “Father Kramer has no one really close to him.”

That’s not exactly true, thought Koesler. This lady is as close as anyone will ever get to Dick Kramer. Probably she loves him. In all likelihood, he will never know. For all of that, she will never admit it, even to herself.

For some reason, Koesler suddenly thought this to be overwhelmingly sad. Once again, given the present status of celibacy and chastity, to which at least all three of them subscribed, there was nothing to be done about it.

“And Dick needs somebody now,” she went on. “He desperately needs someone. For what reason I cannot possibly imagine, this good man has been accused of . . . of murder.” She shook her head. “I still can’t get myself to put the two together in the same sentence—Dick Kramer and murder. But the police have somehow put them together. And as long as this charge hangs over him—whether he is in jail or we are able to get him out on bond—he will be helpless in the face of this shame and embarrassment. I know him well enough to know this is true.

“That’s why, Father Koesler, he needs someone. Not just anybody, but someone who can be an alter ego for him. Dick Kramer will be powerless to come to his own defense in the sense of proving himself innocent. He needs someone to do just that; someone who will take on this accusation as if it were leveled against himself.

“It’s as if Dick will be locked up inside himself whether he’s locked inside a cell or not. He needs someone who will care enough to exert the same amount of concern and total dedication to proving him innocent that Dick would do for himself if he were able.

“Father Koesler, I don’t know where he’s going to find such a person—other than you. You are about the closest person—the only person—he has to be such a friend. You at least know your way around in a situation like this. But I suppose it is silly of me to put those two qualifications together and come up with someone who would work as hard to clear Dick’s name as Dick himself would, were he able.”

It was, Koesler thought, an eloquent plea. In its face, all he could do was to try to reassure her that he would do all he could, and that, with all the prayers that would be said, God surely would not let any permanent harm come to Dick Kramer. Maybe, Koesler told Therese, as he bade goodbye, this would prove to be a beneficial experience for Dick and for all of them.

The words were lame. Koesler knew it and he was aware that Therese knew it. One of those things, he thought. What could anyone do at a time like this?

Removing cassock and collar, he was once again in pajamas, over which he drew his robe.

His routine had been destroyed, utterly destroyed. He checked his ever-present watch. After 1:00 A.M. He wasn’t the least bit sleepy now—but it would be one more time when the faithful few who attended daily morning Mass would have to excuse an overly tired priest without even knowing why they were excusing him.

At this hour, he dared not return to his highball. He made a cup of instant decaffeinated coffee. As he sipped the steaming brew, which seemed perfectly fine to him, he wondered why it was that no one else seemed to appreciate his coffee.

As he sat in the silent living room, trying to slow everything down toward sleep, he could not help but reflect on his conversation with Sister Therese.

He realized that his rejection of her final argument was totally a reflex action. He was not in any way involved in this matter. For a change, he would have the luxury of sitting on the sidelines and rooting for the good guys. All that he had told her about the difference between this situation and the cases he had been connected with in the past—it was all true.

And yet . . . and yet . . .

He felt compelled, for some reason, to consider her words absent his automatic dismissal.

He imagined himself imprisoned for a crime, a capital crime. In this invention, he had been condemned to death. He had a month to live, at the end of which he would be hanged.

This was not, by any means, getting him closer to sleep. Nevertheless, having begun, he had to press on to whatever end might follow.

Of course he was innocent of the crime for which he had been condemned. But what could he do? He was locked away with but one short month of life remaining. There was no possible way he could clear himself. Of course if he had been able to leave his jail cell, he would devote his every moment to proving his innocence. He would not eat or sleep, except as absolutely required for life and strength. If he were to lose this battle to clear himself, he would lose life itself. Nothing that had ever happened to him or would ever happen to him was as crucial as this quest.

But, in this daydream, he could not leave his cell.

The scenario had become so real to Koesler that he actually began to feel the confinement of prison as well as the helplessness of his situation.

His one chance, his only chance, was to find someone on the outside who would act for him. This person, whoever it might be, would have to become as totally and thoroughly involved as Koesler, the jailed man, himself. This alter ego would have to at very least take a leave of absence from work—from family and everything else, for that matter—and devote every hour of every day for that final month as if his own life depended on it.

That was it! That was what would distinguish this alter ego from every other conceivable friend. This person, alone among everyone the accused knew, would be the only one who would work to prove innocence as if his own life depended on it.

Koesler, in all his many flights of fancy, had never before invented a conundrum like this. He became fascinated with the prospect. If he himself were to actually be in a situation such as this, whom could he call on? Who could be depended upon to abandon all else and work on this case as if his very own life depended on it?

One by one, he considered all those who came to mind, beginning with all his priest friends. One by one, quite reluctantly, but quite realistically, he dismissed one after another. Oh, they would be distressed, no doubt about that. They would offer prayers. They would express genuine concern. But, he realized, each would beg off—just as he had done only a few minutes ago when Sister Therese had pleaded with him for help.

Devote your time, energies, concentration, persona to the cause as if your own life depended on it. . . . Was there anyone?

Finally, Koesler focused on the one person who might do it. A friend he had made many years earlier. A married man with three children now grown and on their own. A man who had worked up from the assembly line to a white-collar position at Ford Motor Company. Yes, Chuck would do it. The one and only friend of all the many people Koesler had known who would give all.

If this man was so outstanding, why, Koesler wondered, had he not thought of him sooner? He had not come to mind earlier, Koesler concluded, because they were not really that close. Then why could Koesler suppose Chuck might do it? Why could he be depended upon to work as if his very own life depended on it?

It wasn’t the friendship that turned the scale, Koesler decided; it was, indeed, the man himself. A Christian—that rare individual who actually put the Gospel teachings into practice in his life. A Christian. Would only a Christian do it? No. Certainly not. How parochial! But it would have to be someone correspondingly selfless. In his context, in his work, such a person would probably be a Christian. And one of the very highest order.

Koesler felt shame. What sort of Christian was he? What sort of Christian was he trying to be? Sister Therese had handed him a challenge to his Christianity—an opportunity—and he had handed it back to her with appropriate bureaucratic gobbledygook. He was not involved. Of course he would pray. But he could not get involved. He had never before been involved in quite that way.

He knew what he must do. He looked up Sister Therese’s phone number and dialed. “Sister, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Father Koesler?” Her tone revealed surprise. “No . . . no; sleep is not high on my agenda.”

“I just wanted to apologize. And to tell you that I’m going to get into this thing. I don’t know exactly how I’m going to get into it or what I’m going to do after I’m in. But I’m going to do everything I can to clear Dick Kramer.”

“You mean it?” In a split second she went from one of the low points of her life to an exhilarating high. “You’ve made me so happy. Thank you. Oh, thank you!”

“No thank you. In your own quiet way, you taught me a very important lesson about being a Christian. I hope to God I never get too old to learn. Thanks for teaching.”

“I didn’t . . .”

“You did. Good night.”

He was sure she would sleep well now.

His coffee? Only a small lukewarm amount remained. He didn’t need it. He was ready for sleep There was something very satisfying as well as relaxing in having settled on a course of action. He felt very good.

He was all wrapped up in the abstract. He was going to get into the case of the State of Michigan vs. Father Richard Kramer. And Koesler would exonerate his brother priest.

Fortunately, he could drift into a peaceful sleep without for a moment considering the concrete, real questions: How was he going to clear Kramer? What obstacles might he have to face? How strong was the case against Kramer?

If these questions had occurred to Koesler, he would have had to confess that he hadn’t the slightest clue as to their answers. Not only did he not know the answers, fortunately he was not even aware of the questions. Neither was Sister Therese. So, in their separate bungalows, each had a very good night’s sleep.

26

Some Detroiters were fond of complaining that Michigan did not know how to have a winter. During an average season, the elements came at Detroit from every imaginable direction.

Ordinarily, future weather marched in a stately line from west to east—at least most people supposed that was nature’s plan. So one was accustomed to watch high and lower pressure systems enter the continent in Washington and Oregon, and proceed through the Dakotas and Minnesota, on to Chicago and into Detroit.

Frequently frustrating this orderly progression, however, was the jet stream that plummeted Arctic air in from Canada or pumped unseasonably warm weather from the south. Most puzzling were the occasional winds from the east that threatened the impressive homes along Lakes St. Clair and Erie with flooding.

So, while unexpected for a Monday late in January, a springlike day was a welcome change. Commuting Detroiters, in elephantine procession toward downtown via the Lodge or Ford Freeway or one of the main thoroughfares, generally were more patient with near gridlock conditions. Natives understood this was a lull, and that snow, ice, and bitter winds would return. But this was nice.

Lieutenant Zoo Tully did not need special help from the weather to feel ebullient.

He had solved a puzzle, a particularly personal puzzle. He always felt good after having solved a case, but this was exceptional. Even though he was not as personally involved with the killer of Louise Bonner as he had initially assumed, the connection never quite faded from his mind nor did his approach to the case alter. For no sheerly rational reason, from the beginning he had considered this his private preserve.

As he turned the corner on the fifth floor leading to homicide, he was a tad late. For him, par for the course. Plus, on this day, it was a small personal reward.

Walking down the corridor, he encountered several other homicide detectives. They knew, of course, about yesterday’s arrest. To a person, they congratulated him. Yet some seemed somewhat reserved. Or was it his imagination? Much more of this hedging, and it just might take the edge off his day.

There was only one officer, Mangiapane, in his squad room. The rest would be occupied with interviews, other cases, old and new.

Mangiapane was bent low over his desk, laboriously suffering through paperwork. Tully correctly assumed that Mangiapane was preparing the complaint against Father Kramer. Reports, records—anything to do with paperwork—was not Mangiapane’s forte. Which had little to do with being a cop—Sherlock Holmes didn’t have to fill out complaints to the satisfaction of some prosecutor or judge. While he may not have been a Holmes—who was?—Mangiapane was a good cop. And he would get better.

“How’s it goin’?” Tully poured coffee into his mug, grateful that some earlier arrival had bothered to brew it.

“Oh, hi, Zoo.” Mangiapane had been concentrating so diligently he hadn’t heard Tully come in. “Okay. Slow.”

“When’s the arraignment?”

“Two this afternoon.”

“You got time.”

“Yeah; looks like I’ll need it.”

“Well, move it as fast as you can. We got stuff to do.”

“Yeah, okay.” Pause. “The inspector wants to see you.”

“Mmmm. Okay.” Something was up. This was not the usual response from Mangiapane. Ordinarily, he would jump at any interruption to put aside and, for at least the time being, block out all thought of paperwork. Tully had expected him to turn his chair away from the desk, maybe get a cup of coffee. Anything but pursue the report. Mangiapane had scarcely lifted his nose from the paper.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Tully asked.

“Huh? No, nuthin’, Zoo.”

But something was wrong. Not only with Mangiapane, but with the other cops. There seemed to be an ineffable chill in the atmosphere. Well, Tully wouldn’t push it. In time he’d find out. “I’ll be with Walt.”

“Right, Zoo.”

He carried his coffee down the hall to Koznicki’s office. This time he paid no attention to anyone he passed in the corridor.

Koznicki, alone in his office, was studying the contents of a folder. Tully knocked perfunctorily. Koznicki looked up and nodded. Tully entered.

“Just one moment, Alonzo.” Koznicki returned to the file he was perusing.

Tully sat in the chair opposite Koznicki’s desk. As with everyone he had met so far today at headquarters, Tully had more than half expected Koznicki to be at least congratulatory. After all, he and his team had cracked a major homicide case involving that most dangerous of perpetrators, a multiple murderer. He had expected commendation, especially from Koznicki. Tully sipped his coffee and studied the inspector.

Of course! That had to be it! Tully recalled a previous conversation in this very office. Koznicki had referred to the clerical garb worn by the suspect as a “masquerade.” No way was this dyed-in-the-wool Catholic ready to believe that an actual priest was the mutilating slayer of prostitutes. That would also explain the chilly reception Tully had gotten from some of the other officers this morning.

And that certainly was what was bugging Mangiapane. Not only had Tully trapped and arrested a priest, but he had obliged Mangiapane to process the suspect and, to top it off, to face the news media.

They were trying to make him feel guilty. He’d be damned if they’d succeed.

“So”—Koznicki put the file aside, looked across at Tully and smiled—“you made the arrest.” There seemed no genuine warmth in the smile.

“Uh-huh.”

“It was a clever plan you had. It seems to have paid off.”

“Seems?”

“You made an arrest.”

“Walt, let’s get right to it. I got the guy.”

“How sure are you?”

“How well do you know me?”

Koznicki seemed somewhat taken aback. “How well do I know you?”

“I don’t play games. You know that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t grab Richard Kramer just to make an arrest, close a big case.”

Koznicki was extremely grave. “I ... I know that.”

“Then why am I being treated like some kind of leper?”

“Leper?”

“It’s not just you, Walt. And I’m not saying it’s everybody in the division. But for once, in January it’s warmer outside than it is in here.”

Koznicki fixed Tully with a steady gaze. “There are some problems.”

“Oh?”

“Catholics have a difficult time with the fact that we have a priest in custody.” Tully was about to respond, but Koznicki held up one very large hand. “Particularly this priest. The Archdiocese of Detroit has been very cooperative. Their director of information sent over Father Kramer’s record.”

The inspector indicated the file he had been studying when Tully entered the office. Koznicki didn’t mention that the file had been released to the police not through any spirit of cooperation on the part of the information office, but due to a direct order from Cardinal Boyle. From many previous professional contacts, Koznicki and Boyle knew and respected each other. By no means was everyone able even to get through to the Cardinal. Koznicki was one of the few who had access.

“Not only do we have his record,” Koznicki continued, “but there have been many calls regarding Father Kramer.” He indicated an impressive stack of messages. “It seems that Father Kramer is a most respected priest . . . indeed, one of the most diligent priests in the archdiocese.”

“The Son of Sam was a hard-working mailman. The guy who blew away a dozen or so in the McDonald’s in California didn’t have any record either.”

“We are not talking about your average worker. This is a priest!”

“Where’s the surprise? For the past couple of Sundays he’s been dressing the part.”

“Alonzo, anyone can purchase clerical garb . . . at a religious goods store or even through the mail.”

“Okay, Walt, anybody can do it. It could have been a guy pretending to be a priest. Or it could have been a priest. And this is the God’s honest truth: I was willing to go with it either way. I didn’t give a damn which way it went. But now, after the kind of reaction that’s goin’ on, I wish to hell it’d been some nut dressed up like a priest.”

Koznicki raised an eyebrow.

Tully went on as if answering an unspoken question. “At least there wouldn’t be this knee-jerk reaction to arresting a priest.”

The statement was rather strong coming from a subordinate. It was by no means the first time Tully and Koznicki had crossed swords. One of the things Tully liked best about his boss was that Koznicki was a most self-secure person who never felt threatened or became defensive. Tully never felt he had to hold back any honest opinion. If anything, Koznicki was the one who, despite his enormous bulk, felt constrained to tiptoe over metaphorical eggshells.

Besides, Tully was forced to admit, Koznicki usually was right. This time, however, he was wrong!

Koznicki had by no means completed his challenge. “Father Kramer claims he was summoned on a sick call, a mission of mercy.”

“So he claims.”

“Might it not be so?”

“No.”

“Just ‘no’?”

“Who would have called him?”

Koznicki shrugged. “Someone who wished to set him up. Make him a sitting duck. The real perpetrator.”

“The real perpetrator . . .” Tully’s tone dripped incredulity. “Walt, how could ‘the real perpetrator’ arrange to have Kramer resemble the guy whose description we already had? How could he make him drive a black Escort? How about the oversized belt? And,” Tully emphasized, “how about that knife? It’s not a little pocketknife on a chain with a miniature flashlight. That’s an honest-to-God switchblade that you could skin a bear with. If somebody—anybody—set him up, how did the guy arrange every one of even the most insignificant details to correspond with all we know about the real killer? Coincidence? Walt, coincidence!”

Koznicki was silent.

Tully continued. “Walt, like I said, I didn’t give a damn who it was, as long as we got him. If you push me into a corner, I wish it hadn’t been a priest. But if it is, it is.”

“There is, of course, one thing more.”

It was Tully’s turn to lift an eyebrow.

“The iron . . . the branding iron.”

“I know.” Tully bit his lip. It was a weak point. Perhaps the only weakness in the entire case. Not, he thought, a fatal flaw, but definitely a loose end he wanted tied.

“You did not find it.”

Tully shook his head. “We went over the car as thoroughly as we could. Over every inch of ground around the building. We didn’t find it. But it’s somewhere. We’ve got the techs taking that car apart piece by piece. From the one woman who saw him close up, his M. O. seems to be that he accompanies the pro to her pad. Then he lolls her. Then he goes back to his car to get the iron. Then he brands and guts her. But . . . I don’t know. One guess is that he assembles the iron. In which case he could have one piece of it attached, magnetically maybe, inside the engine and another piece someplace in the chassis. The handle? Anywhere.”

“It is the smoking gun.”

“I know. I’d give . . . a lot to find the damn thing. But even without it, we’ve got a good solid case. Especially if my two witnesses can make him in the show-up.”

“When is that?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“But first, the arraignment.”

Tully glanced at his watch. “In just a couple of hours.”

“Who is the judge?”

Tully shrugged as he rose to leave. “Who cares? That’s another world. But it would be nice if, whoever the judge is, he wouldn’t start out by presuming that no priest could have committed these crimes.”

27

One thing was certain: Father Kramer could not possibly have committed these crimes. Father Koesler decided to pass this thought on to his companion. “There is one thing for sure,” Koesler said, “no priest could have committed these crimes. And if you knew Father Kramer, you’d know that he, of all people, couldn’t have done it.”

Inspector Koznicki could not help smiling. “That is precisely what Lieutenant Tully fears.”

“What’s that?”

“That people will presume that no priest in general and Father Kramer in particular, could possibly be responsible for such brutal murders. I assure you I cast no aspersion on Father Kramer when I say that Lieutenant Tully is one of our best officers. He has an enviable record of convictions as a result of his arrests.”

Koesler turned to look directly at his friend. “You don’t mean to say that you think Father Kramer could be guilty?”

Koznicki tipped his head slightly to the side. “I hope he is not guilty, I must admit. But the verdict is not in. In point of fact, the trial has not begun. This is only the arraignment.”

Tully had no sooner left Koznicki’s office earlier in the day when Father Koesler had called. He told Koznicki of his interest in the Kramer case. He did so apologetically, admitting that he really had no business getting involved, particularly in volunteering involvement. But, after a soul-searching self-analysis, he’d had no option but to do what he could for his brother priest.

While he did not tell Koesler so, Koznicki had expected the call. Indeed, mindful of their past collaborations, he would have been surprised, even disappointed, if Koesler had not called.

Koznicki did not consider Koesler to be any sort of para-expert in police work. But the inspector had come to appreciate the priest’s keen analytical mind. He would not have wanted, nor even permitted Koesler to become involved in just any investigation. Nor, he knew, would the priest presume to do so.

But when it came to homicide investigations that included any sort of Catholic element, Koesler had been helpful in the past. And in the present instance, Koznicki was quietly pleased that Koesler was aboard. The odds seemed stacked against Father Kramer. He could use someone like Koesler in his corner. It might even make Lieutenant Tully at least reevaluate some of his conclusions.

Father Koesler had wanted, at the outset, to attend the arraignment. Koznicki offered to accompany him. So they had met at headquarters, had a somewhat late, light lunch, then walked over to the Thirty-sixth District Court. Koznicki was easily able to get them both into the courtroom before the general public was admitted.

In the courtroom with them at the moment were several uniformed Wayne County Sheriff’s deputies, a few Detroit police officers—including Tully and Mangiapane—defense and prosecuting attorneys, and a most healthy representation of the local news media. No cameras, still or TV, were permitted in the courtroom; a couple of artists seated in the otherwise empty jury box were already sketching the scene.

Several sheriff’s deputies gathered at the doors, which were then opened. Outside, in the hall, a considerable crowd had gathered. The spectators would have surged into the court had not the deputies halted each for individual checking with portable metal detectors. Consequently it was possible for the already seated Koesler to study each one.

There were, by Koesler’s count, seven priests, in addition to himself, in attendance. Most, like Koesler, were in clerical garb. The brethren were gathering to support one of their own.

For only a few brief moments, Koesler caught sight of Sister Therese. She passed very quickly through the metal detector and was immediately lost in the crowd. She was wearing her order’s modified habit clearly denoting that she was a nun. Koesler could not recall ever having seen her in a habit—even modified.

Once the benches were filled, the doors were closed. It was not unlike church in that the crowd spoke in whispers and the only ones who seemed completely at home—like priests in church—were the court officers.

“Where are the lawyers?” Koesler whispered.

“At the tables just in front of the judge’s bench,” Koznicki replied. “The rather nice-looking woman on the left in the beige suit is Dava Howell, the prosecuting attorney. The tall black man on the right . . .”

“. . . is Bill Johnson. I recognize him from his pictures. Used to be on the Detroit Common Council.” Koesler was impressed. Bill Johnson’s professional skill was such that he now accepted only the most challenging cases. His success ratio was impressive.

Koesler had read a lot about Dava Howell. Although she was young, her conviction percentage almost matched Johnson’s acquittal record. Koesler wondered if she had been selected from the prosecutor’s staff because the murder victims were women. Newspaper photos did not do Dava Howell justice. She was much more attractive in person.

A hush fell over the crowd as a door near the bench opened and the defendant, escorted by several burly uniformed policemen, was led into court and seated at the end of the table at the right, next to Johnson, who immediately leaned over and said something to him.

Koesler was jolted. This was not the same Dick Kramer of just the other day. Already he seemed a changed person. He was wearing a black suit, undoubtedly the same one he had worn yesterday when he was arrested. It looked rumpled, as if he had slept in it, which was probably so. He was not wearing the roman collar, just a white shirt open at the neck.

From the moment he entered the room he looked at no one. He went straightway to his place and proceeded to stare at the floor.

“All rise,” a deputy announced loudly and banged a gavel.

Still like church, thought Koesler. The priest processes in, the congregation stands.

“The Thirty-sixth District Court for the County of Wayne in the State of Michigan is now in session. The Honorable John Bowmont presiding.” The deputy concluded his introduction and everyone sat again.

Koesler was prepared for a rather lengthy session. But it was over in a fraction of the time he’d thought it would take. In effect, the judge read the charges to the defendant—criminal charges brought by the State of Michigan. Defense attorney Johnson informed the court that his client would stand mute to the charges. The judge then entered a plea of not guilty. Johnson motioned for bond to be set. Bond was denied. And Father Kramer was taken from the court to the nearly always crowded Wayne County Jail.

The judge, having called a recess, was gone. The defendant was gone. The attorneys were packing up their briefcases. The doors opened. The crowd filed out. In the corridor, print, TV, and radio reporters were trying to approach and interview anyone who looked as if he or she might have a relevant comment. The hallway was illuminated with the unreal light of the TV sunguns.

“That’s it?” Koesler couldn’t get over the speed of it.

“Earlier, the judge issued the warrant,” Koznicki explained. “And we have just witnessed the arraignment. In effect, this legitimizes the continued holding of Father Kramer in jail.”

“What now?”

“As far as the trial is concerned, the judge has set the preliminary examination for this Thursday morning. At that time, the prosecution must make a case strong enough for the judge to decide that a trial is necessary. Otherwise the charges will be dropped.”

“Thursday!” Koesler thought about that. “Three days. Isn’t that a rather long time to wait?”

Koznicki smiled. “On the contrary, Father. It is rather soon. There is much to be done between the arraignment and the preliminary examination. It was less than twenty-four hours ago that the arrest was made. The police have convinced the prosecutor’s office that the complaint is justified, and the judge has issued a warrant.

“Now the police and the prosecutor must build their case. And I can assure you, in this instance, they still have a long way to go on that.

“Then too, the defense has a right to what is called ‘discovery.’ The defense has a right to know what sort of ‘proof’ the prosecution has. Believe me, Father, three days is a rather brief period in a case such as this.”

With the exception of a couple of deputies, Koznicki and Koesler were alone in the courtroom. They retrieved their coats and hats from the rack.

“Where to now, Father?”

“Well, if I’m going to try to help him, I guess I’d better go see if I can talk to Father Kramer.”

Koznicki touched Koesler’s arm, causing him to pause before leaving the courtroom. “If I may offer a suggestion, Father.”

“Of course.”

“Hold off your visit until tomorrow afternoon.”

“If you say so . . .?”

“Something very important is scheduled for tomorrow morning. It is called a show-up, wherein a couple of witnesses will try to identify the man they saw last week entering the victim’s apartment building.”

“Oh, you mean like the line-up they have in movies?”

“Yes, a line-up. We call it the show-up. The case against Father Kramer will neither stand nor fall on the result of the show-up, but it will be very important nonetheless.”

“And if the witnesses cannot identify Dick?”

“That will be one bit of circumstantial evidence the prosecution will not have.”

“And if they do?”

“It will be a very important bit of circumstantial evidence favoring the prosecution. You see, Father, we have here neither a perpetrator caught in the act, nor an accused person who has pleaded guilty. All the evidence against Father Kramer is circumstantial. Which does not mean it is weak evidence; almost all evidence in such trials is circumstantial. The more such evidence mounts, the better it is for the prosecution. In this, you see, Father, quantity adds up into quality”

“Then you feel it would be better if I delayed visiting Dick until after the, uh . . . show-up.”

“We will know so much more then, Father. By that time, he may need your presence more. I sincerely hope not. But it is possible.”

“Then tomorrow afternoon it is.”

“Good. I shall arrange special visiting privileges for you tomorrow. Say, two o’clock?”

“Two o’clock it is then.”