Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries:

38

It had been a frenzied evening. All in all, a memorable night.

Inspector Koznicki had arrived at the Bush apartment within a half-hour of Father Koesler’s call. However, the first to arrive had been the uniformed police Koznicki had sent to secure the scene and begin the necessary procedures of arrest and the gathering of evidence. Then it had become a chain reaction. Koznicki had been followed by Lieutenant Tully, whom the inspector had called. Then came Officer Mangiapane whom Tully had summoned.

The Miranda Warning was given and a now sullen Arnold Bush interrogated. He waived his right to have an attorney present. Still, he was less than cooperative. Most questions were answered with monosyllabic grunts.

When the police technicians arrived, Koesler and Koznicki left. By mutual agreement, they regrouped at Norman’s Eton Street Station, a converted early railroad station managed by James McIntyre, one of Koesler’s parishioners. Besides being a good restaurant, Norman’s afforded Koesler undisturbed seclusion. The manager saw to that. Before leaving Bush’s apartment, Koznicki invited both Tully and Mangiapane to join them at Norman’s once the statement had been taken and the booking and processing had been completed at headquarters.

Mangiapane had been flattered by the invitation. Tully would much have preferred to skip the engagement, but, from long association, he could tell when one of Koznicki’s courtly invitations was, in reality, a command performance.

As yet alone, Koesler and Koznicki had been seated at a balcony table. Most of that section had been vacated by that hour of the evening. Koesler nursed a glass of Chablis while Koznicki sipped a port.

“What will happen now?” Koesler asked. “I mean, to Arnold Bush?”

“To Bush? I assume he will be charged with murder in the first degree. Three counts. It seemed that he was ready to confess to that charge when we were at his apartment, although he said too little for us to know what the outcome will be.” Koznicki glanced at his watch. “They should have taken his statement by now.”

“And Father Kramer?”

Koznicki brightened. “He should be freed tomorrow morning. One of two things could happen: His attorney could request a writ of habeas corpus, a move he could make tonight. But I doubt he will do that either tonight or tomorrow. More probably, he will wait for our recommendation, after which the prosecutor’s office will move to dismiss the charges against Father Kramer.”

“And then he will be free?”

“And then he will be free.” Koznicki looked intently at the priest. “I must say I find your reaction to all this somewhat surprising, Father. You discovered the evidence that will clear Father Kramer. His freedom has been your goal from the outset. And now to be the instrument that accomplishes that goal . . . well, I should think you would be extremely happy. But I must say you are not the picture of joy.”

Koesler smiled. “Sorry, Inspector. You’re right: I should be happier than I am. And I don’t know whether I can even explain. I guess I just don’t do very well in the abstract.”

“The abstract?”

“I didn’t realize it all these years, but my notion of jail and imprisonment was an abstract perception. I’ve seen jails in movies and on TV. I’ve read about people being imprisoned by rightful authority and by tyrants and terrorists. I’ve visited people in prison. But it wasn’t until I visited Dick Kramer in jail that the reality hit me. I think I might be able to adjust to almost everything about prison life except the essence of it all—being locked away. Lacking the freedom to . . . be free.

“Now in a very brief time, I’ve come to know Arnold Bush. To know how he became what he is. I guess I just can’t be happy about a human being I know and understand being locked up, probably for the rest of his life.”

“But Father,” Koznicki spread his hands open-palmed on the tabletop, “this Arnold Bush has murdered three women!”

“He says one.”

Lieutenant Tully had arrived.

“One?” Koznicki was clearly startled.

Tully and Mangiapane seated themselves.

“That’s what Bush claims,” said Tully. “He admits to the murder of Mae Dixon, but not the other two.”

“How could that be? How could that possibly be?” Koesler spoke more loudly than he intended. The intensity of his tone drew a waiter to the table.

Tully ordered a light beer, Mangiapane a regular. Neither Koesler nor Koznicki reordered.

Mangiapane scratched his head. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. We got him. We got the pictures he took. We got the knife. We got the belt. And, best of all, we found the branding iron.”

Koznicki seemed especially pleased. “You found the iron.”

“Yes, sir.” Mangiapane was far from being on a first-name basis with the boss. “We got it. But he claims he can’t tell us what the inscription means. Said he copied it. And he still won’t admit to more than the last murder.”

“If he will not admit to the first two murders,” Koznicki said, “does he have an alibi for the first two Sundays?”

Tully shook his head. “He lives alone and he is a loner. Same as Kramer,” he added.

Koznicki looked sharply at Tully.

“But why?” Koesler asked. “Why would he not admit he killed all the women?”

Koznicki cocked his head to one side. “There is a possible reason. There was no way he could deny responsibility for the murder of Mae Dixon. The evidence speaks for itself. However, he may be considering some sort of plea such as temporary insanity—some plea that would be difficult to sustain over a full pretrial period.

“That would seem to jibe with his attitude when we arrived at the apartment tonight. It is somewhat rare that a suspect will waive his right to have an attorney present and then be as uncooperative as Bush was. It was almost as if there actually was an attorney present advising him as to when to speak and when to remain silent.”

“That—or he really didn’t commit those first two murders,” Tully murmured.

“Didn’t do them!” Koesler exclaimed. “If he didn’t kill the first two women as well as the third, who did?”

“We got a guy locked up for that,” said Tully dispassionately.

“Lieutenant!” Koesler said, “you can’t still believe that Father Kramer did it!”

“I always did believe it.”

Koznicki was about to intervene, but thought better of it. The battle lines had been drawn. It was between Father Koesler and Tully. It might be revealing one way or the other to let them go at it.

“What about a week ago Sunday?” Koesler pressed. “There can be no doubt that Bush set up Father Kramer. And you arrested him.”

“Bush doesn’t admit that.”

“He doesn’t admit to it!”

“No. And without a confession there is no evidence that he made a call that would bring Kramer to the Dixon apartment. So maybe there was no call. Maybe, as is alleged, Kramer came to the apartment to kill Dixon just as he killed the other two.”

“Lieutenant, that makes no sense. Not in the light of what we’ve learned tonight.” So intent was he in his debate with Tully that Koesler was virtually oblivious to the presence of Koznicki and Mangiapane.

“On the contrary, Kramer looks as guilty now as he did before you came up with Bush.”

“What about the iron—the branding iron, Lieutenant? When you arrested Father Kramer you were unable to find the branding iron. And in the previous two murders, the killer returned to his car to get the brand after strangling the victim. You didn’t find the iron either on Father Kramer’s person or in his car. In fact, you’ve never found a branding iron that belonged to Father Kramer!”

Tully sighed. “Anytime you’re working with human behavior, you’re going to find variables and atypical situations you don’t and can’t expect. I don’t deny it would help to find that iron. But the mere fact that Kramer didn’t have it when we got him doesn’t mean he didn’t have it at one time. He may have made his statement. He may have found it too clumsy an instrument. Even in serial murders, perps change their M.O. They can go from guns to knives to ropes. As long as they can leave a telltale calling card. And in this case the identical cutting and gutting would be enough.”

“But Lieutenant, you’ve got the branding iron! Detective Mangiapane just said you found it tonight, at Bush’s apartment. Never mind his desperate claim that he doesn’t know anything about the inscription. That’s it. What do you need with another one?”

“We got a branding iron tonight. Not necessarily the branding iron.”

“But I assume it conforms with the marks left on the victim’s bodies.”

“It appears to. We’ll see.”

“And if it does . . .?”

“Bush could have made a duplicate. He saw the bodies. He handled them. He had blown-up photos of the brand. He worked in a tool shop. He could have made his own instrument.”

“That’s stretching things pretty far, don’t you think?”

“Not if you’re a professional in police work.” Tully finally got the chip off his shoulder. “They call them copycat murders. It happens. We try to avoid that kind of thing by keeping details of murders—particularly serial killings—out of the media. Otherwise we’d be flooded by wackos duplicating weird murders to the last detail. Usually when there is a copycat murder, the killer messes up badly on one or another detail because he’s not totally informed. But in this case there was no avoiding it. Not when the copycat works in the M.E.’s office. He knows as much as the police, the M.E., the original killer. He knows as much as anybody.”

Koesler considered ordering another glass of wine, but immediately dismissed the notion. He was in an argument with a most worthy adversary, the result of which argument might well mean the release of Father Kramer. At least temporarily.

If Tully’s reasoning were to convince Inspector Koznicki, it seemed possible that the police department would actively oppose the release of Father Kramer.

“One final point then, Lieutenant: The two of them—Arnold Bush and Father Kramer—look enough alike to be blood relatives. What would you think of this scenario? Supposing Arnold Bush kills two prostitutes. The newspapers tell him that the police recognize these as a series of killings by one and the same person. He knows the police will be closing in on these crimes. He also knows that he has a lookalike who is a priest. Easy enough for him to know that. Priests are very public people. They take part regularly in public liturgical functions. Besides, Father Kramer’s picture has been in the Detroit Catholic newspaper any number of times.

“So, the third consecutive Sunday, he phones Father Kramer and dupes him into going on what appears to be a sick call. He knows that Father Kramer drives a black Escort—as does Bush, of course. The trap springs and Father Kramer is arrested. The following weekend Father Kramer is released on bail. Bush, in the M.E.’s office, would be aware of the scuttlebutt from Police Headquarters just down the street. No great trick, I think, for him to learn about Father Kramer’s release on bail. And this allows Bush to commit the third murder, again creating the impression that Father Kramer has struck again.

“He failed only because, by accident, I happened to discern pictures on Bush’s wall that could have been taken only by the killer.

“So it is inescapable: Bush killed the third woman. It follows that he also killed the first two. But, for a reason yet to be discovered, he doesn’t want to admit that just yet.” Koesler concluded with the trace of a verbal flourish.

Tully smiled. “Not bad, Father. But how about the following premise: Suppose Kramer killed Louise Bonner and Nancy Freel. He tries to kill Mae Dixon, but we grab him. He’s booked and his picture appears in the papers. Bush sees the picture and the resemblance. He knows all the details of the killing from his job at the morgue. He also knows the identity of the third intended victim. So he decides on a copycat murder.

“We think Kramer pulled off the third one too, but that is disproved when you latch onto those photos. So we’ve got the killer of the first two women in jail already. And now, thanks to you, we’ve got the killer of the last one—the copycat—in jail too. Besides how could Bush possibly know that we were planning a blanket surveillance on that third Sunday?”

Tully was conveniently overlooking the fact that he had discussed just such a surveillance with Dr. Moellmann, within earshot of Arnold Bush.

Koesler shrugged. “Lieutenant, our arguments are hypothetical. You suppose one thing, I suppose another. You think you know for sure; I think I know for sure.” He looked to Koznicki. “Inspector?”

Koznicki said with a sense of assurance. “We must, finally, weigh the sum of circumstantial evidence. The weight falls on the shoulders of Arnold Bush. There is no shadow of a doubt he is guilty of the murder of Mae Dixon. The presumption must be that he is guilty of the first two murders. Tomorrow we will recommend to the prosecuting attorney that she move to dismiss the charges against Father Kramer.”

Koesler breathed a sigh of relief.

Officer Mangiapane finished the beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Can I tell them about the mothers, Zoo?”

Lieutenant Tully said nothing.

“Mothers?” From Inspector Koznicki came part question and part command.

Mangiapane, now conscious of everyone’s eyes upon him, wondered whether he’d drunk the beer too quickly. Perhaps it would have been better not to have brought up the mothers. That was the clear message he was picking up from Tully. But now he felt obliged to continue.

“Uh . . . mothers . . . Well, see, me and Zoo were on surveillance, on this very case, and he told me about his theory about mothers. Uh . . . sorry, Zoo, if you didn’t want me to bring it up . . .”

Still Tully said nothing.

“Well, anyway, Zoo said that in cases like this where you have a multiple murderer or a serial murderer or a woman killer, nine times outta ten you’re lookin’ for somebody who had problems with his mama.”

“Oh?” said Koznicki, to whom the theory was not unfamiliar.

“Yes, sir,” Mangiapane affirmed. “Usually, he said, you got an orphan or a bastard or somebody who was institutionalized. And what he’s doin’ is he’s killin’ mama over and over again. Because he’s convinced that all his troubles started with his relationship—or lack of one—with his mother.

“Zoo had a whole list of multiple murderers who fit the profile. I could remember only a few of ’em . . . like John Bianchi, Dave Berkowitz, Ted Bundy, Al Fish, Ed Kamper, Albert De Salvo, Richard Speck, Norman Collins, Charles Starkweather . . . I forget . . . there were quite a few others.” He looked brightly at Tully. “Why don’t you tell ’em, Zoo? It’s your theory.”

Tully was turning his glass slowly, meditatively. He did not look up. “It’s not my theory. It’s been pretty well documented. It’s in their records. It’s in their own statements.

“Bundy complained that because he’d been a bastard, he’d been robbed of a past. He was bitter about that. So were all the rest. When Kemper killed he was acting out the rage he felt toward his mother. De Salvo—the ‘Boston Strangler’—was dominated by his mother. He hated her for it. But it was taboo to get her for what she was doing to him so he killed woman after woman.

“Berkowitz—who was the ‘Son of Sam’—was another bastard, who gave that as his reason for shooting women. He himself said that he was an accident: ‘My birth was either out of spite or an accident.’

“It keeps on going like that.”

“Anyway,” Mangiapane said, “I thought that after the inspector said we were going to move to dismiss, that it would be okay to talk about the mother thing. Because . . . because . . .”

“Because,” said Tully, “I told Mangiapane at headquarters after we booked Bush that at least we finally had a suspect who fit the profile. How could it be better? A bastard who spent his youth in a whorehouse.”

“He said it was better than Kramer,” Mangiapane added.

“Actually, it wasn’t that much. Everybody who has—or thinks he has—reason to hate mama doesn’t become a killer. Nor is each and every mass murderer illegitimate. But I must admit, now that the decision has been made, it was the one and only chink I ever saw in the case against Kramer. At least he had a normal childhood.”

“Oh, but—” Koesler blurted.

Tully looked pointedly at the priest. “But what?”

“Uh . . . nothing.”

Quietly and deeply Koesler was in turmoil. Should he bring it up or not? There was no possible way Tully could know that Dick Kramer qualified as an ecclesiastical bastard. If Tully had checked—and probably he had—he would have found records attesting to the fact that Richard Kramer was the legitimate son of Robert Kramer and Mary (née O’Loughlin) Kramer. There would be no grounds for Tully to check a baptismal record—which would reveal that Robert and Mary had not been married in the Church and that, therefore, he was—for ecclesiastical purposes only—illegitimate. Koesler himself would have been unaware of this fact had he not been told by Monsignor Meehan.

But why bring it up? This was no more than a theoretical argument that now was over and finished. Besides, Koesler was only too conscious that he was foreign in this field and that Tully was the expert. Better leave well enough alone.

“Well,” Koesler observed, “it’s getting late. And my parish council met tonight without benefit of my presence. I’d better get back and see if they sold the parish out from under me.”

Koesler, preparing to leave, noticed that Tully was still looking intently at him.

Koznicki, tugging at his French cuffs, glanced at his watch. “It is late and we have much to do tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen.”

That was it. Everybody prepared to leave. Three police officers looked in vain for the bill. Father Koesler’s parishioner, the manager of this restaurant, had delivered another freebie to the priest.

Father Koesler considered Koznicki’s dictum. Koesler tried to consider what he had to do tomorrow. Nothing outstanding.

He had no way of knowing how busy he would be.

39

Sleep eluded Father Koesler. It had been well past his bedtime when he’d arrived at the rectory. That alone was enough to ruin the routine.

Taking into account the glass of wine at Eton Street, he had decided against his usual mild nightcap. Again the violation of routine.

He tried reading—sitting first in a chair and then in bed—but it didn’t put him to sleep. If anything, he was so distracted that he found himself rereading paragraphs two and three times.

Partly, he decided, he was charged up from all the excitement this evening—Arnold Bush and the police and his animated argument with Lieutenant Tully. But it wasn’t just the stimulation of the argument with Tully that was keeping the priest from his much desired sleep. It was more the questions the lieutenant kept raising that continued to plague the priest.

Drat that stubborn man! Bullheaded is all it was. He had been that way from the beginning. Convinced that Dick Kramer was guilty. Doing everything in his power to prove Kramer guilty. And even now, with proof that Arnold Bush was the real killer, Tully refused to accept the fact that he was—had been—wrong. Still asking questions. Did the man believe himself infallible? Good grief! Even the Papacy had only one uncontested infallible statement on record in the slightly more than 100 years since the doctrine of infallibility had been defined. And as far as he knew, no one had claimed even a tiny fraction of inerrancy for the police department.

But those questions—and some that occurred to Koesler even though they had not been asked by Tully—continued to nag.

That point that Tully had raised about troubled youth—institutionalized, adopted, illegitimate. How deep was Dick Kramer’s resentment over his ecclesial illegitimacy? Did he blame his mother for marrying out of the Church? The knowledge of his awkward status had not come to Kramer until he was about to enter the ninth grade. A little late, wasn’t it, for the early sort of self-conflict to which Tully referred? Yet it had radically changed Kramer’s attitude, making him compete with a mirage of legitimate peers. He had forced himself to do as well or better, in every field, than those who had had the good fortune to be born legitimate.

Then there was the fact that the prostitute-victims were older women. Did that have anything to do with a “mother figure”? Or was it more a commentary on Bush’s predilection? After all, there was little question of Bush’s resentment of his mother. She had given him away, deserted him, thus initiating his hurt-filled youth. Whereas Kramer’s relationship with his mother was a matter of pure conjecture.

A good case could be made for Kramer to blame either or both of his parents for their canonically invalid marriage. After all, it was his father’s prior marriage that prevented their wedding in the Church. On the other hand, it was Kramer’s mother who held the key. The invalid marriage hinged on her assent or refusal. And even if somewhat archaic, still it was customary for men to blame women for whatever went wrong.

At the bottom of all this rationalization and questioning was what bothered Koesler most of all. While it was true that Lieutenant Tully had scarcely considered that anyone but Dick Kramer might be the guilty party, it was equally true that Koesler had dismissed the possibility of Kramer’s culpability from the outset.

Now, despairing of sleep this night, Koesler decided that to be totally objective, he ought to at least consider the possibility that Kramer might be the killer. He would play devil’s advocate; if nothing else it would satisfy his sense of fair play.

Koesler was already aware of a plausible, if remote, motivation for the murders: Kramer’s illegitimacy, at least in the eyes of the Church. What else might conceivably fit?

Well, Kramer had no idea of what was going on when the crimes were committed. He was drunk. On the other hand, according to Inspector Koznicki, people could—have been known to—do things while in a drunken state. There were, of course, drunk drivers. But could an alcoholic go through such an elaborate performance as ritual murder while in a stupor? Especially when such an action would be entirely incompatible with one’s normal nature?

Then, there was the gibberish of that branding iron. On the first two victims, it looked for all the world as if there was some sort of coherent message there. As if it was the curvature of the breast that prevented the entire message from being impressed on the victims skin.

However, as Dr. Moellmann had pointed out, with the third victim the brand clearly broke off sharply at the furthest point of the previous two markings. Meaning that there was no coherent message. Meaning that it didn’t mean anything.

Or did it?

Bush claimed he had nothing to do with the first two murders. If that were true, he would know no more about the brand marks than the police or the morgue would. So if he were to make a branding iron—for the copycat theory that Tully favored—he could go no further than the “incomplete” marks on the previous two victims. And that also would explain why the marks on the first two seemed to fade out and why the marks on the third were definitive.

Kramer, Kramer, Kramer. He could have constructed the branding iron in his workshop. No doubt about that. But why?

At birth, he was branded a bastard—uh, there’s that word again. But it’s true. He was branded illegitimate from conception actually. Not by society at large, but by the church alone. Yet nothing would happen as a result of that ecclesial designation. There was little chance he would even know about it. It would matter only if he were to try to enter a seminary toward a vocation to the priesthood. And once he did, at least as far as his psyche was concerned, all hell broke loose.

Like so many things in life, it had been an accident of timing as much as anything else.

There was a cartoon—old now—about Catholics eating meat on Friday. For centuries Church law had prohibited Catholics from eating meat on Friday. The object was the fostering of a penitential spirit, as well as the commemoration of Christ’s death on Good Friday. The obligation bound Catholics under pain of serious sin. Theoretically, then, Catholics could be—and maybe were—condemned to hell for eating a succulent slice of prime rib, or even a hot dog, on Friday.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, in 1966, the ban on Friday meat-eating was lifted. Overnight, it was no longer a sin. The cartoon depicted a typical scene in hell, wherein one devil says to another devil, “What are we going to do with all the people who are here for eating meat on Friday?”

To some extent, that was the situation in which people like Dick Kramer found themselves.

If, between 1917 and 1983—the lifetime of the first Code of Canon Law—a child was born to parents at least one of whom was Catholic but whose marriage was considered, for whatever canonical reason, invalid, that child was illegitimate in the eyes of the Church. The only practical sanction was in being barred from the priesthood. After 1983, on promulgation of the new Code, such an illegitimate child was home free.

A man such as Dick Kramer could conceivably build up quite an anger over that sort of seemingly cavalier treatment.

He would be angry . . . an idea was coming; it was knocking on Koesler’s mind . . . he would be angry . . . of course! He would be as angry with his parents—with his mother—as he would be with the Church. But not as long as Church law remained unchanged.

However, what if the Church were to simply change the law? What if, after all those years of feeling inadequate, soiled, unclean; what if, after all those years, the Church simply said, “Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore”?

The first time Dr. Moellmann showed Koesler the mark of the branding iron, something, some glimmering from the past tried to enter his consciousness. He knew the memory would get there eventually. He just didn’t know when.

Now.

Father Koesler needed to do some checking. And it could not begin until the workday began. But already he felt that deep sense of relief that comes from breaking through to the ultimate clue.

It was the middle of the night. There was nothing to do but wait. Koesler decided to read again. But so relaxed was he now that after a few paragraphs, he drifted into a sound if not untroubled sleep.

40

Shortly after the doors were unlocked at the chancery, Father Koesler arrived.

He’d been in this building many times in the past. At least to the clergy of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit, 1234 Washington Boulevard was a familiar address. The ancient building housed St. Aloysius Church, a three-tiered structure that was unique, at least to Detroit.

In the same building above the church were residence rooms for priests assigned to downtown functions, as well as for visiting clergy. In addition, there were offices for the archbishop, the tribunal, and the chancery, among other departments. Hidden away here—appropriately, some might say—were the archives of the archdiocese.

While Koesler had on occasion visited almost every other department in the building at one time or another, he had never, until this morning, called on the archives. Even before the chancery opened this snowy morning, he had phoned Sister Clotilde of the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary to make certain she could and would accommodate him this morning. She could and would, but she did little to hide her surprise that he would call her. They knew each other only in passing and, to her knowledge, he had never before visited the archives. And her sharp memory covered a great number of years.

She sat him at a large table and fixed him with a quizzical smile. “Now, what can I do for you, young man?”

It was his turn to smile. He was in his late fifties, and she couldn’t have been much older. Age, he thought, like so many other things in life, was relative. “I’m interested in the mottoes of Popes.”

She inclined her head slightly to one side. “You are, are you?” There was something tantalizing about her tone. But she said nothing more that might clarify the remark and Koesler didn’t pursue it.

“I’d like to start back around the turn of this century. In which case, each Pope, before becoming Pope, had been a bishop and then a Cardinal. And as bishop, each one had a motto as part of his coat of arms. That’s what I’d like to see.”

She whistled noiselessly. “A tall order, young man. But let’s see what we can find.”

Koesler started to rise but Sister Clotilde waved him back in his chair. “You stay put,” she ordered. “I’ll bring things to you. It’s easier that way.”

The first item she brought was a mug of steaming coffee, for which he was duly grateful. Next, she brought a chronological list of Popes. “Maybe,” she said, “this will help you tell me exactly who you’re interested in.”

“Absolutely. Very good. Okay, let’s see . . .” Koesler ran his finger down the list. “Let’s try Pope Benedict XV, who was Pope from, uh . . . 1914 to 1922.”

She returned loaded down with books, several of which she pushed toward him. “You start with these and I’ll take the rest.”

There followed the quiet turning of pages, then exchanges, one book for another.

Koesler said, “I think this is it, Sister, doesn’t this look like the motto for Cardinal Giacomo della Chiesa?”

“It sure does. And he became Pope Benedict XV. Is that what you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know. Wait a minute.”

Koesler checked the motto against the drawing he’d brought with him—a reproduction of the marks left by the branding iron. “No, that’s not it. It doesn’t fit.”

“What doesn’t fit? Maybe it’d help if you told me what we’re looking for.”

“It’s just too complicated to explain just now, Sister. I do need your help though.”

Clotilde sighed. “Very well. Somebody else you want to look up?”

Koesler ran his finger down the list. “Let’s see . . . yes: Pope Pius XI—1922 to 1939.”

“I guess I should be grateful for small favors.” Sister Clotilde shuffled back into the archives, arms burdened with the books just used and being returned to their shelves. “At least you’re picking on fairly recent popes.” Though no longer in view, she could be heard talking to herself. “Dear, dear, dear; where are you, Achille Cardinal Ratti? Ah, here!”

She reentered the reading room, again laden with books. “Here we go again.” She divided the volumes between them.

After several minutes of searching, Sister Clotilde said, “Ah, here it is. This is it: the coat of arms for Cardinal Ratti, soon to become Pope Pius XI.”

Koesler almost snatched the book from her hands.

“Well, for the love of Pete,” she chided. “Take your time, Father Koesler. Moderation. In all things moderation.”

“Sorry.” He quickly but thoroughly checked the motto against the marks that had been burned into the flesh of three murder victims. It did not match. His expression told the tale.

“No go, eh?”

“Not yet.”

“There’s more?”

“One more.”

“Who?”

“Pius XII.”

“I don’t know why, but I had a feeling we were headed toward him.” She was gone for a few moments, then returned with more books. “You’re sure now . . . no more?”

“No more. This has got to be it.”

“I think I can find this one.” Clotilde selected a volume and paged through it. “Here you go: the motto on the coat of arms of Eugenio Cardinal Pacelli. Opus Justitiae Pax—‘Peace, the Fruit of Justice.’”

Koesler began to shake his head, but took the volume from her anyway. He tried to work the motto into the upper half of letters that the brand had made. It was not even close to fitting.

He sat back with wildly conflicting emotions.

He was wrong. His theory, which had seemed so promising last night, went nowhere this morning. Definitely out of character for him. He was by no stretch of the imagination a “morning person.” But, to the extent he had been so sure of himself, he now felt a rather deep depression.

On the other hand, his groundless theory was one more indication that Father Kramer was innocent. Koesler had given it his best shot. Usually when he reached a conclusion such as this, it proved to be well founded. And, as devil’s advocate, for the first time in this investigation he had thrown aside the presumption of innocence for Kramer.

Accepting Lieutenant Tully’s challenge to look at the facts with complete objectivity, Koesler had tried to tie the murders to Kramer and had failed.

Yes, definitely mixed emotions. But, if anything, the predominant feeling was one of relief that Kramer had come out of this clean. The next order of business would be to get Dick Kramer out to Guest House so he could get a handle on his alcoholism before it got completely out of control.

So deep in thought was Koesler that he had to fight his way back to reality and focus on what Sister Clotilde was saying.

“I said, there’s more to this, you know.”

“More? What do you mean?

“I mean that the mottoes don’t stand pat when a Cardinal becomes Pope.”

“What?”

“The coat of arms automatically changes when one becomes a Pope. And so, it seems, does the man’s motto.”

“What?”

“You’re repeating yourself. Here . . .” She handed him an impressive tome.

He studied the book, somewhat bewildered as to its relevance. It was Acta Apostolicae Sedis—The Acts of the Apostolic See—Volume XXXXII (1950). A slip of paper marked a specific place in the book. Koesler paged to it.

It was a document entitled Munificentissimus Deus—“The Most Gracious God.”

He could not guess why Sister Clotilde had given this to him, nor why she had marked this section. He flipped several pages and came to the end of the document. It was signed, Ego Pius, Catholicae Ecclesiae Episcopus, ita definiendo subscripsi—“I, Pius, Bishop of the Catholic Church, identify this with my signature.” Then came the seal:

“You see,” Clotilde said, “Eugenio Pacelli took another motto once he became Pope. Veritatem Facientes in Caritate—‘Accomplishing Truth in Charity.’”

Koesler stared at the motto for several moments. Then, slowly, he began to trace the words into the brand markings. They fit. Perfectly. It was a premonition come true. He stared at them.

After several moments, Sister Clotilde spoke. “That what you were looking for?”

Koesler nodded.

“When we got down to Pius XII and were still looking for mottoes, I thought that’s what you might be looking for. Something came to mind and I thought that might be it.” She paused. “Don’t you want to know how I guessed?”

He looked at her wordlessly.

“I remembered that a few weeks ago, one of your confreres was in here looking for exactly the same thing. But not the motto for Eugenio Pacelli; the one after he became Pius XII.” Another pause. “Want to know who it was?”

Barely audibly, he said, “Father Kramer.”

“How did you know?”

“Bingo.” But there was no joy in it.