The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

Helen Nowicki, switchboard operator at the Archdiocesan Office of Communications, was wishing they had only one telephone line. Calls were coming in so rapidly she could hardly take the messages. Everyone from the news media to the well-established community of Catholic nuts was calling for information or a statement on the murders from that everpopular anonymous “archdiocesan spokesperson.”

  Sister Eileen Monahan, trim, pretty, and inefficient, was beside herself. Director of Communications for a little less than a year, this was the most serious crisis she’d yet had to face.

  Ordinarily, the Office of Communications handed out press releases and tried to keep dirty laundry items out of the news. That the office was not highly regarded by the media was a testimony to its lack of practical purpose. Instead of a help, the office was a hindrance to the news media. Still, it was the only place to get a “statement” when one was expected. Only there was no “statement” available on the two recent murders.

  Sister Eileen had been trying through the morning hours to get the desired statement. Three times she’d gone personally from her office in the Gabriel Richard Building across Washington Boulevard to the chancery to try to light a fire under the archbishop and his auxiliary bishops and department heads, who together made up the archdiocesan think tank. Each time, they were, she was informed, “unable to be disturbed” at their meeting.

  As the phone in her office rang off the wall, she looked, with unchristian sentiment, at the picture of the think tank members hanging on that wall.

  “Men!” she shouted, in terminal frustration.

  Koesler exited the elevator on the fifth floor of the City-County Building. He was immediately confronted by a uniformed policeman seated behind a desk opposite the elevators. Koesler asked for Lieutenant Koznicki and was directed to Room 504. He was surprised, on entering 504, which turned out to be a reception room, to find Nancy Baldwin seated on one of the few chairs in the room. He gave his name to the receptionist. He then exchanged brief greetings with Nancy, after which there was an embarrassed silence, almost as if the two were truant children who had been summoned to see the principal.

  The receptionist lifted an intercom phone and dialed a single number. In a moment, she spoke into the phone, “They’re both here, sir.” Hanging up, she looked at Nancy and said, “The lieutenant will see you now.” Nancy rose and stepped into the inner office.

  Alone now with a receptionist who was busily shuffling papers, there was nothing for Koesler to do but bide his time. He did not like to harbor ethnic thoughts, but he had already reflected on Lieutenant Koznicki’s apparently Polish ancestry. He had half-expected to find bowling trophies in abundance, along with a volume of bric-a-brac. Instead, there were only a couple of unmatched pictures on the bare paneled wall. There was no table and no magazines. It occurred to him that this was not Koznicki’s permanent office but one that had been set up as an ad hoc base of operations for some specific purpose.

  Since there was nothing else to do, he decided he’d give some thought to how the Detroit Catholic would handle the two recent murders. He didn’t know how long he’d been developing that line of thought when the intercom buzzed. After a moment on the phone, the receptionist asked, “Would you go in now, Father?”

  As Koesler stepped into the inner office, the man began rising from behind a massive rectangular desk. He seemed to continue to rise. Koesler was impressed with the size of this burly policeman whose straight black hair started not that far above bushy eyebrows and was neatly trimmed above the ears. As Koesler approached the desk, he was surprised at his first impression. The lieutenant—possibly six-feet-four or five—was not much taller than he. There were men—John Wayne, he’d heard—who seemed bigger than life. Koznicki was one of those.

  The lieutenant took Koesler’s outstretched hand and seemed to envelop it in his own.

  “Good of you to come so promptly, Father.”

  As if I had a choice, thought Koesler.

  “You may be wondering about Miss Baldwin’s presence here this morning…”

  Yes, Koesler thought, as he cautiously scanned the room until he located a second door. She must be in another waiting room, he guessed, since she had not returned to the reception area, and there seemed but one door to the office from the hallway.

  “…but the reason for her appearance will be evident soon,” Koznicki continued. “Now, Father, according to the statement you gave Sergeant Ross, you were the one who found Sister Ann’s body.”

  “I and Angelo Trupiano.”

  “Yes. But you were the one to lift her upper torso from the tub.”

  “Yes.” He wondered if he were going to be reprimanded again for moving evidence.

  “Now, Father, you stated that as you placed the body on the floor, a small black rosary dropped from the deceased’s hand.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can you tell me, Father, how the deceased was holding the rosary?”

  “What?”

  “There must have been some reason why the rosary hadn’t fallen off in the tub, or why it didn’t fall as you began to move the body.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” Koesler hadn’t thought of this before, but, of course, it was a legitimate question. He tried to remember everything in detail. Finally, his memory was able to focus on Sister Ann’s wrist as it emerged from the tub. “Yes, yes… I remember. The rosary was looped around her wrist and the beads hung through her fingers.”

  “Would you mind showing me, Father?” Koznicki handed him a small black rosary. Koesler held the crucifix in his right hand so the rosary extended toward the floor. He then inserted his left hand through the rosary’s bottom loop, circled the rosary once around his left wrist and dangled the remaining beads between the thumb and index finger of his left hand.

  “Sure. That’s why the rosary didn’t fall off until we dropped her body.” He looked self-consciously at Koznicki. “She was wet and slippery. The fall must have jarred the rosary loose from her wrist, and it fell on the floor.”

  “Very good, Father.” Koznicki turned toward the second door and raised his voice. “Miss Baldwin?” Nancy stepped into the office and was directed to take the other chair next to Koesler.

  “I am going to tell you both something that may prove of utmost importance,” Koznicki said. Both his visitors stiffened slightly. He had their total attention. “You, Miss Baldwin, and you, Father Koesler, have verified that the rosaries found at the scenes of Father Lord’s and Sister Ann’s deaths were placed on their hands in an identical manner. This is the kind of information that we want to keep to ourselves. It may prove essential should these crimes be duplicated at any time in the future.” Both Nancy and Koesler shuddered. Neither had thought about a crime wave. “Too much publicity can be counterproductive to police work,” Koznicki continued, “and the news media already have access to a wealth of detail about these murders.” He looked significantly at the two. All of them knew who it was that had given the media that wealth of information.

  “Now, you may wonder,” Koznicki continued, as he leaned back in his oversized leather chair, folding his hands over his ample middle, “why it is I am telling you this specific detail now. It is because we all know how cooperative the two of you have been with the press thus far.” He leaned forward. “And under no condition are you to tell anyone of the manner in which the rosaries were found on the two deceased. On the one hand, I’m sure you both want to cooperate with the police in this investigation. On the other, if you tell anyone, anyone, I shall,” and here he nodded in Father Koesler’s direction, “with all due respect, Father, lock you both up and lose the key. Is that clear?”

  Both gulped and nodded affirmatively.

  “Now, I thank you both for coming. Miss Baldwin, you may leave now. Father Koesler, I wonder if you might stay a few minutes more?”

  For one thing, Koesler was fascinated, and for another, he was getting used to Koznicki’s commands that were expressed as requests.

  Nan
cy left the office, and Koznicki and Koesler were seated again.

  Koznicki had established a solid reputation among the Detroit police as the quintessential cop. He desired no personal publicity and seldom got any. He was meticulous about detail, and his arrests had a high rate of conviction. That he was scrupulous about the constitutional rights of suspects contributed to his conviction record. He was no loner. In a city the size of Detroit with its high murder rate, it was self-defeating to depend either on oneself exclusively or on the breaks. In Koznicki’s cases, he used everyone he could, encouraging their cooperation, creating a sense of sharing in an investigation, carefully communicating information that would help others help him in solving homicides.

  “Father,” Koznicki began once the two men were settled in their chairs, “first, I want you to know that I know a great deal about you. For years, I’ve been a reader of the Detroit Catholic, before you became editor and since. So I know you are at least a mild civil libertarian. Since your involvement in this case last Friday, I’ve checked on all your previous assignments in the archdiocese, and I’ve talked to several people about you. And I strongly suspect you are an avid murder mystery novel fan.”

  Koesler was becoming more and more entranced. He’d never thought his life interesting enough to be the subject of an investigation. The final detail—about the mystery novels—floored him. “How did you know about the murder mysteries?”

  “A couple of people I talked to mentioned it. Plus, since you’ve been in this office, you’ve been studying the details of the furnishings and memorizing my face. Just like your heroes in the whodunits never miss a detail—and we, in real life, miss more than we find.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I want to enlist your help in this case, partly because you are already involved and partly because I think some of your experience may help us.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad to cooperate.” Koesler was like a kid again. He couldn’t believe he’d really be involved in a real-life murder mystery.

  “Fine. Now, I’d like to go over the few facts we have and the assumptions we can make.

  “We have here, Father, two murders that appear to be related only in that one was a priest and the other a nun—a relationship that is at best most tenuous—and in that both died with rosaries left on the bodies in an identical manner. We have pretty well established that the rosaries in question did not belong to the deceased persons and that the rosaries are identical. These last two facts, Father, are also among the information we want no one else to know.

  “There is no indication any relationship existed between the deceased persons. Our investigation shows that not only were Father Lord and Sister Ann never in the same religious assignment, but there is no evidence they ever met. A fact that argues against the two killings being related.

  “However, the rosary link is a strong one, particularly after your and Miss Baldwin’s statements this morning, particularly since the killer appears to have ensured, by the secure manner in which he left them, that they would be found. Therefore, a reasonable assumption at this point is that the murders seem to be related. In this assumption, Father, the rosaries become the killer’s calling card.

  “Now, since the rosaries are the only clue thus far… you’re following me, Father?”

  Koesler, intrigued, nodded.

  “…since the rosaries are the only link, our next assumption is that the murderer has not completed his task.”

  Koesler found his lips had dried.

  “You see, Father, in a case like this, if our assumptions are correct, we are dealing with a psychopath. By no means an idiot but a madman. When someone begins leaving clues deliberately, he begins a dialogue, a communication with the police. He has a goal or a purpose and, at the same time—and almost as much—he wants to be stopped. We can stop him only when we understand the language he uses as he leaves his clues.

  “An added assumption, Father, is that the killer is a man. That, only because the weight of Sister Ann, a large woman and already dead, would have been considerable to lift from the tub and still inflict the kind of injury she suffered at the back of her skull. Presumably, the strength of a very strong man would be required.

  “One final fact, Father, leads us to a frightening conclusion. That fact is that Sister Ann was not sexually molested. A fact that was reported in the Detroit News and not the Free Press. Which proves it pays to read everything.”

  “What,” asked Koesler, in an astonished tone, “is so ‘frightening’ about Sister Ann’s not being sexually molested? I should think that would be somewhat encouraging. At least the killer doesn’t appear to be a complete animal.”

  “What’s frightening, you see, is that Sister Ann, perhaps more than many women, was, with all due respect, a very rapable subject.” Koesler’s eyes widened. “What I mean, Father, is that Sister Ann was an attractive, fairly young woman. We found her nude but not sexually attacked. That leads us to one of three likely assumptions.

  “One, that the killer is a female, which I have already rejected.

  “Two, that he is homosexual. It is possible. But, for the moment, I do not accept this as a tenable assumption. Mere non-molestation would be a fairly weak reason for thinking this. But, more important, homosexuality has nothing to do with the killing of Father Lord. And we are assuming the two murders are connected.

  “Third, and this is the assumption I make, that the murderer is so determined to kill that he will not be diverted from his goal even for sexual indulgence. This, in a sense, is unfortunate for us. With that sort of single-minded determination, he is less likely to blunder into a simple human error that would lead us to him more quickly. Frankly, Father, unless we pay close attention to the clues he gives us and enjoy good luck, this will prove a most difficult case to close.

  “Now, Father, to sum up. We have no leads as to whom the killer might be. We have no idea of his motive. Nor do we know who, if anyone, might be next

  “Not very much. But I want you to know I’ll be available to you at any time for any ideas you may have. Here is my card. On it you’ll find a number where I can be reached whenever you want to call.”

  “O.K., Lieutenant.” Koesler sensed the meeting was coming to a close, and he felt he had to boil all the questions that filled his mind into one that might synthesize all this newly acquired information. “I’ll try to absorb all this. But I just don’t know what I possibly could do to help.”

  “I know I’ve swamped you with theory, Father…” Koznicki smiled for the first time. Actually, it was the first time Koesler had ever seen an on-duty policeman smile. “…but it all comes down to this, the same thing all your murder mysteries are looking for: ‘Who done it?’ What I’d like you to do, at your earliest convenience, is to think about, maybe jot down, the names of people you know or know about who may have a special dislike of or hate priests or nuns. I assure you,” he anticipated Koesler’s objection, “none you may mention will be considered suspects. They will be what we call leads.”

  “But in the Church today, especially in Detroit, there must be hundreds of those.”

  “I know. I read your ‘Letters to the Editor.’ Start there. Judiciously talk to some of your colleagues. But remember, some of what we discussed today must be kept between us. I know you’re good at keeping secrets.”

  “I’ve kept some in my time.” He knew Koznicki was referring to the confessions he’d heard. It was a subject the laity always fantasized about, inaccurately. He’d been hearing confessions for a couple of decades and could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d heard anything surprising, let alone juicy.

  “Father, thank you for stopping by this morning.”

  “I had a choice?” This time the thought was voiced. And once again, Koesler’s hand was lost in Koznicki’s.

  Koesler put his car in gear and his mind in neutral as he drove up Second Avenue toward his office.

  He couldn’t get over the fascinating idea that a killer who d
eliberately leaves clues hopes the police will understand what he’s trying to communicate through them so he’ll be stopped from doing what he has determined to accomplish. Koznicki was right. The killer was trying to tell them something. But what? What could this killer possibly be trying to communicate by killing an old priest and a very active nun? And what could he possibly be trying to say through the rosaries? Koesler had absolutely no idea. For the first time in his life, it occurred to him to be grateful he was not a cop. He enjoyed outguessing the cops and villains in whodunits, but this was reality, where real lives depended on one’s ability to, in effect, understand what was being said without knowing what language was being used.

  He entered the Detroit Catholic with ruminations swimming through his head. But not for long. Before he could reach his office, both Irene Casey and Jim Pool assailed him with questions about the murders and how the paper was going to handle them.

  To add to this confusion, Judy Anderson approached him with the complaint that the switchboard had been unbelievably busy this morning with calls about the murders and repeated calls from media people asking for a statement from the archdiocese.

  “Tell them,” Koesler said over his shoulder, “to call the communications office.”

  “That’s just it, Father. They keep saying the Office of Communications is telling them to call us.”

  Shit! he breathed fervently. Just what we needed.

  Lieutenant Walter Koznicki was the tip of an iceberg that had the potential for greater growth.

  Most Detroiters resented the title their city had been given—Murder Capital of the World—though they could not argue their city could be a dangerous place to live in or even drive through. But murder in Detroit was not normally a sophisticated crime. That sort of action was reserved unto the suburbs. Like the series of child-molestation murders in nearby Oakland County. Murder in Detroit was senseless, brutal, sudden, unpredictable, quarrel-related, gang-related, drug-related. But Detroit did not kill its priests, ministers, or other religious leaders. On the rare occasion that one of these became a murder victim, it was never a planned, deliberate act but a senseless gesture. Like the hop-headed kid who had killed a retired monsignor, because there were only a few dollars to be ripped off in a core-city rectory. Or the nun in St. Cecilia’s convent who died as a victim of random target practice.