Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries:

28

“The second day in a row we have a promise of temperature in the forties,” Inspector Koznicki said. “If this continues all the snow will be gone.”

“Yeah,” Tully responded, “forty degrees. That’s Detroit’s plan for snow removal.”

Koznicki sensed the pressure Tully was under. The two sipped coffee as they stood looking out a window in Tully’s squad room. There was nothing of great interest to see from that vantage. A brick wall and, if one craned far enough, a tiny slice of what Detroiters liked to call Bricktown.

But they weren’t standing there to enjoy a breathtaking vista. Tully was marking time until the show-up. Koznicki was keeping him company.

Without success, the inspector was trying to recall a time during their association when Tully had been this nervous. Nor was this anxiety easily explainable. This morning’s procedure, following yesterday’s arraignment, was one both officers had gone through at very frequent intervals over the years. To Tully, it should have been almost second nature. Yet for the past hour, he had restlessly checked the details over and over. “What time you got, Walt?”

“Eight . . . 8:40.”

“It’s getting late.”

“You have twenty minutes until the show-up. Plenty of time. Who’s picking up the witnesses?”

“Mangiapane.”

“Good. And the subjects in the show-up?”

“Salvia.”

“Both reliable officers. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not—” The phone on Tully’s desk rang. He grabbed it. “He’s here already? Okay, stay with him. Get him some coffee.” He hung up and turned to Koznicki. “Johnson’s here . . . Kramer’s lawyer.”

“Good.”

“He’s early.”

“He will be able to talk to his client before the show-up. Just about perfect.”

“What if Mangiapane gets here late? Johnson could leave. Then we’d have to reschedule the goddam show-up—”

“Alonzo, please. Johnson is one of the best, a true professional. He will want to get this over once and for all as badly as anyone else. But then you too are a professional. One of the best. It is unlike you to be so worked up.”

Hearing it helped. Tully’s taut muscles seemed to relax. “You’re right, Walt. I don’t really know what it is. I don’t know why I want Kramer so bad. But I do. If this show-up works, it’ll be another nail in his coffin. God, I’m even beginning to care what happens to him in court. One thing for damn sure: He’s not gonna walk because of some screwup over here.”

“Do you have anything more?”

“The knife. Way down deep next to the handle the techs found a smidgen of blood. The rest of the thing was completely clean.”

“The blood type?”

“O positive.”

Koznicki shrugged. “The most common type.”

“It’s Kramer’s type.”

“Oh?”

“And Nancy Freel’s.”

Although for all purposes Koznicki was trying to be supportive, had anyone probed he would have had to admit he was disquieted by Tully’s single-minded pursuit of Kramer.

Koznicki was well aware that a policeman must have a restrictive attitude toward crime and criminals. An officer could not afford to be judgmental. The policeman’s lot was to make an arrest for good cause and to present a solid case supported by firm evidence to the prosecutor. While mindful of this, still Koznicki found himself at odds with Tully over this case.

Quite beyond his conscious control, Koznicki found himself judging Father Kramer and finding him innocent. And the inspector was just as certain that Tully had judged the priest and found him guilty. “So,” Koznicki said, “both Father Kramer and the woman have the same blood type. That could mean the blood found on the knife was, indeed, Father Kramer’s.”

“Maybe. But Kramer has no cut marks on his body. And for the blood to have clotted where it did, there should have been a rather serious cut . . . like, maybe, an incision all the way down a woman’s torso.”

Koznicki could not deny that the circumstantial evidence was piling up. “One more nail?”

“You got it.”

“And the iron—the branding iron?”

Tully shook his head. “Not yet. They’re still taking the car apart.”

“They have not completed that operation yet?”

“As far as I’m concerned, they’ll never get done as long as there’s one piece of metal attached to another. On top of that, one of the guys is getting a search warrant for the home—what do you call it?—the rectory . . . and the church too.”

“That is the smoking gun, you know.”

“Uh-huh. And it may be a little tough to convince a judge or a jury of what you and I both know: that it is not unusual for killers—even serial killers—to change their M.O.

“That branding had to be a cumbersome thing to pull off. He’d have to get the thing red-hot over a hot plate or, failing that, with a lighter. And after he got done, he’d have to cool the thing before he could pack it away. After two tries, he could have figured it just wasn’t worth it. If he gutted the victim, maybe carved something on her body, we’d still know it was the same guy. It’s happened before . . . I mean a killer changing his M.O.”

“That is true.”

“But I sure as hell would like to find that thing.” Tully’s knuckle tapped the desk.

“The smoking gun.”

“Yeah.”

The phone jingled. Tully had the receiver in his hand before the first ring was completed.

After a few words exchanged, Tully hung up and turned to Koznicki with a sense of finality. “Mangiapane’s up on nine. He’s got the witnesses. Time to get started.”

As he turned to leave, Koznicki patted him on the back. He could not force himself to wish good luck.

At the door of the squadroom, Tully turned back, winked, and said, “One more nail.”

29

When Tully reached the ninth floor of headquarters, he first looked in on Adelle and Ruby, made sure they were as comfortable as possible, and introduced them to Johnson, who was, as usual, impeccably dressed.

Next, Tully went backstage, as it were, to where Sergeant Dominic Salvia had assembled the required seven people who would participate in the show-up. As was the practice, Tully brought Johnson along. It was the attorney’s prerogative to suggest any minor changes he might want in the subjects presented or their positions in the show-up. Afterward, the attorney was to sign the show-up form acknowledging that everything had been conducted fairly.

Johnson knew Salvia, so no introductions were necessary.

“Who you got?” Tully asked.

Salvia enumerated the seven. Four were police officers, two were maintenance employees; the seventh, of course, was Father Kramer. Each man wore a black overcoat and black hat. Four were blond. The other three had gray hair that, under the hat, more or less appeared blond. All were roughly the same size, but were facially quite different, with the exception of one policeman named Harmon, whose features closely resembled Kramer’s.

“How do you want them placed?” Salvia asked.

“Oh,” Tully said, “how about we make Kramer fourth and Harmon fifth. Put the others anywhere you like.” Tully glanced inquiringly at Johnson, who nodded agreement.

“Okay,” Tully said to Salvia, “I’ll get the witnesses ready and we’ll go.”

“Hilly and Johnson returned to the lounge, where Tully explained the procedure to the two women. “You both know Mr. Johnson. He’s gonna be in the show-up room with us. He’s not gonna say anything. He’s just here to observe.

“We’re gonna take you in the room one at a time. There’s gonna be seven men standing on an elevated platform. There’ll be one-way glass between you and the men, and there’ll be bright lights shining on them. So all they’ll be able to see is their own reflection. There’s no way they can see you. But they can hear you if you speak loudly. So speak softly only to me or Officer Mangiapane. We’ll want Mr. Johnson to hear what you say, too.

“The seven men are all wearing black coats and hats like the guy you both saw a week ago Sunday. That guy didn’t say anything. So none of these guys will speak.

“Now, I gotta tell you this because it’s very important: Just because we got seven guys in there for you to look at don’t necessarily mean that one of them is the guy you saw. Maybe he’s there and maybe he isn’t. You just go in there with an open mind. If you see the guy, you tell us. And one more thing: Take your time. There ain’t no hurry. Okay?”

The two women nodded. Evidently, they were impressed, and not a little apprehensive.

“Okay,” Tully said. “You first, Adelle.”

Adelle, Johnson, Mangiapane, and Tully filed into the show-up room, leaving Ruby alone behind.

It was a rather impressive sight, particularly for someone—such as Adelle—new to it. Seven men looking straight ahead, seeing nothing but a pane of glass only a few feet in front of them. The bright lights focused on them made it impossible for them to see beyond the glass. With the black coats and hats, they looked so very much alike it was almost comical. Almost—except that one of them might be an exceptionally vicious murderer.

Adelle seemed overwhelmed by it all.

“Take your time,” Tully cautioned.

“I don’t know.”

“Take your time.”

“I just don’t know.”

“They look too much alike,” Mangiapane complained.

“That’s the idea,” Tully responded.

“They look so much alike,” Adelle said.

“That’s what I said,” said Mangiapane.

“Easy,” Tully cautioned.

From behind the glass, Salvia had the men turn full-circle, pausing at each quarter-turn.

“That ain’t no help, Zoo,” Adelle said. “The guy I seen talkin’ to Nancy was sittin’ in the front seat of a car. And he turned to face her. So what I seen of him I seen head on.”

“Leave ’em facin’ front, Salvia,” Tully called out.

“Okay, Zoo.”

Adelle studied the men for a few moments. Then she said, “Can I get up real close to them, Zoo?”

“Close as you want, Adelle. They can’t see you.”

Adelle walked up to the glass so close she was almost touching it. Then she walked slowly along the line, pausing before each man, some for a longer period of time than others. Finally, she backed away from the glass and stood by Tully. From that distance, she studied each of the seven men one more time.

Finally, she shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know, Zoo. I didn’t get that good a look at the guy. But from what I remember of him, I’d say there are three guys in that line-up who could be him.”

“Which three, Adelle?” Tully moved aside to make sure that Johnson could hear her reply.

“Well, there’s number one, and number four, and number five.”

“Okay, Adelle. Can you get it down any closer than that?”

Adelle looked over the three she had selected once again and shrugged. “One, four, and five. That’s the best I can do, Zoo. I didn’t get all that good a look at the guy. Maybe Ruby can do better.”

“Okay, Adelle. Thanks.”

Mangiapane escorted Adelle back to the lounge and returned with Ruby.

Ruby waited until she adjusted to the room and its peculiar lighting. Then she approached the men and studied them, one after another. Unlike Adelle, Ruby had been through this routine before—from both sides of the glass. She knew what to expect.

She asked Tully to have the men turn. He gave the order to Salvia, who transmitted it. Once again, the men turned in a complete circle, pausing at each quarter-turn. Ruby watched the process closely.

“Zoo,” she said, “when I saw the guy, he was walkin’ up the stairs and he stopped for just a second when he saw me. So I saw him from the side and he had his head turned. So he was lookin’ sort of over his right shoulder. Could I see ’em like that?”

“Sure, Ruby.” Tully spoke to Salvia, who had the men make a quarter-turn to the left and, from that position, face the glass. “That about it, Ruby?”

“Yeah, that’s it, Zoo.” She returned to the glass and once more studied each man carefully. After the seventh man, she came back to number four and spent several moments before him, then moved on to number five. Several times she alternated between numbers four and five.

Tully, Mangiapane, and Johnson barely breathed.

“That’s it, Zoo. That’s the guy.”

“Which one, Ruby?”

“Number four.”

“Are you certain sure?”

“Oh, yeah, Zoo. That’s the guy. Ain’t no doubt about it. For a while, I couldn’t make up my mind between four and five. You did a good job on them, Zoo. They’s almost twins. But it’s number four.”

“Okay, Ruby,” Tully said, “we got just a little bit of paperwork to do and you’ll be all done.”

“Did I get the right one, Zoo?”

“Yup.”

“Praise the Lord.”

As they left the show-up room, Johnson turned to Ruby. “If you don’t mind my asking, how were you able to make up your mind between four and five?”

“The eyes.”

“The eyes!” Johnson seemed surprised. “Vicious?”

Ruby shook her head. “Gentle.”

Mangiapane snorted. He could hardly wait to tell Police Officer Harmon he was lucky he didn’t have nice eyes. Otherwise he would have been fingered for murder.

30

At exactly 2:00 P.M., Father Koesler arrived at the Wayne County Jail, which was located across the street from Detroit Police Headquarters. He embarked on the red-tape procedures required for a visit with Father Richard Kramer. Due to the intervention of Inspector Koznicki, the two priests would be able to visit in the relative comfort of a private room rather than in the stark partitioned visitors’ room.

A deputy sheriff ushered Koesler into the room. As the officer left to get Father Kramer, there was a sharp snap as the door locked automatically.

This was not Koesler s first visit to the county jail, as well as some of the state’s other places of incarceration. Common to each and every one was this suffocating sense of locked doors. No door was ever unlocked before the prior door was locked.

Never having been jailed himself, Koesler had to project what the experience must be like. Particularly with his slight tendency toward claustrophobia, he was sure the worst part of this bad situation would be the locked doors. So, as they traveled through the building, the unending series of doors clicking locked was particularly unnerving to him.

A key turned in the door and Father Dick Kramer entered.

Koesler had assumed Kramer would be dressed as he had been yesterday at his arraignment. So it came as a surprise to see him wearing a prison uniform—though not a completely unpleasant surprise. For some reason, Kramer looked a bit more at ease in prison grays than he had in that rumpled, slept-in black suit. Yesterday, he had resembled a homeless bum fresh, and literally, off skid row. Now he looked as if he had been interrupted from work in his machine shop.

They greeted each other rather awkwardly.

“I brought you a carton of cigarettes,” Koesler said, “but the guard took them.”

“I guess I’m not allowed to have the full carton.” Kramer smiled briefly. “I wouldn’t have anywhere to put it anyway. I guess they allow you a pack at a time—as long as the supply lasts. I’m not too conversant with all the rules and regulations.”

“I hope you never get to be.”

“Amen.”

Koesler sat down and, as he did so, so did the other priest.

“Dick,” Koesler said, “I’ve been trying to put myself in your place. And, as near as I can come to how you must feel, I suppose you’re wondering whether anything is going on out there. I just wanted to assure you that a lot of people, myself included, are doing all we can to help”

Kramer nodded. “You’re right about one thing. I’ve been wondering if there is a real world out there. Mine seems to have toppled over. I . . . I don’t know what’s happened. It’s like a long nightmare I can’t wake up from.”

In all the years Koesler had known Kramer, he’d never known him to be so open about his innermost feelings. Undoubtedly, this was an indication of how deeply and radically Kramer had been affected by this tragedy. It also seemed an added indication that Kramer had somehow become the innocent victim of a classic case of mistaken identity.

“I talked to Therese,” Kramer said.

“You did?” Koesler was not surprised.

“I called her. I’m not allowed to receive any calls.”

“I’m glad you talked to her.”

“So am I.” Kramer plucked a cigarette from his shirt pocket. Before striking the kitchen match the guard had provided, Kramer looked inquiringly at Koesler. “Mind?”

Koesler shook his head. He was not in the habit of denying smokers their opportunities. He certainly would not deny this beleaguered priest one of his few remaining pleasures.

“She told me about the conversation the two of you had last Sunday night.” Kramer inhaled deeply; his words were punctuated by wisps of smoke.

“She’s a very persuasive lady.”

“I know. She’s been able to get me to do just about everything she wanted me to do. Except, maybe, to give up these.” Kramer held up the smoldering cigarette.

Koesler nodded. A former smoker, he had a firsthand appreciation of the addiction.

“Anyway,” Kramer said, “I want to thank you.”

“Just yet there’s no particular reason to; I haven’t done anything.”

“You were at the arraignment. You’re here. You’re with me. I appreciate it. I really do. Besides, I agree with Therese: Your contacts in the police department may prove helpful. I don’t exactly know how. But I’m willing to believe. One thing is for certain: I have to get out of here.”

Koesler looked concerned. “It must be pretty bad.”

“Very bad.”

“Good God, has there been any . . . abuse?”

“Oh, you mean from the other guys, the other . . . prisoners. Oh, no; nothing like that. Actually, they’ve treated me rather well. But I’ve got to get back to the parish. The longer I’m gone, the more likely it’s going to be that the chancery will take it away from me.”

Koesler thought it inappropriate to suggest that it was extremely unlikely that the chancery would remove Kramer as pastor of Mother of Sorrows. Nobody was standing in line waiting for the parish. Nobody else wanted it.

But Koesler was relieved that Kramer had suffered no abuse from the other prisoners. One could never be sure of what might happen within a prison.

“I really don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about as far as the chancery is concerned. I’m pretty sure Cardinal Boyle would not let that happen. But, as for getting out: How about bail?”

“Not yet. Our next chance is Thursday when I have my preliminary examination.”

“Not till then? Isn’t there a chance they will simply drop the charges?”

“I don’t think so. Not now. One of their witnesses identified me in the line-up this morning.”

“No!” Koesler was deeply shocked. “How could that be!”

“I don’t know.” Kramer lit a fresh cigarette from the one he was discarding. “I just don’t know. My attorney tells me it happens. The cops have to warn witnesses that the person they’re looking for may not be in the line-up. And the cops did that this morning, my lawyer said. But then he said most of the time the warning doesn’t do any good. The witnesses are psyched-up to pick out somebody. Mistakes happen. But for the guy they single out, it is one pretty damn big mistake.”

“Good grief! I can’t believe it! Somebody actually picked you out of a line-up. Incredible!”

“I really doubt my lawyer would kid about a thing like that.”

“Well, if I’m going to try to help, I’d better know what’s going on. Have they got anything else?”

“My knife.”

“Your knife. You mean the big one.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve had that for years. God, all the way back to the seminary. I could testify—any of the guys could testify—you’ve had that thing for ages. We used to sit around and watch you carve things. There’s nothing wrong about that knife.”

“They found some blood on it.”

“Blood!”

“Mine. About a week ago, I cut myself. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it bled pretty good. I thought I cleaned it up. I must’ve missed a drop or two up near the shaft.”

“But it would be your blood type.”

“It is. It’s also the blood type of one of the victims.”

“No! This is truly incredible.”

“And my cut was so minor, my wound is all healed. So they won’t believe the blood came from me.”

“It’s like some fiendish conspiracy. Obviously someone set you up last Sunday to be found by the police. Is it possible the same guy concocted all the rest of this so-called evidence?”

“I haven’t got it figured out. I don’t even know whether I can figure it out. I keep trying to put it together, but it doesn’t go together for me. It’s like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with several missing pieces.”

“Let’s try to put it together. I guess if I’m good at any of this, it’s assembling things in some sort of logical order. Game?”

Kramer nodded and coughed rackingly several times, eventually bringing up sputum. Koesler recalled his own years of addiction; each morning had begun with coughing up his insides.

Everything was better without tobacco. But everyone had to discover that for oneself.

Koesler waited for Kramer to finish clearing the blocked passages, then said, “Okay, let’s start with two days ago . . . Sunday.” With more than thirty years as a priest, and relating to another priest only a few years younger than himself, Koesler could visualize a typical Sunday as if it were happening to himself. “You finish with morning Masses. How many do you have?”

“Two. Ten and twelve noon.”

“Right. So you’re tired and unwinding. Then the phone rings. What time was that?”

“About 2:30, 3:00. I wouldn’t have fixed the time so easily except that I’ve gone over it with my lawyer.”

“Sorry to go over the same material. But maybe I can understand and appreciate it even better than your attorney.”

Kramer knew that was true.

“Was anyone with you when the call came?”

“No one.”

Koesler tilted his head to one side. “Too bad. It would have been a tremendous help if someone had been there to corroborate the call. It’s also too bad that so few people will appreciate how small the odds are that there would have been anyone else around, especially on a Sunday afternoon. That’s about the only time a priest has to himself, whether he wants to be alone or not.”

“Absolutely.”

“So the call comes. A sick call?”

“Yeah. The guy who called—”

“It was a man? You’re sure?”

“He didn’t seem to be disguising his voice at all.”

“You recognized the voice?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“He said there was this lady who was real sick and needed a priest. And he gave the address.”

“Which was way out of your parish. But it didn’t matter because it was pretty close to downtown and there wouldn’t be many priests around that area, especially on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Exactly.” Kramer was buoyed by the simple fact that Koesler seemed to understand so much more readily than the attorney. Both Johnson and Koesler were on his side. But Koesler understood completely and immediately.

“Then?”

“The rest of it is part of the record. I got there expecting to find a woman on her deathbed. I figured I’d have to call a doctor for her. I tried to get the guy who called to do that, but he hung up before I could do it. And I thought I had better at least take a look before I did it. So I went.

“When I knocked on the door I was surprised that she could invite me in with such a strong voice ... I mean for a dying woman. Then when I entered the apartment, she let out a scream and pulled this huge knife. I didn’t know what the hell was happening but I didn’t want to get all carved up for my trouble. So I got my knife out . . . to sort of establish a Mexican standoff, you know.

“There was a lot of yelling. We were both yelling at each other. Then the cops busted in . . . actually it would have been sort of comical if it hadn’t turned out to be so tragic.”

Koesler, who had been nodding his understanding and agreement throughout Kramer’s narration, said, “Okay, you were set up for this. There’s no doubt about that. But how?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Kramer chain-lit another cigarette and coughed.

“Whoever did it knew, or guessed, that the police had certain areas of the city under surveillance. Or maybe he actually saw the police patrolling that area. Somebody who had it in for you. Anybody come to mind?”

Kramer gave the question only a moment’s thought. “No . . . nobody . . . not anybody vindictive enough to go to all the trouble.”

“A good point. That was a lot of trouble to go to. Anybody who felt he had some score to settle with you could have found a helluva lot of easier ways to do it.”

Koesler paused and rubbed his chin. “But then why didn’t the police buy your story? It seems perfectly logical to me.”

“They kept saying it was too impossible to be a coincidence.”

“What was?”

“That I was dressed as a priest. And, as we know from the papers, so was the killer.”

“So? Priests are not supposed to wear their uniform because some criminal decides to dress like us?”

“No, it was more than that. I drive a black Ford Escort. So did the killer.”

Koesler was about to interject a thought, but Kramer continued. “Then, there was my knife. Again, the papers said that the prostitutes had been stabbed.”

“But a knife! Lots of people carry—”

“They were most persistent about the size of the knife. I’m not sure why. Then there was something about my belt . . . its size, its width. I don’t know what that was all about. I asked them. But they seemed determined to wait until I tell them. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to tell them.”

“Isn’t there any way of finding out?”

“Tomorrow, I think. My lawyer spends tomorrow, or part of it, with the prosecutor. He described the legal process. I think it’s called discovery. He gets to find out what they think they have against me. We have a right to that information before the preliminary examination on Thursday.”

“This is all happening so fast.”

“Maybe. Or not so fast. There’s no way I can get out of here too soon.”

Kramer reached for another cigarette, then thought better of it and tapped it back into the package. Koesler visualized Kramer’s lungs begging for mercy.

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Koesler wished he had a pad. Evaluating a situation like this seemed to work better when one could write out the possibilities. “It’s obvious somebody framed you. That you were set up last Sunday is patent. It didn’t take too much imagination to figure that you would respond to that sick call. Or that you would be wearing your clericals. Maybe one of the younger priests would show up in a turtleneck and jeans. But our vintage would come in roman collar.

“The guy—whoever it is—knows you drive a black Escort. He knows you ordinarily carry a knife—but then, you always have. He knows something about your belt, which, for some reason that we are likely to discover tomorrow, is important to the police.

“Okay, all of that information is not all that hard to come by. It’s easily available to anyone who knows you even in the slightest way.

“Who would do this to you? It’s got to be obvious: the real killer. For two consecutive Sundays he went about killing defenseless women and setting you up at the same time.

“All this guy had to do was know just a little bit about you—things he could find out merely by observing you. Then he could dress like a priest, drive a black Escort, carry a knife—with which he could kill—and do whatever he did with a belt like yours. It wasn’t all that hard.” Koesler felt the exhilaration of having solved the puzzle. Or at least part of the puzzle.

“That’s got to be it. That’s really got to be it.” Kramer, in that distracted automatic manner of a smoker, selected another cigarette and lit it, using the second and final match the guard had provided.

“That leaves the big question ...” Koesler seemed deep in thought. “Who is it? Who did it? And, now that I think of it, how did he know that a witness—and he always took the chance of being seen by somebody—how could he know that a witness would confuse the two of you? How could he guess that a witness might identify you as the one who did it? Luck? That seems improbable. Coincidence? I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t all he’d have to know,” Kramer suggested, “is what my lawyer told me: that witnesses are likely to go into a line-up already programmed to identify somebody? They had all of us—there were seven—dress totally in black. Right away that makes us look an awful lot alike. And the woman who identified me seemed to spend a God-awful amount of time doing it . . . or at least it seemed that an awful lot of time elapsed. Maybe the killer was counting on the witnesses acting or reacting like witnesses usually do. Or maybe it was blind luck . . . or just a coincidence. After all, how could the killer know there would be witnesses?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. That’s the only piece that doesn’t seem to fit with the puzzle. Did he know, did he have any reason to guess, that this might happen? That someone would mistake you for him? I don’t know. It bothers me.”

“Well, anyhow, I feel better. Just going through this with you has lifted a weight off my shoulders, Bob. You know, I know—we both know—I couldn’t have done it.”

“Yes. But realistically, Dick, that may not be enough. I know in our form of law in this country, an accused person is innocent until proven guilty. But in our case, we may have to find the guilty party before—” Koesler stopped in midsentence and looked intently at Kramer. “What did you just say?”

Kramer seemed confused. He could not remember. Few people pay close enough attention to remarks they make to have a verbatim recollection. “I don’t know . . . something about our both knowing that I didn’t do it.”

“No; you didn’t say you didn’t do it; you said you couldn’t have done it.”

“Same thing.” Kramer drew nervously on his cigarette.

“Not exactly. If I were considering you and your being accused of a crime, I’d think of you as a priest—and a good one. And I would find it inconceivable that you could have committed the crime. And I’d say of you that you couldn’t have done it. If I were speaking for myself accused of a crime, I’d say I didn’t do it.”

Kramer stubbed out the cigarette without lighting another. “So?”

“So, what were you doing the two Sunday afternoons before this past one?”

“What I was doing day before yesterday: nothing.”

“No one phoned? No one stopped in for a copy of a record—marriage, baptism, confirmation, death—nothing? Two consecutive Sundays and the phone didn’t ring even once? I know you’re in a quiet parish, Dick. But I’ve been in quiet parishes too. And as restful as you would like Sunday afternoons and evenings to be, it would be something to write home about if nothing at all happened for that length of time.”

“I told the cops I was at the rectory alone and nothing happened.”

“I don’t know whether they believe you. But I’m a priest, and I find it very difficult to believe. Nothing? Nothing at all happened? Come on, Dick: Are you trying to protect someone? If you are, let me assure you: It isn’t worth it.”

Kramer selected another cigarette and tapped it against the table, compressing the tobacco. He remembered he had no more matches and replaced it in the pack. Koesler wished he would hurry along. Their allotted time had almost expired.

“If anything had happened, I wouldn’t have known about it,” Kramer finally said softly.

“You wouldn’t have known about it? You weren’t there?”

“I was there, all right. Unconscious. Dead drunk.”

“Drunk!” The statement had taken Koesler by surprise.

“Every Sunday. Every Sunday for months. More than a year. It’s the only time they let me alone.”

“They? The parishioners?”

“They. Everybody. Everything. The pressures. The drive. The concern. There’s nothing I can do about keeping the school open, paying the bills, teaching classes, giving convert instructions, fighting off the chancery. Sundays—the only day I can find any peace. Two Masses, homilies, liturgies. You know that, Bob. Wiped out.”

Koesler nodded. He knew it well. The laity probably couldn’t guess how much it took out of their priest to offer multiple Masses and really try to deliver an interesting and meaningful homily two, perhaps three times a day. It was draining—emotionally and physically.

“So,” Kramer continued, “by early to midafternoon, I am exhausted and faced with the one and only time in the week when no one is likely to bug me. And I won’t bug myself.”

“So you drink?” Koesler easily perceived how difficult this admission was for Kramer.

“It started well over a year ago. Just something to help unwind. A light scotch, maybe. Then, more . . . into oblivion. After months of this, it took more and more to reach oblivion.”

“You were building a tolerance.”

“I didn’t admit it at first. But then it became inescapable. And then, after a while, I wasn’t getting any real rest in the way of sleep. But it didn’t matter. I needed that escape. And no one was being hurt by it. Except possibly me. And I didn’t touch a drop the rest of the week. Just Sundays.”

Kramer was an alcoholic. Koesler knew enough about the disease to recognize that. But why drop that concept on the poor man? Kramer had enough trouble as it was. Time enough to get treatment for him after extricating him from this mess.

“Well, then, if you were completely out of it on those Sunday afternoons, you couldn’t have committed those murders.”

Kramer shrugged. “Bob, what difference does it make to the police? I have no one to testify that I spent the time inside my rectory, drunk or sober. What they demand—and I need—is someone to say, ‘He couldn’t have done it. He was home. I was with him.’ And there isn’t any such person.

“So you see, as far as this problem is concerned, it doesn’t matter whether I was drunk or sober. I have no witness one way or the other.

“But I guess that’s what I meant when I said I couldn’t have done it. That was rather clever of you to pick up on that.”

“Clever or not, we’re back on square one.” Koesler grimaced. “It would help a lot if we could find the one who did it.”

“Are you good at miracles?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Koesler smiled. “No, ’fraid not.” His smile grew more reassuring. “But I do feel I’ve accomplished something. Now we know there’s somebody out there who has been watching you pretty carefully and possibly even knows about your Sunday routine. That would make it quite perfect, wouldn’t it? Suppose the guy knew you were virtually unconscious and necessarily alone every late Sunday afternoon and early evening. Then he would know that as he went about framing you, you would have no alibi.

“And how would he know?” Koesler now seemed to be musing out loud. “Simple surveillance would tell him you never leave the rectory on Sundays. But what are you doing? He phones. But you don’t answer. Maybe he tries looking in a window. Or,” triumphantly, “the garbage! Very popular now, I hear. He rummages through the garbage and finds empty booze bottles on Mondays.” He looked at Kramer. “It wouldn’t be that hard.”

Koesler was now ascending the emotional high that accompanied the solving of another puzzle. “I’m beginning to get a sense of the person we’re looking for. I really think this visit has been a help.”

“For me, too,” Kramer said. “By God, I think there may be light at the end of this tunnel.”

The guard opened the door. “Time’s up.”

Kramer rose. “And, Bob: Thanks for the cigarettes.”

The door slammed and clicked locked behind Kramer. Then Koesler was ushered out of the building through the repetitive precaution of the locking of the door behind before the opening of the door in front. When he finally reached the street, Koesler experienced a rush of relief similar to that which he always felt after visiting a hospital. In both instances he was glad to get out and grateful he was neither a patient nor an inmate.

He retrieved his car after paying what he considered an exorbitant parking fee. Once again he fantasized that if he were mayor of Detroit the first thing he would do would be to take control of all the lots and allow free parking everywhere. Short of a good mass transit system, which the city had badly needed for decades, Detroit needed free parking to compete with the free parking amply available throughout the suburbs.

Koesler did not look forward to the drive home. He would be immersed in the ceaseless stop-and-go of rush-hour traffic. It was at times like this he questioned his choice of a stickshift model. Oh, well; at least the long slow drive would give him time to think.

Quite naturally, his thoughts revolved around Father Kramer.

Dick Kramer was a sick man. And the poor soul, in all likelihood, didn’t realize how sick he was.

There was the smoking, of course. That would take its toll as it did with all serious smokers. No one who knew Kramer was a stranger to his chain-smoking and the accompanying racking cough.

The drinking was another dimension. Koesler could readily understand how Kramer could rationalize away the drinking problem. Kramer himself had said it: He did not touch a drop Monday through Saturday. So how could someone who confined his drinking to one day a week be an addict?

The answer of course was in the compulsion and mostly in the inability to quit. Each Sunday as soon as he was alone and, for all practical purposes, abandoned for the remainder of the day, he would begin drinking. At that point, it was a repetition of the old truism: One drink was not enough and two was too many. He could not stop until he passed out. Unconsciousness was nature’s way of cutting off the irresistible urge.

Then the self-deception begins. Koesler had known so many alcoholics. Generally, they had some rules of thumb that convinced them they had no problem. Classic was the person who would abstain from alcohol until noon each day. And each day at noon he would proceed to get loaded. He didn’t have a problem because he could wait until noon. He had things under control. And Dick Kramer could wait until Sunday. He too had things under control.

But he didn’t. He himself described the situation best. It started innocently enough with a mild drink to help unwind after hard work. Then the tolerance grew until he was putting away probably a fifth or more at one sitting.

With any luck, Father Kramer had a sojourn at Guest House in his future. There, as had been the case with hundreds of priests, he could become a recovering alcoholic.

It was the unique approach of Guest House, conceived by its founder Austin Ripley, that a priest is not likely to make it in the standard Alcoholics Anonymous program. The reason had everything to do with the position accorded a priest in the Catholic community. Catholics tend to put their priests on pedestals. When a priest falls from that pedestal into an illness such as, say, alcoholism, he falls farther than the average person.

Guest House—the original located in the Detroit suburb of Lake Orion—he knew, had as its prime goal the restoration of the priest’s sense of dignity. Next it offered the very best of physical, psychological, and religious therapy. And it seemed to work outstandingly well.

If anyone needed the solicitous ministrations of Guest House, it certainly was Dick Kramer. Not only was he suffering from alcoholism, but, even though he had been convicted of nothing, he now was an inmate in a prison system. His sense of self-dignity was undoubtedly at rock bottom.

So, as Father Koesler turned off Ford Road onto West Outer Drive, he had formed two sequential resolutions: He would clear Dick Kramer of the charge of murder. Then he would make sure that Kramer had the benefit of the success-prone Guest House.

Koesler did not often make such ambitious resolutions. By far the more momentous of the two resolves was getting Kramer exonerated. But after this afternoon’s consultations with Kramer, Koesler felt some indefinable link with the real killer . . . the man who had set Kramer up.

Was it a premonition that he and the killer would soon meet and that, somehow, Koesler would recognize the man?

After parking his car, Koesler decided to visit the church before going to the rectory. He had a lot to ponder. And, to date, he had never found a better place to think than in an empty church.