“By now,” Koznicki said, “this has turned into a guessing game. We made an educated guess—an extremely educated guess—and we guessed wrong.”
Tully rubbed a palm with his fist. “It had to be Rasmussen. He was the odds-on favorite. He was about to deliver the second-most provocative speech. And he was from the left. Almost a carbon copy of Hanson. It had to be him.”
“But it was not. Now we have no alternative but to regroup and start over.”
Tully shook his head helplessly. “But Walt, if we start over, we’re trying to get inside a crazy man’s head. Okay, he wants to hit the pope … or so we assume. Okay, if that’s the case, he wants to force us to thin out our blanket coverage of the pope. Okay, so we’ve got to do it to some degree. But now it seems like there’s no rhyme or reason to it.
“Okay, I understand that Catholics have this black and white thing they call conservatives and liberals. But he hasn’t picked one or the other. It’s almost like he’s picking victims at random. Far as I can see, there’s no way in hell we can forestall that.”
Koznicki said nothing. All that Tully said seemed true. But Koznicki tended to see their job in terms of demanding priorities. The first responsibility was to shield His Holiness from any harm. Then, to the remaining best of their ability, they had to protect everyone participating in or attending this event.
Through it all, they had to try to catch a killer. So far, there definitely was only one. The kids, the Golds, were an anomaly. They were akin to a deadly mosquito that had been swatted.
Now the police were up against a clever and effective killing machine who, so far, had limited himself to murder with his bare hands, the most elemental method of all.
And while there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the two priests had been murdered by the same person, there was no way anyone could guarantee that this perp was the only one who wanted His Holiness.
So what if, please God, they should find this bare-handed killer before he had the opportunity of killing again? Were there more—how many?—waiting to assume the task?
Walt Koznicki’s thoughts were somber. They had every right to be.
There was a knock at the door. Mangiapane entered at Koznicki’s bidding.
“Inspector … Zoo … I just checked with the feds. The Holy Father apparently hasn’t changed his mind … about coming here, I mean.”
Koznicki’s surprise was evident. “Was he expected to have a change in plans?”
“I guess there was some talk. He really got shook up about Schinder.”
“That is understandable,” Koznicki said. “To be expected. After all, Cardinal Schinder was the Holy Father’s right-hand man. It must have been a shock. But I would expect His Holiness to keep his commitments. Who doubted that?”
“I don’t know whether there was a doubt involved,” Mangiapane said. “I think it was the special agent in charge. He just wanted it checked out. After all, like he said, the Holy Father don’t show here we got a lot of dismantling to do.” He smiled. “It would also be a lucky break for us.”
Tully said nothing. There was no way he would be happy to call off this investigation. There was a killer out there who needed to be put away. It didn’t help that the perp had left a very capable and experienced Homicide Division with egg on its face.
“Walt,” Tully said, “you got that handbook our people put together for this papal visit?”
“Yes, of course.” Koznicki, in one hand, picked up from the windowsill an enormous loose-leaf notebook and handed it across the desk. Tully had to use both hands to receive the massive document.
Tully seldom thought of it, but now was one of those moments when he was impressed. Walt Koznicki was a large, powerful man, even at his age.
Tully searched the table of contents, then began to page through the handbook seemingly at random.
Koznicki turned his attention to Mangiapane. “When is the Holy Father slated to arrive from Rome?”
“Let’s see … about 7:30 this evening.”
“That means we have …” Koznicki studied his watch. “… about eleven hours to wrap this up and prepare for his arrival.”
Mangiapane shrugged.
Koznicki glanced absently at Tully who had found the photos of the clerical participants.
“Have they cut back on any of the scheduled activities?” Koznicki asked.
“Well,” Mangiapane responded, “after touchdown at Metro, he was supposed to go by chopper directly to the seminary, and then by limo to Blessed Sacrament Cathedral.” Mangiapane shifted his weight to his other foot. “But now, after what happened, they’ve cut just about everything to the bone. They’ve eliminated the side ceremonies and they’re concentrating on Cobo Arena.”
Without looking up from the handbook, Tully said, “Walt, you’re the most official Catholic I know.”
Koznicki smiled.
“Don’t these guys have a uniform of the day? I see vestments and clerical collars and chains and beanies—all in different colors. And then I see business suits and ties—like Madison Avenue. Real neat. But all these guys have ‘Reverend’ and ‘Right Reverend’ and ‘Very Reverend’ and ‘Most Reverend.’ They should all look the same, no? I mean, they do have uniforms, don’t they?”
“They used to,” Koznicki said. “Before the Council, you would have seen all these clerical gentlemen in what is now the occasional dress. They would all be wearing black, and clerical collars. There would be some color, but only from the monsignors and bishops and, of course, the Cardinals.
“But after the Council, a number of priests did not want to be separated from the laity in what they considered a caste system. This is particularly true of the scholars and experts who are meeting here this week. And that, Alonzo, in somewhat abbreviated form, is why they are not all dressed alike.”
Tully said nothing in response. It was not even clear that he had listened with full attention. He continued to flip through pages of photos.
From his absorbed attitude toward the pictures and the question he’d raised, Koznicki had a hunch that Tully was onto something.
Koznicki turned back to Mangiapane. “Then, the Holy Father’s only public appearance here will be in the arena?”
“That’s the way it shakes out, Inspector. He’s due to arrive at the arena at 8:30 by motorcade from the airport.”
“At 8:30,” Koznicki repeated. “That should work out well. The downtown office workers will have left for the day. So the motorcade should have clear sailing.”
“Hmm ….” Tully mused as he repeatedly flipped a couple of pictures back and forth. Now Tully had Koznicki’s complete attention.
Mangiapane, unaware that Koznicki had tuned him out, continued his review of what had been planned for the papal visit. “When the motorcade gets to Cobo, plans are to take him, and as many cars as will fit; right into the hall through the underground entrance. They’ve got a secure room for him and the other clergy to get vested. It’s simple, Inspector. But along the way to keeping it simple, there won’t be any popemobile. Which is too bad, ‘cause that’s bulletproof. It means the Holy Father is gonna have to walk the length of the arena to get to the altar. That’ll be tough to secure. But I think we can do it.”
Tully was shaking his head. Koznicki was watching him. “What is it, Alonzo?”
“Um … oh … nothing.”
“Something,” Koznicki insisted.
“Well …” Tully turned the handbook around to face Koznicki. “Look at these two pictures.” He flipped the pages back and forth.
Koznicki took the pages from Tully’s hand and turned them more slowly. Koznicki slowed even more until he was able to study the pictures more deliberately. After several moments, he looked across the desk at Tully. The silence became the unspoken question.
“You don’t see it?” Tully seemed unsure of himself and wanted a corroboration from Koznicki that wasn’t being offered.
Koznicki studied the designated photos again. Finally, he
looked up. “They are the two victims of our serial killer.”
“Look at them again. Aside of the fact that they’re both priests and they’re both wearing business suits, anything else strike you about them?”
Koznicki tried again. This time he knew what he should be trying to find: something in common besides their vocation and style of apparel.
The furrows on Koznicki’s brow smoothed. “They resemble one another. Faintly. But there is some resemblance. Is that it?”
Tully nodded. “Now you know why I said I didn’t have much.”
But Koznicki would not let it drop. “You think it possible they were killed because they resembled one another?”
“No. That’s hardly likely. That’s almost out of a joke. It’s impossible … isn t it?
“Alonzo, we are out of theories. There seems no rhyme or reason for these killings. Where can we go with this theory?”
“Well, keeping in mind there isn’t any foundation to this theory at all, I kept rummaging through these photos. Hanson, remember, was tall and thin, about six feet, with an oval head, and bald except for a white fringe, and he wore glasses.
“Palmer was tall and thin and had that same sort of elongated head. He had white hair too, but he combed it over a bald spot. And he wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“So what am I looking for in this look-alike contest that’s going nowhere? Tall, thin, glasses, bald or balding, and maybe something that argues for a resemblance that we’d recognize when we see it.” Tully paused for effect. He had the complete attention of Koznicki, and of Mangiapane, who had long ago recognized that he was the third wheel.
Slowly, Tully turned the page till he found what he was looking for: a picture of a priest—younger than the other two, but very much in the running in the resemblance race.
“Yes,” Koznicki said, impressed. “Who is he?”
Tully referred to the caption beneath the photo, which he was viewing upside down. “Father Gregory Ward. Age forty-five. Got a degree in music and theology. He teaches at … Witten/Herdecke University. And he’s a panelist on the sacred-music program of this symposium. And there it is.” Tully was not elated. “That’s it. I didn’t find anyone else in all of these people who vaguely had any resemblance to these three. But it’s dumb … I wasted your time even telling you.”
“Thus far,” Koznicki said at length, “we have followed hypotheses that had the killer selecting controversial priests or liberal priests. And we have been wrong. Now we face the possibility of priests who look alike.” He raised both hands in a gesture of futility. “What are we to conclude? That the first killing was a case of mistaken identity? That the killer was after Father A and killed Father B by mistake because it was dark? And when he discovered his mistake, he struck again at his original target? Or is it that he is just killing look-alikes? And if so, is Father Ward next in line to be the next victim on the killer’s path toward the pope?”
“Ridiculous, right?”
Koznicki shrugged. Tully and Mangiapane let the obviously rhetorical question lie.
“What do you wanna do, Inspector?” Mangiapane finally asked.
“The least we can do, it seems, is go talk to this priest. See if he can shed any light on this. Perhaps he knew the other two priests. Perhaps he can tell us something that will bring all this together—connect the murders. It would be wise, in any case, to provide Father Ward with special protection. For all we know—and at this stage we do not know much—Father Ward may be an intended victim. This is developing into a case of Why is this happening?’ rather than ‘Who is doing it?’ We may have to determine why this is happening before we can find out who is doing it.”
“Let’s get on it.” Tully stood. “Manj, come with us.”
33
The three detectives, Koznicki, Tully, and Mangiapane, waited on the fifth floor of Police Headquarters for an elevator. The elevators at 1300 Beaubien undoubtedly were not the slowest in Western civilization, but they ranked.
Finally the doors slid open, revealing a clearly surprised Father Koesler. No one made a move either to get on or off the car.
Tully was the first to speak. “What are you doing here?”
Further surprised, Koesler said, “You asked me to come.”
“That’s right. I did. Sorry.” For Tully, it seemed that he had made that phone call to Koesler days ago, so much had happened in the meantime. “We’ve got to go on a run now. But I’d like you to stick around, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I think I’ll just drop over and see if the library’s open.”
With that, the officers, and a secretary who also had been waiting, boarded the elevator.
“Sorry about Father Palmer,” Koznicki said. “We did everything in our power to prevent that.”
Quite automatically, Koesler said, “Thank you.” It seemed the thing to do, though on reflection, he wondered why anyone should express condolences when Koesler scarcely knew Palmer. It must have been that they both were priests.
As the elevator began its interminable descent, Koesler said, “I’ve just been over to Cobo Hall. Seems it’s business as usual. I’m surprised. I thought they would cancel the remaining panels of the symposium. Matter of fact, I am surprised that the Holy Father hasn’t canceled his visit.”
“No,” Mangiapane said, “I checked, and, so far, the trip’s on.”
The elevator traveled several more inches.
“As a matter of fact,” Koesler resumed, “somebody—I guess Monsignor Martin—got the panelists to issue their papers in advance of their meetings, which seems strange. It’s as if the verbal, live debate wasn’t expected to take place. Very strange.”
No one seemed eager to pick up the verbal ball. So, to fill the vacuum, Koesler continued talking.
“I thought it particularly odd that the liturgy panel hadn’t finished the program for tonight’s Mass until now. After all the choir has to rehearse. And they need to know what the program will be. It’s all very last-minute stuff. Not very considerate.”
Koesler paused as the elevator neared the second floor. Still no one filled the conversational gap. So he plowed on.
“I ran into Dave Wallace in the corridor over there. He’s the music director for this evening’s liturgy,” he explained, parenthetically. “He was fuming. Seems whoever’s in charge of that panel made out a program of really rotten music. I looked it over and I had to agree with Dave. I mean, since the Council and the change to the vernacular, a lot of people have contributed some really awful music to the liturgy. And the worst of that is on tonight’s program.”
The secretary exited on the second floor. No one entered. Next stop, the main floor. Sometime.
“You know,” Koesler now was having no trouble filling the void. He was warming to his subject. “We had achieved such a marvelous treasury of music down through the centuries. That was one of the tragedies of Vatican II: that it marked virtually the end of those Church classics by Palestrina and Perossi and the like.
“Maybe the strangest part of this whole thing is the person who programmed tonight’s liturgy. Actually, I’ve never met Greg Ward, but I do know his work. He is one of the few active classicists left. How could he ever have submitted a program like tonight’s? It’s almost as if it were done by a different person.”
Main floor.
Father Koesler moved to exit the elevator, but stopped when he realized he was the only one moving.
“What did you just say?” Koznicki asked.
“What?” Koesler had not been paying much attention to himself. He had to play his monologue back in fast reverse.
Before he could recall anything of importance he’d said, Koznicki spoke again. “What was the name of that priest you just mentioned?”
“Uh … Greg Ward … Father Gregory Ward. But I don’t really know him. Just of him—his work.”
“You said the program he wrote was unlike his work?” Koznicki pressed.
“Yes! That I am quite
sure of. And if I had any doubts, they would be dispelled by Dave Wallace’s agreeing with me.”
“And”—Tully pushed the UP button—“what did you say last … the last thing you said?”
“Uh … I forgot.”
“Something about, ‘It’s almost as if it were done by a different person,’” Tully supplied.
“Yes … I guess that’s it.” The others just looked at him wordlessly. “Well, it is,” Koesler said somewhat defensively. “There’s no way I could have imagined Greg Ward submitting a program like that. Unless, perhaps, he’s not well … all the excitement and all …”
“We have another possibility,” Koznicki said with some animation.
The ride returning them to the Homicide Division seemed much faster than the trip to the main floor.
Koznicki and Tully looked at each other with barely suppressed excitement. “Perhaps, Alonzo, the killer did not penetrate our security.”
Tully nodded. “Maybe he was inside it all the time.”
“Huh?” Father Koesler offered.
Once in the Homicide section, word got around that they were on to something. One by one, then in clusters, detectives crowded around the inspector’s office.
Koznicki flipped the handbook open and showed the photo of Father Ward to Koesler.
He looked at it briefly, then said, “Yes. This is Father Ward. Though, as I said, I never actually met him. But I have seen him around. This is he.”
“Manj,” Tully said, “where did our guys get these mug shots?”
“Geez, Zoo, I think the priests brought them. When they got here our guys put the photos and the idents—which they also gave us—in mounts on these pages. That’s one of the reasons it’s loose-leaf: We kept getting this stuff in dribs and drabs.”
“Okay,” Tully said to Koesler, “take a look at the ident. You know this place where he’s a teacher?”
“Herdecke? I’ve heard of it. It’s not a major university, but good quality.”
“Where is it?”
“Germany. The Rhineland area, if I’m not mistaken. Around Cologne.”
Call No Man Father Page 27
