Marked for Murder

31

Monsignor Meehan had seen the television reports, he’d heard of it on the radio broadcasts, and he’d read about it in the local papers. Indeed, he could have gotten the word almost anywhere in the world.

That a Catholic priest had been accused of murder was news of the first order. That a Catholic priest had been accused of the ritual mutilation-murder of two prostitutes was news almost anywhere. And so almost every news agency carried it.

Meehan of course followed the story anxiously. After all, he and Father Kramer had lived and worked together in the same parish years ago and since then the Monsignor had always considered Kramer a friend. But the coverage, no matter how thorough, could never be as comprehensive as a firsthand report. This is why Meehan was paying such close attention to Father Koesler’s words. Koesler had been there.

Ordinarily, during his visits with Monsignor Meehan, Koesler aimed to keep his side of the conversation brief. Meehan’s attention span was not all that it had been. Some time back, Koesler had noticed that when he was telling a particularly long story or making a lengthy explanation, Meehan’s eyes would begin wandering as his attention waned.

None of that today, however.

Yesterday, as part of a packed courtroom, Koesler, accompanied once again by Inspector Koznicki, had attended the preliminary examination of Father Kramer. Now he was recounting that event to Monsignor Meehan. And he had the monsignor’s attention.

“How’d he look to you?” Clearly Meehan was concerned and worried about Kramer.

“Okay, I guess. But I had visited with him a few days ago. And I saw him at the arraignment a day before that. So maybe I’ve come to expect that sort of bewildered expression he’s wearing. It’s as if Dick suddenly found himself on a different planet where everything is strange and foreign. Fortunately, they don’t allow any cameras in the courtroom. But there are these artists sitting in the area normally reserved for the jury. And they’re sketching away furiously.

“The courtroom was packed. There were sheriff’s deputies and police officers. In the middle of all this hubbub, Dick was just there in a sort of passive way . . . like an inert piece somebody placed on a chessboard.”

Meehan slowly shook his head. “Poor man. The poor man.”

Koesler thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, I guess he is a poor man, in one sense of the word. But in another sense he’s rich. His Church is backing him up. There were quite a few priests in the courtroom. Most of them, even the younger guys, were in clericals. Several nuns, too . . . although not all of them were in even a modified habit. But they were there, and you could tell.”

“Oh, that’s good. That’s good. How about the Cardinal?”

“He’s behind the scenes, as usual. You probably read the statement he released: that Father Kramer enjoys the presumption of innocence, as would each of us in a court of law. And that he’s sure that when all the facts are in, Father will be vindicated. And, finally, that he requests the prayers of all Catholics in the archdiocese to support Father Kramer in his hour of need.”

“Yes, I read it, Bobby. Cardinal Boyle certainly has a knack for taking the hysteria out of an event and replacing it with sheer logic.”

“But I think that’s mostly for popular consumption. I’m sure he feels this whole messy episode very deeply. The word is that he’s the one who got Johnson to defend Dick.”

“Is that so? I wondered how that happened. If I recall correctly, Johnson doesn’t try that many cases anymore. He’s more a corporate lawyer now, isn’t he. Where all the money is?”

Koesler nodded.

“But,” Meehan continued, “he’s one of the best.”

“The best. Actually, it was sort of fifty-fifty . . . or maybe even sixty-forty. After he was approached by Sister Therese, he was reportedly sort of interested in the novelty of the case. Then—or so the story goes—came an invitation to dine with the Cardinal. And that did it.”

“I should think so. You ever get an invite to sup with the Cardinal?”

“Never.”

“Nor I. But it was good of him to go out of his way like that for Dick.

“Well, then, go on with it: How was the—what do you call it?— the preliminary examination?”

“Uh . . . well, you must have read about it.”

“Yes, certainly. But you were there. I want to hear it from you.”

“Well, it was much more brief than I had expected. Inspector Koznicki said the lawyers call it a ‘minitrial.’”

“What happened?”

“It’s very simple, really. The whole idea is to establish—or not, depending on whether you’re the prosecution or the defense—that a crime has been committed. And then, whether or not there’s probable cause that the crime was committed by the accused. So that’s what they argued.

“The prosecution’s case seems to center on the fact that Dick wears the same kind of clothing we do—and which the murderer is supposed to have worn. And that Dick drives the same make and color of car the murderer did. And that Dick carries a knife. And that he fell into the trap they set for the murderer.

“Oh, and there’s something about his belt . . . but they didn’t bring that up. Inspector Koznicki said that the prosecution doesn’t usually play all its cards at a preliminary examination. They present just enough to have the judge agree that there is ‘probable cause’ to hold the defendant over for trial.

“Which is just what happened.”

“Well, I know I wasn’t there . . .but to me their case seems pretty flimsy.”

“I’ve got to say that the prosecution did better than I portrayed it’s doing. That prosecuting attorney is really good. I suppose to someone who could be objective about this, it could be and probably is one of the more fascinating trials in memory. But you and I don’t fit into that objective category.”

“Most certainly not.”

“On top of it all, the prosecution didn’t bring in those eyewitnesses who identified Dick. And the inspector says their testimony may prove to be the most damaging evidence of all. But even without them, the ruling was that Dick was to be held over for trial in circuit court.”

“That’s the one that puzzles me. How could they do that? How could they possibly identify Dick—I mean, when the man certainly wasn’t there?”

“Dick’s attorney told him it does happen. Even when the police don’t influence them, sometimes witnesses so expect to see a particular person in a lineup that they find somebody to identify even if the guilty party isn’t there.

“Anyway, Dick said his attorney was quite sure he would be able to break their testimony in cross-examination.”

“I fervently hope and pray so.”

“Interesting, though; through the inspector, I met a young detective named Mangiapane.”

“A good Italian Catholic lad?”

“Absolutely. He was at the lineup. He told me all about the proceedings and—off the record, unfortunately—that he thought it was possible, just possible, that the women could have made a mistake. I think he’s on our side.”

“We can use all the help we can get.”

“You said it. Especially with that Lieutenant Tully. He is so dead sure that Dick is guilty that it’s frightening. And the inspector claims that Tully is the best homicide detective on the force.”

“Everybody’s entitled to one major mistake. And this is Lieutenant Tully’s. So . . .” Meehan tapped his cane against the floor. “. . . what happens now? How do we get poor Dick out of that godforsaken jail?”

“Well, he has to go to trial first.”

“Before that. Isn’t there a bail?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact there is . . . although the prosecution argued strenuously against it.”

“They want their pound of flesh, do they?”

“They argued that Dick is charged with a most serious crime and that he poses a danger to the community.”

“Horsefeathers!” Which was about as vulgar as Monsignor Meehan ever became.

“That’s what the defense said: that Dick has an unblemished record and is an upstanding and, in fact, leading member of the community.

“So then the judge said that while the prosecution had met its burden to prove probable cause, he didn’t believe the evidence was compelling enough to prohibit setting a bond.”

Meehan grinned. “I bet then they wished they’d trotted out all their ‘evidence.’”

“Probably. But there really wasn’t anything more they could do at that point. So the bond was set at . . .” Koesler paused as if unwilling to pronounce the figure. “. . . at one hundred thousand dollars.”

Meehan dropped his cane. “One hundred thousand dollars!”

“That means coming up with 10 percent of that total—ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand? Cold cash? Who’s got that kind of money?”

“Nobody I know. The priests have started a collection with the idea that if the total never gets to ten thousand, whatever has been donated will be returned. There’s not a lot of hope. At least not in the immediate future. And the chancery does not involve itself in such matters.”

“Meanwhile, poor Father Kramer rots in jail for no good reason.” Meehan shook his head. Then, as if forcing himself, he brightened. “Well, anyway, Bobby, we’ve got you on our side.”

Koesler tilted his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

“I did a little callin’ around myself. And I talked to Sister Therese.”

“Oh.”

“She told me you were going to help Dick.”

“I’m praying for him.”

“That and more. She said you were going to get involved.”

“Getting involved doesn’t mean any miracles are going to happen.”

“You’ve done it before, Bobby.”

“Miracles!”

“Maybe not. But you’ve helped the police before. It’s common knowledge.”

“I don’t know how common the knowledge is. But you’ve got the right verb. I’ve helped a few times. And I’m only involving myself in this case because the murderer had the gall to wear our uniform when he was committing his crimes. You and I—and all priests, for that matter—know that no one knows what it’s like to be a priest except another priest. So if this murderer wants to pretend to be a priest, like as not he’s going to make some mistakes that a real priest will be able to recognize.

“I guess my advantage over any other priest who might get actively involved in helping Dick is that I already have a bit of an entree to the police department through Inspector Koznicki. But please, Monsignor: no miracles.”

Meehan chuckled. “All right then, Bobby: no miracles. But we’re counting on you all the same.”

Koesler grew more serious. “I just wish I had more confidence. I feel that I’m limping.”

“Oh?” Meehan matched Koesler’s somber demeanor. “What is it then?”

“I don’t know exactly. It’s . . . it’s like the real killer knows Dick better than I do.”

“How can that be?”

“Well, quite obviously, the real murderer has been stalking Father Kramer for some time—and very painstakingly. He knows Dick’s routine better than almost anyone else.” Koesler would not mention Kramer’s drinking problem and his consequent lost Sundays. He did not consider Kramer’s confidence protected by the seal of confession, or even as a professional secret. But there was no point in mentioning it to others. Time enough to address that problem after Kramer was cleared of these charges.

“He knows,” Koesler continued, “what kind of car Dick drives, that he habitually carries a knife, what his schedule is. Even what size belt he wears.”

“He knows that much! He knows all that!”

“Yes. And I know so little. Outside of that visit I paid him—after you mentioned it would be a good idea—I rarely see him. We don’t travel in the same circles. Matter of fact, he doesn’t travel in any circles. A loner, now and even in the seminary.

“Dick was only a couple of years behind me in the seminary. But I—we—hardly ever saw him. Always working—studying, reading, busy in the boiler room, the machine shop, with the carpenter— always working.

“And it hasn’t changed since ordination. None of us ever sees him. Why, when I visited him this latest time, he was busy in his workshop. And if he hadn’t been there, he would have been out in his parish ringing doorbells or in the school or repairing the church or something like that.

“The problem, Monsignor, is that the real killer knows him and I don’t. That’s why I feel as if I’m limping. If I’m going to be able to find out where the killer made his mistake, the one that will trip him up and expose him, I’ve got to know Dick at least as well as the killer does.” He shook his head. “But I don’t.”

The two were silent for several moments.

“I see,” said Meehan finally. “Well, I suppose I was about as close to Dick Kramer as anyone in the archdiocese. What is it you need to know? Maybe I could be of some help.”

“Maybe you could.” Koesler brightened. “Maybe you could.

“Well, then, the obvious question is: What makes Dick Kramer run? His most overriding characteristic is that he’s a workaholic, and has been for as long as I’ve known him. Which goes back to our earliest days in the seminary. From the very beginning, he’s been wrapped up in busy-ness. Why? Any ideas?”

Meehan hesitated as if he knew the answer but was unsure whether to reveal the information.

“I think I can shed some light on that question,” he said at length. “It’s not for certain. But I’ve had a pet theory for a long, long time. Maybe I’m dabblin’ in pop psychology without a license, but I’m pretty sure it all fits together.”

“Anything is better than what I’ve got, which is no clue at all. What have you got on it, Monsignor?”

“Well, see, Bobby, it all began when Dick Kramer applied for entrance to Sacred Heart Seminary in the ninth grade. He applied and took the entrance exam, just as all of you did, in July, a couple of months before school began in September. That was in ’44 or ’45, I forget which. The thing of it is, he was turned down.”

“Oh, no. I’m afraid you’re mistaken there, Monsignor. Dick was admitted. I remember him as a freshman. He was admitted.”

“So everyone thinks. But they’re not quite correct. Oh, he passed the entrance exam okay. A bright lad. But there was a complication.”

Meehan’s hesitation suggested he might not continue.

“A complication?” Koesler prompted.

“He . . . Dick was illegitimate.”

“He was!”

“Oh, not in civil law. His parents were married. But by a judge, not by a priest. His father had been married previously. One of those cases canon law couldn’t touch. His father, a Catholic, had married a Catholic—before a priest, two witnesses, the whole thing. There weren’t any impediments to the marriage. It just didn’t work out. So they were divorced in civil law.

“Later Dick’s father met the girl who would become Dick’s mother. They fell in love, deeply in love.” He looked at Koesler almost challengingly. “By God, they lived together very happily for some thirty years. But because of that previous marriage, they couldn’t get married in the Church. So when Dick was born, as far as Church law was concerned, he was illegitimate.

“There was only one way that this technicality would have any effect at all on Dick and that was if he were to try to become a priest. Church law prohibited illegitimates from the priesthood. As you know, that particular law was not common knowledge as far as the laity in general was concerned. Ordinarily, they learned about it only if they bumped into it headfirst.”

“Not only was it not popularly known,” Koesler interjected, “It was not universally enforced. You could get a dispensation from it.”

“I’m coming to that,” Meehan said. “You may remember, back in those days, that along with taking an entrance exam, you also had to bring copies of your baptismal and confirmation certificates as well as a copy of your parents’ marriage certificate.

“Well, Richard came with the whole package and presented it to the rector of the seminary. Of course the marriage certificate was of the civil ceremony, since they hadn’t had a religious ceremony. And on the copy of his baptismal certificate was the notation, filius illegitimus, signifying that he was, indeed, as far as the Church was concerned, illegitimate. So the rector then had to explain to him why he could not be admitted to the seminary.

“It was the first that Richard had ever known about his technical status in the Church. He didn’t even know what illegitimacy meant.

“It was a fantastic shock to Richard. All he wanted in life was to be a priest. Now he was given to believe he would never have a chance. Not through anything he had done or was responsible for, but because of something his parents had done.

“Well, it just tore him to shreds. All of a sudden, he understood why, although his parents went to Mass with him every week without fail, they never went to Communion. At first, he had been too embarrassed to ask them why they didn’t receive Communion. Then when he got nerve enough to ask, their answer was very vague. So he hadn’t asked again. And he tried to stop wondering.

“Then, all at once, when he was just thirteen, at what should have been one of the happiest moments of his life—being accepted as a student for the priesthood—he learns the whole truth. Can you imagine what that did to him?”

“I sure can.” Koesler found himself emotionally wounded right along with the young Richard Kramer. “But what happened? Something must have happened. I can remember Dick as a freshman in the seminary. Mostly I can remember how damn hard he worked.”

“Intervention, that’s what happened. His pastor went to bat for him. Old Father Lotito.”

“I remember him.”

“Well, he was Dick’s pastor. And he knew what a grand priest Dick would make. So Father Lotito, as soon as he heard what they’d done to Dick, got right over to the seminary. Raised holy hell with them.” He smiled. “You could do that in those days only if you were quite fearless. And Father Lotito was certainly that.

“So they made an exception for Dick and accepted him. That’s why your recollection of Dick’s being in the freshman class at Sacred Heart is correct. But it was also flawed. They let him into the seminary but, I fear the damage was done.”

“The poor guy. The poor kid! What a thing to happen to a young boy. Sometimes, I swear, the Church can have a heart as cold as stone.”

“Anyway, that’s my theory of why Dick Kramer works so exceptionally hard. Once I had occasion to talk to his parents—they’re both gone now, you know. They said that he was never like that when he was growing up. He used to play and even, every once in a while, get into minor scrapes—nothing serious—just like any other youngster. But he changed at exactly the time he entered the seminary. And Father Lotito said the same.

“What happened, I think, is that being turned down by the seminary made him feel like a second-class student. So he set about to prove that he was not only as good as anybody else, but that he was better than he needed to be.

“So, his life, since the day he discovered his illegitimacy and was admitted to the seminary only by way of exception, has been filled with competitiveness. Mostly he’s been competing with himself to prove that he was good enough to be a seminarian. Good enough to be a priest.

“And that’s the way it went, Bobby. When Dick got to the end of his studies in theology and was about to be ordained, the seminary authorities had to petition Rome for the necessary dispensation. It was the final indignity for Richard.

“That’s why, you see, so much depends on getting him free and clear of this ridiculous charge against him. His self-concept isn’t all that strong to begin with. Can you imagine what this is doing to him as he finds himself locked up in a jail with criminals? Treated like a criminal himself?

“That’s why we’ve got to do everything we can to clear his name and get him out of there just as soon as possible. That’s why we’re counting on you to help . . . from the inside, as it were.”

As Monsignor Meehan concluded his story, Koesler felt an increased and intensified sense of urgency. Up to this moment, he had been devoting practically 100 percent of every possible moment to clearing Kramer of the charges against him. But what was it they said in sports: From now on, he would give 110 percent.

During his drive home, Koesler reflected that for the first time in memory, he and Meehan had visited without telling each other a single anecdote. That seemed to emphasize the gravity of Kramer’s plight.

When, finally, he returned to his rectory, he looked it up. Sure enough, in the current Code of Canon Law, A.D. 1983, there was no mention of illegitimacy as an impediment to ordination. But in the old Code, A.D. 1917, there it was: Canon 984 noted that among the “irregularities” prohibiting ordination was illegitimacy, unless one were subsequently legitimized.

There was no doubt about it: Sometimes the Church had a heart of stone.

32

It had been a very good day. Sundays, particularly Sundays that he didn’t have to work, were Tully’s favorites.

This day had begun with the relatively recent routine with which he was becoming very comfortable. He had wakened, retrieved the papers, started coffee and breakfast. Later, Alice joined him, rubbing sleep from her eyes and shuffling around the kitchen in soft, warm slippers.

They ate a leisurely breakfast, wading through the papers, reading aloud items from stories or columns that particularly interested them, conversing about implications.

Afterward, Tully lit the fireplace in the living room where, to a background of Ed Ames and Sinatra records, they made love.

It was well after noon before they began the process of considering what to do with the rest of the day. It was a testament to Alice’s persuasive powers that she talked him into going down to the ice-skating rink in Hart Plaza adjacent to the Renaissance Center. It was an outdoor rink and Tully liked neither the out-of-doors during winter nor ice-skating. Alice, on the other hand, was an excellent skater and loved the brisk beauty of a rigorous winter.

Skating—or in Tully’s case, slipping, sliding, and falling—was followed by a relaxed dinner at Carl’s Chop House, one of downtown’s few quality restaurants open on Sundays.

Now they were on their way home. Tully decided to skip life in the fast lane of the freeway in favor of laid-back Livernois—once far more appealing than it had become.

“You’re a good sport, Zoo.” Alice had abandoned the passenger seat to cuddle against Tully, her head resting firmly on his shoulder.

“If I was such a good sport, I wouldn’t have been cleaning off the ice all afternoon.”

“So you’re not one of the Red Wings. You try.”

“Actually, it’s easier with both ankles flat on the ice . . . more like roller skating that way.”

She chuckled. “I meant you are a good sport for humoring me in the first place. I know you’re not nuts about the cold. And there’s no place in town colder than where the wind whips right off the river.”

“Don’t remind me. This afternoon you almost saw a black guy turn into a white guy . . . come to think of it, that way I might be more acceptable to your Nordic parents.”

“Stop worrying about my Nordic parents. I am no longer subject to their approval. This isn’t Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Besides, if we ever find ourselves in Minnesota, my father and mother will be nice to you. Right after I tell them that you pack a rod.”

“Al, you’ve been watching too many Edward G. Robinson movies. It’s a gun. It’s okay to call it a gun. And I don’t pack it; I wear it.”

“Whatever.”

“Feelin’ pretty high, aren’tcha?”

She smiled and snuggled closer. “Yeah.”

“And with good reason. You saved that kid just about single-handed. What was his name again?”

“M’Zulu.”

“I don’t know how you keep those African names straight.” It was Tully’s turn to smile.

His sally sailed right over her head. “Actually, I didn’t come to his rescue; Kronk Recreation did.”

“You know about Kronk Recreation? Until now, I figured you thought Everlast was an eternal reward in the hereafter!”

“Actually, somebody told me about Kronk and I took the kid there. It was kind of an accident. But it made sense, don’t you think? I mean, the kid was fighting all the time anyway—sort of nonprofessionally. The trouble was, he was winning all the time. Police very seldom run in the losers.”

“They’ve suffered enough.”

“Anyway, Mr. Steward thinks he has a great future.”

“Another Tommy Hearns?”

“Who’s Tommy Hearns?”

“You may be right, Al. Maybe M’Zulu’s getting tied up with Kronk was a bit of an accident.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Uh-huh. What weight’s he gonna fight at?”

“What what?”

“It was an accident. Is he gonna be a flyweight, middleweight, welterweight? What?”

“Oh, that. Mr. Steward says with some decent food and dedicated conditioning he can become a very good heavyweight.”

Tully whistled. “Another Joe Louis!” Pause. “You do know who Joe Louis was?”

“Of course, silly. He’s the guy they built the monument to—the fist—on Jefferson.”

“That’s it—the Brown Bomber. Well, Al, if Steward is right—and he usually is—in a few years M’Zulu will be able to buy and sell us.”

“Really! There’s that much money in it?”

“If a guy really makes it, more than basketball.”

“Wow.”

“Indeed! It’s times like this I kind of envy you, Al.”

“How so?”

“You really work at rehabilitating people. We can joke about it but M’Zulu was on a direct approach toward my department. He’s already got an impressive record: assault, battery, B&E, car theft. He was one step from getting in over his head in drugs. And after that it was almost sure that he would either kill or be killed.

“But you reached him, got him into Kronk. Now if Steward stays on his case, the kid’ll stay clean. That’s not bad for a day’s work, Al.”

“That’s nice, Zoo . . . good words. But you shouldn’t put yourself down. Take M’Zulu, for instance. Supposing he hadn’t gotten into Kronk. Supposing his life had gone the way you just outlined it. Once he got a gun and maybe killed somebody, where would he stop? He’d be a killer and one more threat to innocent lives in this city. You’d be the one to stop him. You’d solve one of your ‘puzzles,’ as you like to call them, and get him off the streets.”

“Yeah, get ’im off the streets.” They passed the University of Detroit campus—almost home. “Get ’im off the streets. Like I got Kramer off the streets.”

“That was different, Zoo. You haven’t closed that case yet ... I mean, in your own mind you haven’t closed it.”

“Sure I have. He’s locked up. We got our man. That’s all she wrote.”

Alice hesitated. “You mentioned him in your sleep the other night.”

“Huh?”

“You said his name while you were sleeping.”

Tully grinned. “Alice, do you realize I wouldn’t know that I talk in my sleep if it weren’t for you.”

“You don’t.”

“But you just said—”

“That’s why it was so out of the ordinary: You don’t talk in your sleep. At least I’ve never heard you. Until the other night when you said his name.”

“What else did I say?”

“Nothing . . . just his name.”

“I’ll be damned!”

“You told me that once the puzzle was solved you didn’t think about the case anymore. It made sense to me. The thing about how the courts can screw everything up so you don’t put any faith in that system . . . that your interest stops when you solve the puzzle.”

Tully seemed lost in thought. “You’re right on both counts, Al. Ordinarily, I leave the case on the prosecutor’s doorstep and never think about it again. If I testify in court, so be it. But I don’t give a damn.” He frowned. “For some reason, this one’s different.”

“Is it because the first woman was your snitch and you thought there was a link? That that might be the reason she was killed?”

“Partly, I guess. That’s definitely what got me into this thing on a personal basis. Yeah, I guess that’s part of it.

“But then the fact that this guy was either a preacher or pretending to be one really reached me. It’s like when you find a bad cop. Who you gonna turn to when it’s a cop who’s muggin’ or rapin’ you? A preacher or a priest is the same thing. Your instinct is to trust a preacher man. The ladies who went with Kramer were confident—in a line of work where there can be little confidence, where there is plenty of danger. He tricked them. He lulled them. Then he killed them. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he gutted them and branded them like cows.

“He really reached me. I’m gonna follow him right through circuit court, right up to the goddam Supreme Court, if it goes that far. I want to nail that guy.”

Alice sensed the cold chill of Tully’s anger.

“Will it hurt . . . I mean, will it weaken the case that the branding iron hasn’t been found?”

“Who knows? No telling what a judge or jury will do. We got enough evidence without the damn iron. But once it gets to court . . . who knows?”

“Still looking for it?”

“Promise you won’t tell?

“What?”

“If Walt knew how many people I got lookin’ for that iron, he’d piss kielbasa. Fortunately, in the past few days we’ve had a bunch of platter cases . . . just paperwork, no puzzles. So we’ve been able to fudge a bit and keep lookin’ for the iron. Took the car to pieces and put it back together again. And the hell of it is, it might still be in there. There are so many places to hide a couple of real thin metallic rods in a car. The guys combed it, but—nothin’.”

“Maybe it just isn’t in there.”

“Always a possibility. That’s why I got every spare on the squad goin’ through the rectory and the church. But you know, in the church basement Kramer’s got a workroom with everything you’d need to make an iron like that. Oh, it’s somewhere, all right. But where? I’d sure as hell like to turn it up before the trial. Like I said, we don’t need it. But it sure would help to have it. The final nail in the coffin.”

“Do you have to put it just that way?”

“Tender? Don’t tell me you can’t believe a priest would do this.”

“Well, I’d prefer to think a priest didn’t do it. But if it’s believing in Father Kramer or you, you know whose team I’m on.”

“That’s better.”

Tully backed the Pontiac into the side drive so, should the necessity arise, he could get out in a hurry.

Before leaving the house, he had turned the thermostat down. The first thing he did on reentering was to readjust it upward to sixty-eight degrees. “God, this has been a cold day! First the ice rink, now the house.”

Alice came up from behind and threw her arms about his waist. “I’ll warm things up for you, lover. Besides, for being such a good sport today, you deserve a good long back rub.”

“I’d hate to tell you what part of my back needs the rub.”

“I know. I watched you fall on it this afternoon.”

The phone rang.

As Tully reached for the receiver, he said, “If this call’s for me, I got a hunch I’m gonna need a rain check on the back rub . . . dammit.” He had made it crystal-clear to his squad that when he was off duty he was to be contacted only for puzzles, not for platters.

“Zoo? Mangiapane.”

“Uh-huh.” Tully had recognized his voice.

“Zoo, all hell broke loose this afternoon.”

Tully said nothing. Someplace down the line he would have to program Mangiapane to get right to the point.

The silence told Mangiapane there would be no response. So he proceeded. “He did it again, Zoo. Kramer.”

“What?”

“Kramer did it again. This afternoon. Just like the other ones.”

“That’s impossible. Kramer’s locked up.”

“No he ain’t, Zoo. Somebody went bail for him yesterday.”

“Jesus! I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

“Who put up the cash?”

“Guy named Murphy ... the one with the Cadillac dealership.”

“I know who Murphy is. Now, take it slow, from the top”

“Okay, Zoo. Dom Salvia took the call about six this evening. Some broad calling in a homicide. Friend of hers. Part of their routine is they check on each other. They’re both hookers, Zoo. So when she checks she finds the other hooker dead in a bathtub.”

“Witnesses?”

“We haven’t found any yet. We’re still canvassing the neighborhood.”

“How’d you make Kramer?”

“Same M.O., Zoo. Exactly the same.”

“Everything?”

“Strangled, gutted, and branded.”

“Same brand?”

“Looks like it.”

Damn! thought Tully. Where the hell does he keep the goddam thing? “Who’s the victim?”

“This you ain’t gonna believe. One Mae Dixon.”

“Mae Dixon.” Pause. “Isn’t . . . isn’t that the broad from last Sunday?”

“That’s the one, Zoo. The same broad and the same place where we found Kramer last week.”

“Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch,” Tully breathed with fervor. “What chutzpah! Same broad, same place. Well, that ties it. Let’s go get him.”

“Already have, Zoo. He’s right back where he was yesterday. We got the judge to revoke bail.”

“Good, good. Good! This time you got the goddam branding iron?”

“Negative, Zoo. We couldn’t find it. And, just like last week, when we read him his rights and told him he could remain silent, damned if he didn’t go that route again. He hasn’t said a word, let alone tell us where the iron is.”

“Then start over. Get the techs to go over the car again. Maybe this time he left it in there.”

“Right, Zoo.”

“I’ll be right down.” Tully hung up and turned to Alice.

“I could tell from your end of the conversation. Kramer did it again?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How come you didn’t know he got out on bail?”

“I probably would’ve heard about it if I’d been in yesterday or today. Too bad. I sure as hell would’ve put a tail on him. We’d have got him bare-naked. But that’s okay; we got him now.” Tully was struggling into his overcoat.

“You’re going down to headquarters?”

“Uh-huh.”

“From the look on your face, you’re going to enjoy this as much as you would’ve liked the back rub.”

“Apples and oranges, honey. But this ain’t gonna take all night. I’ll be back in a while. Maybe I’ll still have a chance to cash in that rain check.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“We got him, Al.” Tully opened the front door and paused a moment before leaving. “Iron or no iron, this is the final nail in the coffin.”

He fairly levitated as he left the house.

33

Father Koesler could not help feeling uncomfortable. He was not the type to impose on anyone. Yet here he was waiting to see Inspector Koznicki on a busy Monday morning.

Koesler would not have dreamed of calling for an appointment had it not been for last night’s jolting news. For the third Sunday this month, the top story on radio and television had been the brutal murder of a Detroit prostitute. And for the second consecutive Sunday, Father Richard Kramer was accused of the crime.

Koesler had reached Koznicki rather late last night. The inspector had been his usual courtly self and graciously agreed to meet with Koesler at headquarters at ten o’clock the next morning.

After setting up the appointment with Koznicki, Koesler had phoned Sister Therese. As he had anticipated, she was devastated. She had seen Kramer only briefly after his release on bond. She had wanted him to go into seclusion somewhere to regain his energy and to avoid any further notoriety.

But he wouldn’t hear of it. Over her strenuous objections he had returned to Mother of Sorrows, even though the chancery had sent another priest to perform the weekend liturgies. Kramer had gone into his own form of seclusion, unfortunately right into the heart of the maelstrom. Even though he put himself in the exact spot where anyone who wanted to could find him, he wanted to be alone. So she had complied and hadn’t heard from or about him again until Sunday night when all hell had broken loose.

Koesler had talked to her at length, reassuring her and, finally, convincing her to stay at least temporarily with her parents, who lived in the far suburban community of Waterford Township. With Sister Therese safely tucked away, Koesler could turn full attention to the considerable mess in which Dick Kramer was mired.

As he waited for Inspector Koznicki—he was early for his appointment—he wondered again at the relatively small office space allotted to the head of a division as vital as homicide. Koznicki’s bulk made the office seem even smaller than it was. On the other hand, Walt Koznicki was not the type to stand on ceremony, demand perks, or expect obeisance. He was an extremely hard worker, who, if not in love with his work, respected its significance.

The door to Koznicki’s office opened and a detective Koesler had never met stepped into the hall. Noticing the priest, he greeted him with a smile that hadn’t been there previously. Koesler was used to the automatic deference frequently accorded the clergy.

“Father . . .” Koznicki created the impression he had nothing more important to do this busy Monday morning than give valuable time to the priest. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I’m early.” He knew Koznicki knew he was always early.

“Well, come in.” Koznicki stood aside so the priest could enter. They were both large men, though Koznicki outweighed Koesler by forty or fifty pounds.

Koesler took a chair near the desk. It was warm. Must have been used by the detective who had just exited. When Koznicki crossed behind the desk and was seated, the room seemed so crowded Koesler thought a disinterested third party might find the scene ludicrous. He decided from here on in he would have greater empathy with sardines.

“Tragic, tragic.” Koznicki folded his ham hands on the desktop and studied Koesler with great evident concern.

“According to this morning’s paper, Father Kramer is back in jail . . . is that true, Inspector?”

“Yes, sad to say, it is. We had to ask the judge to revoke bond. He really had no alternative.”

“I didn’t even know he was out of jail.”

“Understandable. It was approximately two days after bond was set that the bail was made. In a situation such as that, usually there is little publicity. Notoriety generally is attached to extremely public events like an arraignment or a preliminary examination, as happened in the case of Father Kramer. But unless Father Kramer, or someone else who happened to know, told you, more than likely, as happened here, you would have no way of knowing.

“By the way, Father, something that has been puzzling us is the intervention of Mr. Murphy in posting the bond for Father Kramer. None of us can make the connection. And Murphy is saying nothing, particularly after yesterday’s events. Do you have any notion as to why?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Jim Murphy is a friend of Monsignor Meehan’s.”

Koznicki’s raised eyebrows asked about that connection.

“You see,” Koesler explained, “Monsignor Meehan was once Father Kramer’s pastor and, at another time, he was mine. For the past few years, Monsignor’s been in nursing care at the Little Sisters of the Poor. I visit him pretty regularly. We’ve talked about Father Kramer, especially lately with all the trouble. Monsignor wanted Father out of jail very, very much. And the Monsignor has been a priest for more than fifty years. He knows so many people, from the very wealthy to the poorest of the poor. I know he is a friend of Jim Murphy’s. Without even calling Monsignor, I’m positive that’s how the bail was made. But if it’s important, I could easily check.”

Koznicki waved a hand. “It was only a matter of interest.”

It happened with great infrequency these days, but just now Koesler wanted a cigarette. “How bad is it, Inspector?”

“It could scarcely be worse. Everything was exactly the same as in the previous two homicides. But we have not recovered the knife that was used. Since the original has been retained as evidence, the supposition is that the weapon used yesterday was discarded afterwards.”

“How can they be sure Father Kramer did it?” It was a foolish desperate question.

“Because they are sure Father committed the first two murders. Because the judge found probable cause to hold him over for trial for the first two murders. And because the modus operandi yesterday was identical to the others. If only the murder had been committed while he was still in custody. But . . .” Koznicki turned palms up in a gesture of hopelessness.

“But couldn’t someone else . . .?”

“No one knows all of the details of the other murders. We have held back many of the particulars from the media so that only we and the killer would know the whole story, as it were. Thus, should someone other than the real murderer attempt what we call a copycat crime we would recognize the difference. But yesterday, every detail of the previous two was observed.” Koznicki paused. “Do you intend to continue your . . . special interest in this case?”

“He didn’t do it. Of that I am certain.”

“Not too long ago, I would have tended to agree with you.”

“But now you don’t?”

Koznicki shook his head. “However, I would not attempt to deter you.”

“Will you help me?”

“In whatever way I can. But I can offer you no hope.”

“I need a lot of help. At this point I don’t even know where to begin.”

Koznicki considered several possible suggestions. “I think it might be good for you to talk with our medical examiner, Dr. Moellmann. Have you ever met him?”

Koesler shook his head. “No, but I certainly have read about him. Extremely interesting person, as far as I can tell.”

“After you speak with him, you may change your mind about pursuing this case. And it is possible that would not be undesirable. Supposing I send Officer Mangiapane over with you, and while you are on your way, I will call and prepare Dr. Moellmann to talk with you. He would not feel free to discuss the details of this case with you unless he has authorization from me.

“In fact, Lieutenant Tully is presently there.” Koznicki glanced at his watch. “They should be finishing the autopsy on the Dixon woman about now. This would be a most appropriate time.”

Koesler got up to leave, then paused. “One more thing, Inspector. I have the impression”—he did not think he needed to mention that Sister Therese was his informant—“that Father Kramer intended to spend the weekend at his rectory. I suppose there was no witness to confirm this.”

“There was a priest sent by the chancery to say Mass, since no one thought Father Kramer would be available to do so. But the substitute priest left immediately after the last Mass early Sunday afternoon.”

“But Father Kramer did stay at his rectory? That’s where he was arrested?”

“Yes.” Pause. “There is one more thing.” Koznicki seemed ill at ease. “He was intoxicated.”

Koesler’s initial reaction was dismay. Clearly it was a measure of Kramer’s dependency on alcohol that he would drink yesterday of all days. Koesler was dismayed and depressed at how much Father Kramer needed treatment, specifically the treatment to be found only at Guest House. And how very remote was the possibility of that happening now. First, Father Kramer would have to be cleared of these charges of murder. And after yesterday, that task had been complicated enormously.

It was Koesler’s secondary reaction that caused him to object strenuously: “But if Father Kramer was intoxicated, he couldn’t possibly have committed that murder!”

From what Kramer had described as a Sunday routine of drinking until stupefied, Koesler’s concept was of a man so drunk he would lie wherever he dropped. And he could not understand why Inspector Koznicki couldn’t immediately understand this.

“Oh, no, Father,” Koznicki insisted, “such is by no means always the case. People who are intoxicated can and do perform all sorts of actions. They drive—often successfully; sometimes, tragically, not. They work through an afternoon and evening after drinking too much at lunch. It goes on and on. Intoxicated people are, simply, unpredictable. Some collapse and sleep it off. Others go on with daily activity, sometimes impaired, sometimes more keenly. In fact, one might argue that, not infrequently, drink takes away natural inhibitions. Thus, if Father Kramer were intent on committing such a heinous crime, alcohol might repress his conscience.”

Koesler considered this. And, in the end, rejected it. There was, of course truth in what the inspector said. But none of what he said fit Dick Kramer. The impossibility was that Kramer ever would be more “intent” on murdering someone. Not even possibly.

“Well,” Koesler said, “if I’m going to begin, I’d better get over to the medical examiner’s office. And . . . thanks for your time and direction.”

As Koesler left his office, Koznicki prepared to make calls—first Mangiapane as an escort, then Moellmann to prepare him for the visit. He watched as his priest-friend disappeared around a corner, and wondered what it would take before Koesler would be forced to abandon his quest—which, at this point, really was an impossible dream.