Lieutenant Zoo Tully did not need special help from the weather to feel ebullient.
He had solved a puzzle, a particularly personal puzzle. He always felt good after having solved a case, but this was exceptional. Even though he was not as personally involved with the killer of Louise Bonner as he had initially assumed, the connection never quite faded from his mind nor did his approach to the case alter. For no sheerly rational reason, from the beginning he had considered this his private preserve.
As he turned the corner on the fifth floor leading to homicide, he was a tad late. For him, par for the course. Plus, on this day, it was a small personal reward.
Walking down the corridor, he encountered several other homicide detectives. They knew, of course, about yesterday’s arrest. To a person, they congratulated him. Yet some seemed somewhat reserved. Or was it his imagination? Much more of this hedging, and it just might take the edge off his day.
There was only one officer, Mangiapane, in his squad room. The rest would be occupied with interviews, other cases, old and new.
Mangiapane was bent low over his desk, laboriously suffering through paperwork. Tully correctly assumed that Mangiapane was preparing the complaint against Father Kramer. Reports, records—anything to do with paperwork—was not Mangiapane’s forte. Which had little to do with being a cop—Sherlock Holmes didn’t have to fill out complaints to the satisfaction of some prosecutor or judge. While he may not have been a Holmes—who was?—Mangiapane was a good cop. And he would get better.
“How’s it goin’?” Tully poured coffee into his mug, grateful that some earlier arrival had bothered to brew it.
“Oh, hi, Zoo.” Mangiapane had been concentrating so diligently he hadn’t heard Tully come in. “Okay. Slow.”
“When’s the arraignment?”
“Two this afternoon.”
“You got time.”
“Yeah; looks like I’ll need it.”
“Well, move it as fast as you can. We got stuff to do.”
“Yeah, okay.” Pause. “The inspector wants to see you.”
“Mmmm. Okay.” Something was up. This was not the usual response from Mangiapane. Ordinarily, he would jump at any interruption to put aside and, for at least the time being, block out all thought of paperwork. Tully had expected him to turn his chair away from the desk, maybe get a cup of coffee. Anything but pursue the report. Mangiapane had scarcely lifted his nose from the paper.
“Somethin’ wrong?” Tully asked.
“Huh? No, nuthin’, Zoo.”
But something was wrong. Not only with Mangiapane, but with the other cops. There seemed to be an ineffable chill in the atmosphere. Well, Tully wouldn’t push it. In time he’d find out. “I’ll be with Walt.”
“Right, Zoo.”
He carried his coffee down the hall to Koznicki’s office. This time he paid no attention to anyone he passed in the corridor.
Koznicki, alone in his office, was studying the contents of a folder. Tully knocked perfunctorily. Koznicki looked up and nodded. Tully entered.
“Just one moment, Alonzo.” Koznicki returned to the file he was perusing.
Tully sat in the chair opposite Koznicki’s desk. As with everyone he had met so far today at headquarters, Tully had more than half expected Koznicki to be at least congratulatory. After all, he and his team had cracked a major homicide case involving that most dangerous of perpetrators, a multiple murderer. He had expected commendation, especially from Koznicki. Tully sipped his coffee and studied the inspector.
Of course! That had to be it! Tully recalled a previous conversation in this very office. Koznicki had referred to the clerical garb worn by the suspect as a “masquerade.” No way was this dyed-in-the-wool Catholic ready to believe that an actual priest was the mutilating slayer of prostitutes. That would also explain the chilly reception Tully had gotten from some of the other officers this morning.
And that certainly was what was bugging Mangiapane. Not only had Tully trapped and arrested a priest, but he had obliged Mangiapane to process the suspect and, to top it off, to face the news media.
They were trying to make him feel guilty. He’d be damned if they’d succeed.
“So”—Koznicki put the file aside, looked across at Tully and smiled—“you made the arrest.” There seemed no genuine warmth in the smile.
“Uh-huh.”
“It was a clever plan you had. It seems to have paid off.”
“Seems?”
“You made an arrest.”
“Walt, let’s get right to it. I got the guy.”
“How sure are you?”
“How well do you know me?”
Koznicki seemed somewhat taken aback. “How well do I know you?”
“I don’t play games. You know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t grab Richard Kramer just to make an arrest, close a big case.”
Koznicki was extremely grave. “I ... I know that.”
“Then why am I being treated like some kind of leper?”
“Leper?”
“It’s not just you, Walt. And I’m not saying it’s everybody in the division. But for once, in January it’s warmer outside than it is in here.”
Koznicki fixed Tully with a steady gaze. “There are some problems.”
“Oh?”
“Catholics have a difficult time with the fact that we have a priest in custody.” Tully was about to respond, but Koznicki held up one very large hand. “Particularly this priest. The Archdiocese of Detroit has been very cooperative. Their director of information sent over Father Kramer’s record.”
The inspector indicated the file he had been studying when Tully entered the office. Koznicki didn’t mention that the file had been released to the police not through any spirit of cooperation on the part of the information office, but due to a direct order from Cardinal Boyle. From many previous professional contacts, Koznicki and Boyle knew and respected each other. By no means was everyone able even to get through to the Cardinal. Koznicki was one of the few who had access.
“Not only do we have his record,” Koznicki continued, “but there have been many calls regarding Father Kramer.” He indicated an impressive stack of messages. “It seems that Father Kramer is a most respected priest . . . indeed, one of the most diligent priests in the archdiocese.”
“The Son of Sam was a hard-working mailman. The guy who blew away a dozen or so in the McDonald’s in California didn’t have any record either.”
“We are not talking about your average worker. This is a priest!”
“Where’s the surprise? For the past couple of Sundays he’s been dressing the part.”
“Alonzo, anyone can purchase clerical garb . . . at a religious goods store or even through the mail.”
“Okay, Walt, anybody can do it. It could have been a guy pretending to be a priest. Or it could have been a priest. And this is the God’s honest truth: I was willing to go with it either way. I didn’t give a damn which way it went. But now, after the kind of reaction that’s goin’ on, I wish to hell it’d been some nut dressed up like a priest.”
Koznicki raised an eyebrow.
Tully went on as if answering an unspoken question. “At least there wouldn’t be this knee-jerk reaction to arresting a priest.”
The statement was rather strong coming from a subordinate. It was by no means the first time Tully and Koznicki had crossed swords. One of the things Tully liked best about his boss was that Koznicki was a most self-secure person who never felt threatened or became defensive. Tully never felt he had to hold back any honest opinion. If anything, Koznicki was the one who, despite his enormous bulk, felt constrained to tiptoe over metaphorical eggshells.
Besides, Tully was forced to admit, Koznicki usually was right. This time, however, he was wrong!
Koznicki had by no means completed his challenge. “Father Kramer claims he was summoned on a sick call, a mission of mercy.”
“So he claims.�
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“Might it not be so?”
“No.”
“Just ‘no’?”
“Who would have called him?”
Koznicki shrugged. “Someone who wished to set him up. Make him a sitting duck. The real perpetrator.”
“The real perpetrator . . .” Tully’s tone dripped incredulity. “Walt, how could ‘the real perpetrator’ arrange to have Kramer resemble the guy whose description we already had? How could he make him drive a black Escort? How about the oversized belt? And,” Tully emphasized, “how about that knife? It’s not a little pocketknife on a chain with a miniature flashlight. That’s an honest-to-God switchblade that you could skin a bear with. If somebody—anybody—set him up, how did the guy arrange every one of even the most insignificant details to correspond with all we know about the real killer? Coincidence? Walt, coincidence!”
Koznicki was silent.
Tully continued. “Walt, like I said, I didn’t give a damn who it was, as long as we got him. If you push me into a corner, I wish it hadn’t been a priest. But if it is, it is.”
“There is, of course, one thing more.”
It was Tully’s turn to lift an eyebrow.
“The iron . . . the branding iron.”
“I know.” Tully bit his lip. It was a weak point. Perhaps the only weakness in the entire case. Not, he thought, a fatal flaw, but definitely a loose end he wanted tied.
“You did not find it.”
Tully shook his head. “We went over the car as thoroughly as we could. Over every inch of ground around the building. We didn’t find it. But it’s somewhere. We’ve got the techs taking that car apart piece by piece. From the one woman who saw him close up, his M. O. seems to be that he accompanies the pro to her pad. Then he lolls her. Then he goes back to his car to get the iron. Then he brands and guts her. But . . . I don’t know. One guess is that he assembles the iron. In which case he could have one piece of it attached, magnetically maybe, inside the engine and another piece someplace in the chassis. The handle? Anywhere.”
“It is the smoking gun.”
“I know. I’d give . . . a lot to find the damn thing. But even without it, we’ve got a good solid case. Especially if my two witnesses can make him in the show-up.”
“When is that?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“But first, the arraignment.”
Tully glanced at his watch. “In just a couple of hours.”
“Who is the judge?”
Tully shrugged as he rose to leave. “Who cares? That’s another world. But it would be nice if, whoever the judge is, he wouldn’t start out by presuming that no priest could have committed these crimes.”
27
One thing was certain: Father Kramer could not possibly have committed these crimes. Father Koesler decided to pass this thought on to his companion. “There is one thing for sure,” Koesler said, “no priest could have committed these crimes. And if you knew Father Kramer, you’d know that he, of all people, couldn’t have done it.”
Inspector Koznicki could not help smiling. “That is precisely what Lieutenant Tully fears.”
“What’s that?”
“That people will presume that no priest in general and Father Kramer in particular, could possibly be responsible for such brutal murders. I assure you I cast no aspersion on Father Kramer when I say that Lieutenant Tully is one of our best officers. He has an enviable record of convictions as a result of his arrests.”
Koesler turned to look directly at his friend. “You don’t mean to say that you think Father Kramer could be guilty?”
Koznicki tipped his head slightly to the side. “I hope he is not guilty, I must admit. But the verdict is not in. In point of fact, the trial has not begun. This is only the arraignment.”
Tully had no sooner left Koznicki’s office earlier in the day when Father Koesler had called. He told Koznicki of his interest in the Kramer case. He did so apologetically, admitting that he really had no business getting involved, particularly in volunteering involvement. But, after a soul-searching self-analysis, he’d had no option but to do what he could for his brother priest.
While he did not tell Koesler so, Koznicki had expected the call. Indeed, mindful of their past collaborations, he would have been surprised, even disappointed, if Koesler had not called.
Koznicki did not consider Koesler to be any sort of para-expert in police work. But the inspector had come to appreciate the priest’s keen analytical mind. He would not have wanted, nor even permitted Koesler to become involved in just any investigation. Nor, he knew, would the priest presume to do so.
But when it came to homicide investigations that included any sort of Catholic element, Koesler had been helpful in the past. And in the present instance, Koznicki was quietly pleased that Koesler was aboard. The odds seemed stacked against Father Kramer. He could use someone like Koesler in his corner. It might even make Lieutenant Tully at least reevaluate some of his conclusions.
Father Koesler had wanted, at the outset, to attend the arraignment. Koznicki offered to accompany him. So they had met at headquarters, had a somewhat late, light lunch, then walked over to the Thirty-sixth District Court. Koznicki was easily able to get them both into the courtroom before the general public was admitted.
In the courtroom with them at the moment were several uniformed Wayne County Sheriff’s deputies, a few Detroit police officers—including Tully and Mangiapane—defense and prosecuting attorneys, and a most healthy representation of the local news media. No cameras, still or TV, were permitted in the courtroom; a couple of artists seated in the otherwise empty jury box were already sketching the scene.
Several sheriff’s deputies gathered at the doors, which were then opened. Outside, in the hall, a considerable crowd had gathered. The spectators would have surged into the court had not the deputies halted each for individual checking with portable metal detectors. Consequently it was possible for the already seated Koesler to study each one.
There were, by Koesler’s count, seven priests, in addition to himself, in attendance. Most, like Koesler, were in clerical garb. The brethren were gathering to support one of their own.
For only a few brief moments, Koesler caught sight of Sister Therese. She passed very quickly through the metal detector and was immediately lost in the crowd. She was wearing her order’s modified habit clearly denoting that she was a nun. Koesler could not recall ever having seen her in a habit—even modified.
Once the benches were filled, the doors were closed. It was not unlike church in that the crowd spoke in whispers and the only ones who seemed completely at home—like priests in church—were the court officers.
“Where are the lawyers?” Koesler whispered.
“At the tables just in front of the judge’s bench,” Koznicki replied. “The rather nice-looking woman on the left in the beige suit is Dava Howell, the prosecuting attorney. The tall black man on the right . . .”
“. . . is Bill Johnson. I recognize him from his pictures. Used to be on the Detroit Common Council.” Koesler was impressed. Bill Johnson’s professional skill was such that he now accepted only the most challenging cases. His success ratio was impressive.
Koesler had read a lot about Dava Howell. Although she was young, her conviction percentage almost matched Johnson’s acquittal record. Koesler wondered if she had been selected from the prosecutor’s staff because the murder victims were women. Newspaper photos did not do Dava Howell justice. She was much more attractive in person.
A hush fell over the crowd as a door near the bench opened and the defendant, escorted by several burly uniformed policemen, was led into court and seated at the end of the table at the right, next to Johnson, who immediately leaned over and said something to him.
Koesler was jolted. This was not the same Dick Kramer of just the other day. Already he seemed a changed person. He was wearing a black suit, undoubtedly the same one he had worn yesterday when he was arrested. It looked rumpled,
as if he had slept in it, which was probably so. He was not wearing the roman collar, just a white shirt open at the neck.
From the moment he entered the room he looked at no one. He went straightway to his place and proceeded to stare at the floor.
“All rise,” a deputy announced loudly and banged a gavel.
Still like church, thought Koesler. The priest processes in, the congregation stands.
“The Thirty-sixth District Court for the County of Wayne in the State of Michigan is now in session. The Honorable John Bowmont presiding.” The deputy concluded his introduction and everyone sat again.
Koesler was prepared for a rather lengthy session. But it was over in a fraction of the time he’d thought it would take. In effect, the judge read the charges to the defendant—criminal charges brought by the State of Michigan. Defense attorney Johnson informed the court that his client would stand mute to the charges. The judge then entered a plea of not guilty. Johnson motioned for bond to be set. Bond was denied. And Father Kramer was taken from the court to the nearly always crowded Wayne County Jail.
The judge, having called a recess, was gone. The defendant was gone. The attorneys were packing up their briefcases. The doors opened. The crowd filed out. In the corridor, print, TV, and radio reporters were trying to approach and interview anyone who looked as if he or she might have a relevant comment. The hallway was illuminated with the unreal light of the TV sunguns.
“That’s it?” Koesler couldn’t get over the speed of it.
“Earlier, the judge issued the warrant,” Koznicki explained. “And we have just witnessed the arraignment. In effect, this legitimizes the continued holding of Father Kramer in jail.”
“What now?”
“As far as the trial is concerned, the judge has set the preliminary examination for this Thursday morning. At that time, the prosecution must make a case strong enough for the judge to decide that a trial is necessary. Otherwise the charges will be dropped.”
“Thursday!” Koesler thought about that. “Three days. Isn’t that a rather long time to wait?”
Koznicki smiled. “On the contrary, Father. It is rather soon. There is much to be done between the arraignment and the preliminary examination. It was less than twenty-four hours ago that the arrest was made. The police have convinced the prosecutor’s office that the complaint is justified, and the judge has issued a warrant.
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