Father Joe Farmer was from Grand Rapids, home of furniture and Gerry Ford and priests who seldom got together. But when they did, they had accumulated lots of stories to tell each other.
Joe and Pomps might have been twins. They did not resemble each other facially, but they were both short, round men who laughed too easily, blissfully cheated at their golf scores, and were simply compatible. They had gone through the seminary in Cincinnati together and had become fast friends. They exchanged visits as often as they could.
“Pomps,” Joe was saying as he lit an after-dinner cigar and flooded the room with heavy smoke, “did I tell you the one about the guy who was washed up on a deserted island when he was a little kid?”
Pompilio shook his head, an anticipatory smile crossing his lips as he slid more tartar sauce over his fish. He checked carefully for hidden bones.
“Well,” a long cloud of dark smoke came between Pompilio and his fish, “this kid grew up all by himself on this deserted island until, one day, this beautiful girl gets washed ashore. Big, blonde, beautiful, and naked.”
Pompilio’s smile grew. He found a small bone and deposited same on the edge of his plate.
“So the girl finally finds this guy and says, ‘Do you want to make love?’ And the guy says, ‘I don’t know. How do you do it?’ So the girl shows him and they make love. Then the guy looks down at himself and then looks over at the girl kind of disappointed and says, ‘You… you… you broke my clam digger.’”
“Broke his what?” Pomps asked urgently. “Broke his what, Joe?”
“Clam digger! Clam digger!”
It wasn’t so much that Pompilio couldn’t hear, as it was that Joe Farmer always broke himself up when telling jokes so that it was always a challenge to catch the punch line.
Pompilio dropped knife and fork and threw his head back in uncontrolled laughter. In this he joined the already broken-up Joe Farmer. Koesler smiled. It was funny. Funnier than most of the vulgar jokes he’d heard from priests. By no means did all priests tell vulgar jokes. But those who did seemed to have an unlimited supply. Koesler always knew what was coming when a layperson prefaced a joke with, “A priest told me this one…” It was going to be vulgar but somehow blessed and singularly approved for mixed company simply because he’d heard it from a priest.
“Whatsa matter, Bob? Don’t you get it?” asked Farmer, trying to pull himself together.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Joe. Funny. Where’d you hear it?”
“Confirmations at the cathedral. Hank Henning told it. He’s got a million of ‘em.”
“I’ll bet” Koesler also would bet all the million were in circulation.
“Well, what’s the matter? You didn’t seem to appreciate it.” Farmer seemed to be getting a bit testy.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I guess I’ve just been too wrapped up in those murders.” Koesler had, indeed, been concerned. Since his conversation with Lieutenant Koznicki, he had been thinking of little else. Besides his somewhat personal involvement in both murders—talking with Nancy Baldwin, receiving the incriminating rosary from her, and finding the body of Sister Ann—he’d been trying to comply with Koznicki’s invitation to come up with some likely leads. It wasn’t that he couldn’t think of anyone. There were too many possibilities if all one looked for were people who seemed to hate priests and nuns. The backwash of Vatican II had left the Catholic clergy and laity alike sharply divided. Where once, so recently, the Catholic Church had presented an incredible unity, now, those who were emotionally involved in the Church had polarized into conservative and liberal camps. Those who had been indifferent were even more indifferent. But Koesler was unable to imagine anyone angry enough to turn to physical violence, let alone murder.
“Yeah,” Farmer turned somewhat more serious. It wouldn’t last. “That’s about all the guys in Grand Rapids can talk about. We’re happy, so far, it’s happening only in Detroit.”
“What about it? Can either of you guys think of anybody who would do something like this?” Koesler lit another cigarette.
Pompilio swished his last piece of fish through the remaining tartar sauce. “I don’t know. Somebody who got tossed out of parochial school?”
Farmer chuckled appreciatively. “Or some altar boy who got canned.”
Pompilio pushed at the table. As usual, nothing moved. “Seriously, seems like the cops’d be looking for someone who was physically violent.”
“Say,” said Farmer, examining the long white ash he’d been building at the end of his cigar, “didn’t I read in your paper, Bob, about some hothead who pushed a priest down the steps of some Detroit church?”
“That’s right,” remembered Pompilio, “and there was another guy, sometime back, who—what did he do?—who hit some priest, or—it was Kenny, wasn’t it, the auxiliary bishop?—with a protest sign he was carrying? There’s a couple of suspects for you.”
They had it wrong, but they just might be onto something, Koesler thought with some excitement. It was one and the same man. Harold Langton, leader of the archconservative Catholic organization called The Tridentines, after the Council of Trent held in Italy in the sixteenth century. Yes, he had been involved in at least those two acts of violence. And, if Koesler’s memory served, Langton insisted that all Tridentines meetings begin and end with a recitation of the rosary. Could this be the tie-in?
He promised himself he’d go through the Detroit Catholic files tomorrow and see if he could check out Langton’s activities. He was certain he could build a credible case. Then he’d bring it to Koznicki.
“You may just have something there, gentlemen. It’s worth thinking about.” Koesler stamped out his cigarette vigorously.
“If we’re right, will we get our names in the paper?” Pomps was ever alert.
“Sure you will. Headlines,” Koesler promised, fighting another cigarette.
“Say, Pomps…” the interval of serious discussion ended as Farmer deposited the cigar ash he’d developed in the tray, “…did I tell you about George Mayeski at Holy Innocents?”
Pompilio shook his head as the smile began twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“Well, as you know,” Farmer warmed to his story, “in Grand Rapids, promotions are made chronologically. You can make book on who’s going to be the next pastor. It’s the next oldest guy. Well, George didn’t know this, and his buddies told him the chancery expects you to apply for the job if you want to be pastor.
“So, every time a parish opened up, George would send in his application. The guys in the chancery were getting a big kick out of this.
“Then, one day, George caught on and got kinda sore about it. The next parish opened up, and George didn’t apply for it. The guys at the chancery couldn’t figure out why no application from George. So they sent him a letter saying… saying…” Farmer was beginning to crack up. “…saying, ‘What was wrong with that parish?’”
“What was wrong with what, Joe? What was wrong with what?” Pompilio had lost the punch line again.
Good old irrepressible Joe Farmer.
It was another of those Michigan days that couldn’t make up its mind whether to be winter or spring. The best that could be said was that it wasn’t snowing. But it was bitter cold, with the bite that came from the Detroit River and sliced through the canyons of downtown skyscrapers.
Joe Cox had decided to walk to the Free Press from his Lafayette Square high-rise apartment not far from the new Renaissance Center. First, he needed the exercise. Second, he felt good about his story in the morning edition. It was, he felt, a workmanlike job. It broke no new ground in the “Rosary Murder” cases, as they had come to be identified in the news media, but there was no new ground in sight. Instead, Cox’s story updated the investigation with solid quotes from Lieutenant Koznicki and an insightful description of the special task force occupying most of the City-County Building’s fifth floor.
Cox detoured through the enclave of Greektown with its peculiarly relevant presence
in an otherwise nearly abandoned section of downtown. Though most of the restaurants were not open this early in the day, the neighborhood groceries and coffee shops were doing their usual thriving business, and the earthy odors of Greek cuisine permeated the area.
The remaining few city blocks en route to downtown were as drab as Greektown’s were invigorating. Here and there in doorways were Detroit’s human refuse, some white, more black, all older men with patched, ragged clothing. Some still held the contoured brown paper bags containing wine bottles, the contents of which had been drained as the sleeping potion of the bums.
It was mid-morning when Cox reached the Free Press. Late for him. But then he was feeling good. That feeling lasted until he reached his desk and found the note from Nellie Kane. In Kane’s familiar lean prose, it read, “Cox, see me now! Kane.” The “now!” was underlined three times. That meant Kane wanted to see him yesterday. Cox felt a mixture of bewilderment and bemusement. He scanned the city room but found no Kane. “Anybody know where Nellie is?” he asked of no one in particular.
“He’s at the Y,” replied Pat Lennon, who occupied a desk two removed from Kane’s. Cox had been aware of Pat from his first day at the Free Press. She exuded a quiet but unmistakable sexuality. A full-figured brunette with a sultry voice, her every move sent out signals, particularly when she walked away. Cox had appreciatively received each signal and was waiting only until the appropriate moment to test his theory. “He said to tell you specifically,” Pat added in a tone of mixed finality and sympathy.
“A bit early for the Y,” mused Cox aloud. “Sounds as if he might be a tad upset.”
“Slightly more than usual,” answered Pat. “If I were you, I wouldn’t wait till he comes back.”
He did not. Nor did he remove his coat but went right back to the elevators and emerged from the lobby looking for a taxi. He found one on Washington Boulevard and took it the few short blocks to the Y. No use chancing the time a walk down Woodward would take.
Cox was not a member of the Y. But by flashing his press card and dropping the familiar name of Nelson Kane to a series of attendants, he finally was admitted to the members’ section. It required many more inquiries of naked, near-naked and towel-draped members to discover Kane’s present location—the sauna.
He’d gone this far, he might just as well go all the way. Finding an empty locker, Cox stripped, found an available towel, and followed the signs to the sauna.
No politicians’ lair could compare with this steam-filled room, especially when Kane was an occupant. Kane believed an ocean should be wet and a sauna should be hot. So he always sat near the heater, pouring a fairly steady stream of water that was immediately transformed into steam.
Opening the door to the sauna, Cox was greeted by a gush of escaping steam. He stepped in, closed the door, and hoped his eyes would adjust to the pea-soup atmosphere. They wouldn’t. “Nellie?” His voice was weak. He felt ridiculous. Like a small child calling out in the dark for Daddy.
“Here.” The tone was sepulchral and unmistakably Kane’s.
Cox, following the voice, took one step, tripped over a foot and sat heavily on the bench. Fortunately, that section of the bench was unoccupied and, fortunately, he found himself seated next to Kane.
“Take it easy,” urged Kane, “you don’t want to kill yourself in a sauna. Make a rotten obit.”
Cox rubbed his backside. He was sure there’d be a bruise. “I’m wondering why you asked me here.”
“I didn’t. And I don’t know how you got in here.”
“Your note said ‘Now’ and as to how I got in here, I lie a lot.”
“ ‘Now’ was earlier this morning when you should’ve been at work. And if you lie so good, how come you turned in that goddam routine story?”
Cox hadn’t been so surprised since he’d had his first wet dream. “Whaddya mean ‘routine’? I got the whole thing up to date, all the facts and guesses, the setup of the floor full of cops, and I beat the News by a full twelve hours.”
“You beat the News on a goddam routine story. Where’s the witness at the hospital and somebody in the parish neighborhood who saw the murderer?”
“For crissakes, Nellie, I checked both those leads and got nothing. Most of the time, I was neck and neck with the cops. And the cops didn’t get anything either.
“Cox,” Kane’s voice was soft. He never raised it above the required volume. “The reason we pay you more than the city pays the cops is because we expect you to do a better job. You’re not supposed to be ‘neck and neck’ with the cops. You’re supposed to be well out in the lead. And you’re not going to get there if you’re satisfied with a goddam routine story, if you’re late for work, or if you spend this whole sonovabitch day sitting on your ass in a sauna.”
Cox pondered the alternatives to a career in journalism.
Kane poured more water on the heater. “And while you’re out there in the trenches fighting for Free Press superiority, forget this cockamamie theory about a ‘rosary killer.’ I got a hunch we got two unconnected homicides. As long as the cops keep trying to link ’em, they’re not goin’ anyplace. Work on ’em as separate murders and crack both of ’em.”
Unable to differentiate between the steam pressing in on his body and his own perspiration, Cox felt readier for a nap than work. “You could be wrong,” he said, rising to leave.
“The last time was in the big snow of ’42. Now get the hell out of here.”
Father Robert Koesler had spent most of the previous day trying to track down the file of Harold Langton in the Detroit Catholic’s morgue.
Keith Diamond, one of the Catholic’s reporters, was the paper’s unofficially designated file clerk. While nearly everyone on the staff did a little bit of everything involved in putting a newspaper together, filing was a job universally shunned. Only Diamond took any interest in it, and at those times when his work was caught up, he would do a little filing.
Consensus had it that Diamond’s filing technique was a form of job insurance. Diamond alone knew why he filed which items under what. Under ordinary circumstances, Koesler would have asked Diamond to get the file on Langton. But yesterday, Diamond had been at the printer’s, supervising the paper’s press run. After four to five hours of diligent search, Koesler hoped that he’d found all the records on Langton that the Detroit Catholic had. He’d found them filed variously under “C” for conservative (probably), “L” for Langton, “R” for right-wing (probably), and “T” for Tridentines.
Assembling the clippings, Koesler could only conclude that Langton was a busy young man. His hostile, if not violent, presence had been evident not only in the Detroit area, but all over Michigan. In the Lansing diocese, he had helped a young priest antiwar protester down the cathedral steps with a shove. In the Marquette diocese, he had snatched the sign from the hands of a boycott-nonunion-farm-products marcher and hit him over the head with it. In Detroit, he had almost come to blows with an aggressive nun who had been speaking in behalf of fern lib. Almost everywhere where there was a demonstration or publicized meeting in behalf of a liberal cause, you could always expect Harry Langton and followers.
Langton was by no means the only conservative activist on the scene. But he was the only activist, conservative or liberal, who had exhibited overt violent behavior.
However, there were those who were close behind him. One conservative activist, in particular, was forever calling and writing to Koesler about articles in the Detroit Catholic. He had even threatened the paper with a libel suit—a threat that was never followed through—and, reportedly, he occasionally carried a gun. But there was no record of his ever having engaged in physical violence.
Actually, the more Koesler considered and researched the incidence of anger and hatred in the Archdiocese of Detroit at Lieutenant Koznicki’s suggestion, the more frightening it became.
People of conservative bent had been devastated by all that Vatican II had done to “their” Church. Dogma, the statem
ent of which regularly began with the words, “As the Church has always taught,” now held that the Church had never “always taught” anything. Morals that had been measured by inches, ounces, and seconds now seemed to be dissolved in indefinable “situation ethics.” And what the modern liturgists had done to the Holy Mass of Trent was sheer blasphemy.
For the liberals, of course, the Church had taken only one small step in what should have been the march of mankind. Canon law, with all its presumptions in favor of the institution, was still in force. The shared responsibility promised by Vatican II was still the impossible dream. The hierarchy was still doing battle with contraception, while the largely Catholic Third World starved. And the storied people of God were the great unwashed.
When one stood in the middle of these great antagonistic forces, a position in which Koesler saw himself, it seemed as if Armageddon could not be far off. Or, as Koesler had thought one day when two news service pictures crossed his desk—one, a man flayed alive by communists; the other, a man burned to death by fascists—it is just as bad to be killed by the left as by the right. Only, at the time, he hadn’t considered actual murder. Not in the United States of America.
But two—one priest and one nun—were dead. There were likely to be more. Somebody out there, probably a Catholic, liberal or conservative, with some real or imagined grievance, was actually killing clergy and religious. And Harold Langton was not even a suspect. Only a likely lead. Among that vast army of angry liberal and conservative Catholics, those who could kill probably were legion.
Koesler had made an appointment for four that afternoon with Lieutenant Koznicki to share with the police the dossier on Harold Langton. It might not have been much, but it was the best lead, to date, that Koesler could offer.
As he was inserting the Langton clippings in a folder, Irene Casey approached him with a copy of that week’s just-published Detroit Catholic. The front page was nearly filled with the combined stories of the murders of Father Lord and Sister Ann, along with commentaries by theologians on the readiness to die and the witness of martyrdom, and a statement of shock and dismay by the Archbishop.
The Rosary Murders Page 7
