Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries: fk-10

by William Kienzle

  “You were building a tolerance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Are you good at miracles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Quite naturally, his thoughts revolved around Father Kramer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  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 Mo
nsignor 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.”