The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  “We lost two more,” said Koznicki, as he tried to shift his bulk into a comfortable position in the small chair.

  “That’s the bad news,” said Harris, stretching his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.

  “Yeah, and it’s bad enough to pretty well cover any good news.”

  “O.K., Walt.” Harris rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know how you feel. Hell, I feel as bad as you do. But don’t forget, we got a wounded killer now. If he tries to get that bullet out of his leg, we’ll get a report on it. If he tries to live with it, it’ll probably kill him. Odds are strong that Bernhard will recover, and he’ll be able to give us the best description of the guy we’ve had so far.”

  “I know, Ned.” Koznicki shook his head. “Our man’s in more trouble than he’s had to this point. But there are four priests and four nuns dead, and he’s been leaving a path for us to follow, and we’ve stumbled pretty badly on that path. Our best assumption so far—and it was given to us—was that he was going to hit yesterday. We defensed the situation, but he still got around us.”

  Harris stood, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began to pace. “I never gave it any thought until this case, but priests and nuns must be the most difficult group of people in the world to protect. I s’pose ministers might fall into the same category, but at least they usually have a family around to insulate ’em a little. Priests and nuns are alone a lot, sort of sitting ducks.

  “But even given that, the amount of planning this guy’s done amazes me. That nun—the second victim, what was her name? Ann, he got her at the rare time she’d be alone in that convent. Then there’s the jogger. Got him at the most deserted point of his run. That’s careful planning. But the priest yesterday takes the cake. Inside one of the homes he always stopped at on Fridays. This is one killer who’s done his homework.”

  “There’s one problem with that line of reasoning.” Koznicki shifted again in discomfort. “Granted, the Catholic clergy and religious are perhaps the most vulnerable group there is, the killer is not necessarily using their vulnerability.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No. And nothing indicates that better than his latest victim. He got her, yes, but she was a Carmelite, a cloistered nun. You see, Carmelites give up a lot, as far as we’re concerned. By our standards, they give up just about everything in the world. Literally. But, as they give up the world, they also grow physically apart from the world. Their very way of life protects them from the world. They’re almost invulnerable from any worldly harm short of a nuclear bomb. The very last place I would’ve expected our man to try to hit would be a Carmelite convent.

  “So what does that do to our theory that he’s methodically executing the most vulnerable group in the world?”

  “Sort of shoots holes in it, I guess…” Harris’ voice drifted off as he noticed an extremely attractive nurse approaching. Ever an appreciator of feminine beauty, an almost beatific smile began to form as she stopped and looked up at him.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but is one of you Lieutenant Koznicki.”

  “Koznicki certainly isn’t my name.” The tall, black officer aimed his most engaging smile at her.

  The kid never quits, thought Kozuicki, with a shake of his head. “I’m Lieutenant Koznicki.”

  “There’s a call for you, Lieutenant. You can take it at the nurses’ station.”

  Koznicki followed her but quickly returned. “Come on,” he said to Harris, “we’ve found a guy who thinks he saw the killer and may be able to identify him.”

  “Hot damn,” exclaimed Harris, “the good guys are winning!”

  The pain was intense, but no more than he deserved, he thought. All the evil that had befallen him since his daughter’s suicide he had accepted as just punishment for his sins with her. And much had happened since Edna’s death. After her suicide, he had lapsed into a state of depression from which he scarcely ever escaped.

  Mary left him. That was only natural. He had not been able to bring himself to tell his wife why their daughter had taken her own life. Nor had he been able to offer his wife any comfort or support in her grief. So filled with self-hate and remorse was he, he could offer no one anything. After nearly a year of experiencing a relationship that deteriorated by the day, Mary had simply packed up and left. Except that his meals were no longer prepared for him nor his laundry done for him, he was insensitive to her absence.

  He had barely held on to his job at the insurance firm. His sales had dropped to the point where he was merely servicing his old clients. He made no new contacts. His employment was not terminated, partly because the manager felt sorry for him, and partly because he had once been the quintessential salesperson, and the manager hung on to the hope that his erstwhile star might recover a talent for sales that was all too rare.

  Now, in his underwear, he sat in the bedroom of his small east-side bungalow, changing the dressing that covered the wound in his right thigh.

  After being shot yesterday, he had found an alley behind a row of stores that fronted on Wyoming. With two small slats and a piece of wire from a crate that had been discarded in the alley, he had made a tourniquet and managed to halt the bleeding. A plastic raincoat he’d packed in the pocket of his jacket covered his legs to knee-length. Near shock at that point, he had needed his every reserve of emotional and physical strength to reach a nearby drugstore, get some medical supplies, make it to his car, and drive all the way home. At that, he was fortunate that the scene around the convent area had been chaotic. No one paid any attention to him as he left.

  It was an ugly wound, though it had pretty well stopped bleeding. Fortunately for him, the bullet had struck in the fleshy rear part of his thigh and passed completely through his leg.

  Once again, he poured iodine into the openings on either side of his leg. He ground his teeth and groaned at the burning sensation. He would have cried aloud but for the neighbors and the certainty that his suffering was further punishment for his sins. He fixed the gauze strips and began wrapping his thigh tightly with an Ace bandage.

  He felt oddly ambivalent about having been wounded. When he had begun planning his revenge, he had been well aware that he might be apprehended, wounded, or even killed somewhere along the line. Of these alternatives, he thought he preferred death. Though whether he lived or died made little difference to him.

  Maybe, he thought, I should never have begun playing these games. Maybe I should just have gotten my revenge in some haphazard way.

  But they played their games with us, with Edna and me, that priest and that nun. If either of them had taken either of us seriously, they could have helped us or sent us to someone who could have helped. It was our last chance. It was Edna’s last chance. Now, that beautiful young life is gone. And there’s not a single legal way of bringing those pious frauds to justice.

  No, what I’ve done is right, he concluded, as he completed the medical work on himself. It’s right in every way. They’re being punished after their own medieval fashion of penance. God knows, I’ve spent enough time planning my revenge. I’ve given the police more help than they deserve. And now, finally, they seem to be beginning to understand.

  It all comes down to this final week. It’s their last chance to stop me. But if I had a last dollar, I’d bet it that they can’t stop me.

  His thick lips, normally turned down at the corners, tensed into a thin straight line. His narrow, dull brown eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to a standing position. The pain was nearly unbearable. But he must force his badly wounded leg to remain mobile. He would need it for at least one more week.

  The two impressively large men strode through the City-County Building’s fifth-floor corridor. Lieutenant Koznicki and Sergeant Harris nodded perfunctorily at fellow officers who passed them in the hall. A scattering of media people had positioned themselves at various locations in the corridor. Word had spread that there had been a new development in the case, so questions trailed after the det
ectives as they passed quickly through toward Koznicki’s office.

  “Anything new, Lieutenant?” “Got a new lead?” “Got a suspect?”

  Koznicki plowed ahead silently, lost in his own thoughts. It was Harris, who, without breaking stride, kept answering, “We’ll have a conference for you soon’s we can.”

  Detective Dan Fallon was emerging from Control just as the two passed. He quickly joined them and, speaking through the side of his mouth as quietly as he could and still be heard by them, said, “Good news and bad news.”

  “Oh?” Koznicki continued his brisk pace.

  “The good news is we got a druggist who claims he saw the killer yesterday. Sold him some medicine and dressings. The bad news is the killer isn’t wearing Bernhard’s slug. We found the bullet embedded in the wall back of the monastery. Ballistics confirms it’s from Bernhard’s revolver. We also got our man’s blood type, A negative, kind of rare.

  “The good news is waiting in your office.”

  With that, the three reached Koznicki’s office. In the waiting room, a small, nervous, balding man with a Hitlerian mustache sat fingering the brim of his hat. Standing protectively next to him was Sergeant Ross. It was as if the little man were a member of an endangered species that Ross was determined to preserve.

  “Mr. Irving Morris.” Ross grasped the shoulder of the man’s coat and almost lifted him to his feet while making the introductions.

  “This is Lieutenant Koznicki, Detective Sergeant Harris, and Detective Sergeant Fallon.”

  Koznicki smiled disarmingly and gestured toward his inner office. “Good to meet you, Mr. Morris. Won’t you step in here?”

  After seating their nervous guest at one side of Koznicki’s desk, the men positioned themselves in a circle around the desk.

  “I understand you have some information for us, Mr. Morris.” Koznicki leaned forward, his massive hands joined, his forearms resting on the desk.

  “Well,” began Morris, still nervously fingering the brim of his hat, “I think so.”

  “Mr. Morris,” interjected Fallon, “owns a small pharmacy on the corner of Wyoming and McNichols, just a couple of blocks from the monastery.”

  “I see,” said Koznicki, looking intently at the small man sitting opposite him. He waited patiently for Morris to continue.

  “Well, it was a little after five yesterday afternoon—maybe closer to five-thirty. Anyway, I was behind the pharmaceutical counter—that’s where we keep the drugs and prepare prescriptions—when this guy came in. The first thing I noticed about him, he was sweating a lot.”

  “That was odd?” asked Harris.

  “It wasn’t that hot. Besides, this was a real sweat I’m talking about. He looked like he was about to go into shock.

  “Well, he started to ask me if I had something for a deep cut. Then he stopped himself and just bought some iodine, some gauze, and a couple of Ace bandages.”

  “You consider that very strange, Mr. Morris?”

  “No… well, yes… I mean, it was something else I noticed. The guy was wearing a raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining. But I could see he’d been bleeding. Where the raincoat stopped, at about his knees, his leg, his trouser leg, was covered with fresh blood. Same for his shoe.

  “Then I heard on TV and read in the paper where this guy who killed the nun had been shot. Well, I added it all up. The shooting about five, just down the block, the condition of this guy, the blood, and I figured this could be him… this could be the guy.”

  “Now, Mr. Morris…” Koznicki leaned even closer to the fidgeting witness, “…this is important, and I want you to think about this question before you answer it. Which leg was bleeding?”

  Morris leaned back in the chair and concentrated so intently that he stopped toying with his hat brim. His eyes closed. His forehead furrowed; he grimaced as if trying to call up a vision.

  After a few moments, he opened his eyes and looked directly into Koznicki’s own. “The right?” he asked, hopefully.

  “Are you sure?” returned Koznicki.

  Another pause.

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Smiles appeared on the faces of the officers.

  Koznicki leaned back. “Very good, Mr. Morris. That’s the one detail we did not release. Officer Bernhard, the policeman who was wounded, was able to give that information to Sergeant Ross here, in the ambulance. After that, Officer Bernhard lost consciousness. No one but the officers of this special detail knew which of the killer’s legs had been hit.”

  He turned to Ross. “Fred, send Sundell in, please.”

  Bill Sundell was the police artist requested by and assigned to Koznicki’s special task force. Solidly built, five-feet-seven, blond, Sundell’s open Nordic face ordinarily wore a bland expression. As he entered Koznicki’s office, Sundell looked inquiringly at Morris, who now appeared inordinately pleased with himself. Something like a poor student who hadn’t expected to pass but somehow had gotten one-hundred percent on the exam.

  “We’ve got a live one for you, Bill.” Koznicki got up, moved to one side of his desk, and motioned Sundell to take the large chair he’d vacated.

  As Sundell arranged his equipment and artist’s supplies, nearly covering the desk’s large surface, Koznicki verbally sketched Morris’ involvement in the case.

  As Koznicki completed his narration, Sundell looked at Morris, smiled broadly, and commented, “I think the police made you up.”

  Bewilderment replaced Morris’ smug look. “Oh, no, I’m for real,” he protested.

  “I know you’re for real, Mr. Morris.” Sundell laughed. “I meant that the police were so desperate for a witness like you that if you hadn’t happened, they’d have had to invent you.”

  Morris relaxed slightly, but his prior confidence did not return.

  “So…” Sundell busily arranged his equipment. “…you saw the suspect up close for several minutes, eh, Mr. Morris?”

  Morris nodded. “Yes.”

  “O.K. Now, I’d like you to close your eyes for as long as it takes you to remember the man’s face clearly. When you’ve got a clear picture, I want you to open your eyes and look at something.”

  Morris obediently closed his eyes in contemplation. When he opened them, Sundell showed him a series of outlines of faces. Every imaginable outline was presented—full, fat, thin, jowled, oval, oblong, rounded. Morris selected the oval outline.

  One by one, the other appropriate facial features were culled by Morris. As the features were selected, Sundell drew them on a series of large white sheets of paper, altering and moderating them at Morris’ direction.

  Many police departments used plastic overlays to build up a picture of a suspect; Koznicki preferred the old-fashioned method. He felt that more nuances could be transmitted through the hands of a sensitive artist.

  Finally, Morris was satisfied with a drawing he claimed was an accurate resemblance of the suspect. Sundell leaned back, ripped the approved sheet from his pad and spread it across the desk as the officers gathered around eagerly.

  They saw an oval face topped by a heavy head of dark hair. Morris had described the hair as disheveled, but Sundell had taken into account the probable recent violent activity, and smoothed it into what it probably looked like when freshly combed.

  The hair was parted on the left, covered the top tip of the ear and would have touched the shirt collar at the nape. The chin was small, firm, not dimpled, with a determined set to it. The ears were quite ordinary, neither especially large nor small. The lips were rather full. Morris had initially insisted on more thinness to the lips, but had finally agreed with Sundell that the suspect’s pain might have drawn his lips taut, particularly since Morris had noticed that when the suspect spoke, his lips had seemed fuller. The nose was small with a pug quality to it. Most impressive were the eyes. Under full eyebrows, the dark eyes were intent, sinister, obsessed.

  In the final analysis, they all knew it was only a drawing. And, like a candid photo, a d
rawing could show only one expression, could suggest only in a static fashion features that changed constantly.

  Odds that this drawing would enable someone out there to make a positive identification were not good. But it was one of the best clues they had so far, and they, of course, were determined to play those odds, no matter how small.

  Koznicki handed the drawing to Fallon. “Dan, have repros made and get them to all the media. I want our man to comprehend some of the dimensions of his mistake yesterday. I want him to hear on the radio that we’ve got his picture. I want him to see that picture on TV and in the papers. I want him to panic just a little bit more. Even if no one can identify him from that picture, I want him to wonder about it. I want to distract him enough to make one more large blunder. And then, dammit, we’ve got him!”

  As Fallon left with the drawing, Koznicki turned to Morris. “Now, Mr. Morris, I want you to know how grateful we are that you volunteered this information. One final favor. I’d like you to go to a special room we’ve set up on this floor for press conferences. Sergeant Harris will do most of the talking at first, but then the reporters will want to ask you some questions. It’s perfectly all right to tell them everything you know. And then, after that, you may go.”

  Morris, whose eye level was somewhere between Koznicki’s belt and chest, looked up with some excited anticipation. “Will I get my picture in the paper?”

  Koznicki smiled down at him. He felt almost like patting the small man’s head. “And on TV.”

  Morris began fingering his hat brim once more. Suddenly, he stopped, and with a look of intense worry, addressed Koznicki again. “This guy…” He looked from side to side nervously. “…this guy—when he finds out I’m the one who told you all this, will he come after me? I mean, I’m just a little guy who owns a drug store. And, in that neighborhood, he could kill me anytime he wants.”