The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  “We’ve never gotten anywhere close to this kind of cooperation before,” he was telling Irene Casey. It was the comparatively slow day in the Detroit Catholic’s week. This week’s issue was published and mailed, and the paper’s small staff was regrouping for the coming week.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Father.” They were standing at the rear of the large editorial office, the kitchen, as the staff referred to the area. Hot plates, dishes, and a large coffee urn mingled with bound copies of the Detroit Catholic, recent copies of Detroit’s two daily papers, and large bunches of galley proofs.

  “I didn’t think you would, Irene. With you, everybody cooperates. It’s not so with the rest of us.”

  “You can say that again.” Jim Pool turned from the urn with his coffee and joined them. “Actually, Irene, you just think everybody is cooperating because you don’t mind making twenty calls just to find out that the pastor is away on a well-deserved vacation.”

  “Now, wait a minute!” Mrs. Casey was using a tone frequently and effectively used on her many children.

  “He doesn’t mean anything derogatory, Irene.” Koesler was searching for an ashtray for the cigarette he’d just lit. “But you’ll have to admit the kind of statements, comments, and just general cooperation we’ve been getting lately from everyone from the Archbishop to priests and nuns in parishes is unprecedented—at least in my time at the paper.”

  “Well, maybe it’s improved a bit.” Casey did not yield a point lightly.

  “The funny thing is,” added Pool, “I’ll bet the guys at the dailies think they’re the only ones who can get nothing out of the Catholic Church, retroactively. They don’t know that’s just how the Church is.”

  “My guess is…” Koesler had found an ashtray filled with wadded paper, which Casey surreptitiously emptied and replaced near him, “…that these murders of priests and nuns have revived that old ghetto mentality that was a part of being Catholic before John Kennedy became president.”

  “That was before my time.” Pool grinned behind his beard.

  “Sometimes, James,” Koesler crushed out his cigarette and refilled his cup, “I get the impression that everything was before your time. But there was a time, and not that long ago, when American bishops actually could deliver a ‘Catholic’ vote. When Joe McCarthy was a hero simply because he happened to be a Catholic who became politically famous.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding—not McCarthy!” Pool sometimes physically resembled a miniature Karl Marx; ideologically, there was probably little difference between them.

  “Oh, no!” Casey hastily added. “Father’s right. Most of the people who still believe in Joe McCarthy are Catholics.”

  “Well, anyway,” said Pool, “thanks to all the news cooperation, I think we’ve done a damn good job with a really tough story, for a weekly.”

  As Pool made the statement, it reminded Koesler of a remark that had been made to him several months earlier. Koesler had been having lunch at the Detroit Press Club when Nelson Kane of the Free Press had come over to his table. As the priest rose to shake hands, Kane had remarked, “I just wanted to tell you, Bob, that you’re doin’ a helluva job at the Detroit Catholic, all things considered.”

  Koesler had said nothing in return. Indeed, he was still trying to decide whether the statement had been a compliment or an insult. In the absence of any clear indication to the contrary, he leaned toward accepting it as a compliment. That road led to a happier psyche.

  The Detroit News, the old gray lady, was usually about as somber inside as it was outside. But today, there was, for the News, almost a festive air about the city room. For the first time in the string of Rosary Murders, the News had scored a clear scoop on the Free Press. It was enough to lift the spirits of the most entrenched conservative. Warren Reston was the man of the hour. As he strode through the long city room toward his desk, heady comments were hurled from staffers and copyboys alike.

  “Damn good job, Warren!”

  “Way to go, Reston!”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Reston!”

  “Hit ’em again, Babe!”

  It was a nice feeling. But Reston was no cub. He’d been around long enough to know that man does not live by one scoop alone.

  At the same time, he felt he’d made a slight breakthrough. Sometimes a big breaking story like this could get away from you, and you could never quite catch up with it. On top of that, this kid at the Free Press was good. He lacked experience. But he showed a natural feel for news reporting. Reston knew he’d have to rely on every bit of skill he’d built up to stay ahead of that young man.

  Beating the Free Press on the Palmer false alarm was, perhaps, just the break he needed to get back in step with this story. From experience, he knew that any change in the situation would be subtle at first. But if he could just build momentum, he’d be getting the tips from the police to which he’d grown accustomed in the past. Most of them now were going to Cox at the Free Press.

  At the moment, things were looking up, and he felt elated. He anticipated this afternoon’s press conference with renewed confidence.

  Joe Cox could scarcely bring himself to go into work this morning. He’d spent all of yesterday tracking down leads—all of them going nowhere. If he’d been anywhere in the vicinity of the City-County Building… well, life was filled with ifs.

  But he knew well how covetous Nelson Kane felt about the Rosary Murders. He was not eager to encounter Kane under these circumstances.

  So he was surprised when he got to his desk to be met by a benevolent Nelson Kane.

  “You probably feel bad about yesterday.” Kane stood jangling coins in his pants pocket.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, don’t. It was no goof-off. You were doing what you should’ve been doing. God! I know what it’s like going down an unending series of blind alleys. But that’s what this business is all about. Only an absolute idiot thinks you win ’em all.

  “Besides, this wasn’t all that big. Just a priest who happens to be holding a rosary when he dies. The coroner confirmed it was a heart attack. Probably more important to the police than us. The News blew it all out of size ’cause they had a beat on the story.

  “Don’t let this get to you. You’re doing it the way you should. A thing like this, it could drive you to showboating. We didn’t get as far as we have on this story by showboating. What I want from you is solid investigative reporting. Just like you’ve been doing.

  “Are you going to the press conference this afternoon?”

  “There’s no way out of it. I don’t think much’ll happen. But it’s a base that’s gotta be touched.”

  “O.K. But keep me informed on what you find and what directions you’re going in.”

  “Sure. And, Nellie, thanks.”

  Cox felt as if he’d been absolved. Suddenly, the story appeared as fresh and inviting as it had been before Warren Reston had gotten on the scoreboard.

  The press conference, of the variety termed “major,” mainly because of the caliber of the participants, was scheduled for two in the afternoon at the Detroit Institute of Arts auditorium. The location had been selected because it was an easily accessible section of the central city, with adequate parking faculties, and it was large enough to contain the impressive numbers of media and police personnel expected to attend.

  On hand to speak and answer questions were Detroit Mayor Maynard Cobb, Detroit Chief of Police Frank Tany, and Dr. Fritz Heinsohn, a psychiatrist who, in addition to having a lucrative private practice, was on retainer with the police department as its consulting therapist.

  Easily the most interesting of the three was Maynard Cobb, Detroit’s black mayor. If Cobb had been white, he could have been typecast as Gaylord Ravenel, king of the riverboat gamblers. Moderate-sized, trim, light-complexioned, graying at the temples, Cobb seemed to have a perpetual smile playing at the corners of his mouth—as if he were enjoying a private joke to which he would give no one else pri
vy.

  Cobb had grown up in a notoriously tough section of Detroit known as The Black Bottom. He’d worked on Ford’s assembly line, been involved in the infancy of the labor unions, fought for his college degree, and experienced racial prejudice from every imaginable source, from industry to the union hierarchy. Even with his outstanding credentials, he probably would not have been elected mayor had not the black population of Detroit grown to equal that of the ever-diminishing white electorate.

  Cobb was at ease with Detroit. It was his city. And, as an almost purely political animal, he was at home with the white as with the black communities. Throughout this, his first term as mayor, he had made a declining homicide rate one of his top priorities. He was determined to erase Detroit’s image as “Murder Capital of the World.” The Rosary Murders were counterproductive.

  Police Chief Frank Tany was a holdover from the previous administration. Balding, portly, and moderately tall, he preferred conservative business suits to a uniform. His suits always had a homey, slept-in appearance. He was a career cop who had advanced on merit-based promotions from the rank and file. He eschewed politics and was generally respected by the police and public alike.

  Dr. Fritz Heinsohn belonged to the Transactional Analysis school of psychiatry—currently. No form of therapeutic approach seemed to escape Heinsohn’s attention and participation. He was probably the best known psychiatrist in the Detroit area, if only because he was forever appearing in the local media. He offered opinions, character sketches, and probable motivation only in cases of major crime. Not infrequently, he made appeals through the news media for malfeasors to contact him. He would, he averred, care for them, cure them, and render them happy to surrender to authorities. There was no record that any of the accused ever bothered to get in touch with him. But it was an assured grandstand play that never failed to get media exposure for the doctor.

  Today, he was clad in one of the many mod outfits he had been affecting lately, a Bill Blass creation with multicolored silk shirt, open at the throat.

  Members of all the major local news media—TV, radio and print—were present. Local stringers for Time and Newsweek were joined by several out-of-town representatives. Filling out the auditorium were plainclothes and uniformed police, including Lieutenant Koznicki and Sergeant Harris.

  It was now thirty-five minutes into the press conference. Cobb, Tany, and Heinsohn had given their prepared statements. Cobb had effectively insisted on the city’s complete commitment to end these murders and apprehend the guilty party. Tany had presented a skeletal outline of the crimes and some of the leads being followed by the police. He had told those reporters who had been closely following the case little new. Heinsohn had waxed eloquent on the personality type responsible for this sort of serial crime.

  The TV people were packing their gear as the Q and A session began. An uncoordinated kind of order prevailed as one reporter after another rose, identified himself or herself, and directed a question to one or another of the speakers.

  “Emery, Newsweek. Mr. Mayor, what has this investigation done to your budget?”

  “It hasn’t helped. Most of the extra money has gone for overtime for police work.” As a carry-over from his early days, Cobb still placed the accent on the first syllable of the word. “But money is not our prime concern. Protection for some of the finest people who live in this city is.”

  “Sylls, New York Times.” A kind of sacred hush descended on the auditorium, indicative of the awe that a representative of the “newspaper of record” would actually be in Detroit. “That leads to the question of whether the police are doing all they can. Does the force need to be beefed up for this investigation?”

  “I’ll let Chief Tany handle that one.”

  Tany made his distracted way to the mike as if he’d forgotten where he was. “It’s not a matter of numbers so much as quality. We’ve got our very best officers on this one. And, yes, whatever they need, they get.”

  “Reston, Detroit News. Dr. Heinsohn, can you add anything to what you’ve previously told us of the killer’s psychological profile?”

  Heinsohn arrived at the mike shooting his ruffled cuffs. “From the pattern, I’d say a definite schizosociopath. Of course, the most compelling element in this series of murders is the vocation of the victims—priests and nuns. I think, when he’s found, it will turn out that our killer had a most peculiar relationship with his parents, especially his mother. My theory is that he comes from a broken home and is at least a latent homosexual. The victims represent not only religion—usually associated with the mother, but also with authority—thus the parental conflict. Also, I think it’s clear he’s selecting his victims at random. There is not even a vague connection or relationship among any of them. All they have in common is that they represent religion and authority. This lack of relationship is a further indication that the killer is striking out blindly at his mother. And, you will find, his homosexual preference springs from this aversion-attraction relationship with his maternal parent.

  “It’s also my theory that the man desperately wants to stop this aberrant behavior. He has struck out at his mother frequently enough. Now he wants to find some exit. But he’s afraid of the consequences. I’d like him to know, through you ladies and gentlemen of the press, that I am available to act as intermediary. All he need do is contact me—”

  “Oh, God!” Harris’ tone was heavy with disgust. “Here we go on a trip down ego lane. Whaddya say we blow, Walt?”

  “That’s the best thing I’ve heard this afternoon.”

  The size of Harris and Koznicki made their exit a matter of public record. They were followed, shortly, first by individuals, then by small groups of police. Then the media began to leave.

  Heinsohn was so consumed with his appeal to the killer that he did not notice the exodus until it had become a veritable stampede. At that point, he huffed angrily to an abrupt conclusion.

  Mayor Cobb and Chief Tany left the stage. No one thanked the press for attending. For their part, the press thanked no one. It was an ungrateful exchange.

  It was no great wonder that the Koznicki kids were big. Wanda, the lieutenant’s wife, was a large woman. Her five-feet-ten inches accompanied a heavy bone structure. Neither fat nor hefty, however, she was a rather attractive woman. Her black hair was heavily streaked with patches of white. Her eyes framed with lines of concern and laughter, were soft. The kind that were ready to cry with you.

  The Koznickis had finished dinner. Their five children, each formally excused, had left the table. Koznicki and his wife were sitting silently. Koznicki fingered his coffee cup and stared into space. Wanda broke the silence.

  “Pressure getting bad, Walt?”

  “What?” Koznicki, started from his reverie, looked across at his wife. “Oh, no. The pressure’s there, as it always is in a case like this. And there are the special problems we’ve talked about before.

  “No. It’s just that I got the oddest feeling yesterday when that priest died in Dearborn Heights. I’ve never had a feeling like it. I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.”

  “Oh?”

  “I felt anger. I was angry.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what’s been puzzling me. The only reason I can think of is that I was angry because we had a probable Rosary Murder victim, and he was out of my jurisdiction. We’ve had four murders in this series, and each has been within the corporate limits of the city of Detroit. My people have investigated each one. All the assumptions made and theories acted on have been mine.”

  “But, dear, the killer doesn’t have to confine himself to Detroit. For one thing, if he’s got a grudge against the Archdiocese of Detroit, why, good grief, the Archdiocese is…” She was searching for a size.

  “Six counties, one hundred and three cities and townships, total population of more than four and a half million.”

  “My goodness, you’ve been doing your homework. I just meant it’s big.”

&n
bsp; “I know. And, at this point, anything could happen. He may be finished. He may kill someone who is neither priest nor nun. He may kill outside the city of Detroit, and that would involve so many other jurisdictions it might as well take me right out of the case.”

  “Would that be so bad? I mean, this is one of the toughest cases you’ve ever worked on. I’ve felt your frustration with it. Would it be so bad if the buck didn’t stop at you any more?”

  “I don’t know if I can explain it. It’s sort of like a…” He searched for the word he wanted. “... an extrasensory perception. I’ve never felt like this on any other case. It’s as if the killer is trying to communicate with me. That part, at least, of the reason why the killings have not taken place outside the city is because this game of communication is meant to go on between him and me. I can’t explain it, and I certainly can’t prove it. But I feel it. And that, I think, is why I felt so resentful yesterday when a priest who appeared to be his victim died outside Detroit. It was as if what I had assumed to be reality turned out not to be real.”

  After a moment of silence, his wife poured them both a second cup of coffee.

  “Do you understand what I’m talking about?” Koznicki stirred his coffee in a preoccupied manner.

  “Of course, dear. Any mother knows ESP. It’s what tells her to call her children before they’re hurt. To anticipate a problem no one else expects. Things like that.”

  “The thing that disturbs me most is that I understand so little of what he’s trying to tell me.”

  “You will, dear.”

  “And the frustrating thing about it all is that I won’t even know if any of this is true unless we get him and get him alive.”

  “Is there some special problem with taking him alive?”

  “Well, that’s one of the messages I seem to be getting.”

  “What?”

  “That he doesn’t intend to be taken alive.”

  The alarm clock had barely begun to sound when the firm hand of Father Ed Killian snuffed it. Six A.M and all’s well, he thought. He was quick to answer his first demand of the day. Just as he was generally prompt and disciplined in performing all the duties called for by his vocation.