“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.”
Tany exited, thinking of that “routine investigation” and the number of men and women of the department who had spent countless hours of overtime on this case, who had voluntarily made this case part of their lives.
Whatever would happen, he was enormously proud of them.
Officers David Brainard and Thomas Schommer occupied adjacent desks in the special task force’s Control room. Members of the Tactical Services Department, Detroit’s version of SWAT, neither of them was happy with his assignment to the task force. A desk job, particularly the tedium of an investigation, was not what they had bargained for when they had joined the police department fresh from Vietnam.
Members of the TSD were taught a jargon that helped them explain their singular work to others. They were an “interventionary” department, used in cases of particular “danger or stress.” They had the “capability” of entering a building with “blocked accesses,” the “capability” of using “special weapons,” and were “capable of chemical munitions delivery.”
In reality, the TSD more nearly resembled a paramilitary force with the capability of using almost every weapon imaginable and an inclination to do so. Even the name, Tactical Services Department, was a euphemism. It hardly suggested the mayhem that was inherent in such a force.
Generally, the self-image of TSD members was far from that of a patrolman directing traffic. It was even far from that of an officer in a mobile unit, for whom a call to resolve a “family dispute” could easily be fraught with danger.
TSD officers were geared for danger and violence almost exclusively. There were occasional stretches of time when they were rarely called upon. But when they were called, they could be quite positive there would be plenty of action.
So, when Brainard and Schommer had been tapped for duty on the task force, they first had been surprised, then disappointed. Since joining this special unit, they had been favorably impressed with the thoroughness and professionalism of the force. Also on the positive side was their enduring self-discipline. It ensured that their work was thorough and painstaking, even if unenthusiastic.
However, they sorely missed the excitement and constant threat of imminent danger that they were accustomed to in their own department—one of the few divisions that had successfully resisted the inclusion of women.
One of the hardest facts for Brainard and Schommer to swallow was that a woman was in charge of this Control Room.
There was no denying that Lieutenant Marjorie Washington was qualified in leadership. She had been in systems management at General Motors before joining the police department. And, like all women filling jobs formerly the exclusive domain of men, she was several times better than any male counterpart, simply because she had to be. Asking machos like Brainard and Schommer to accept direction from a female was, indeed, asking much. Only their devotion to discipline and the fact that this tour of duty was temporary had softened the blow.
This morning’s work had begun with a briefing by Lieutenant Washington. The petite, middle-aged black woman with serious gray eyes and firm, no-nonsense mouth, was at this moment continuing her briefing. The subject was the method of operation to be used the coming Friday in providing protection to all Detroit-area priests and nuns. Almost everyone on this special task force would be a part of this duty, and many of them would brief the additional police personnel who would be added to the task force for that one day.
Lieutenant Washington had spoken at length about the department’s double failure at providing protection the previous Friday. The one failure she attributed to the officer’s decision not to follow what he knew was sound police procedure. He knew it was potentially dangerous to allow his subject to enter private homes alone and without reconnaissance. But, because the subject had insisted, the officer had permitted him to go unprotected into a private home; thus the ensuing homicide.
The other failure was the result, she stressed, not so much of poor but of incomplete procedure. That officer had done an excellent job of setting up surveillance and establishing a sound perimeter of protection. However, he had failed to communicate his orders personally to all in the house, because the subjects were cloistered women. That failure cost one of those women her life.
“Learning from these cases,” Lieutenant Washington said, “we will stress two things: first, insist on sound police procedures. No matter what objection the subject may raise, sound procedure is to be carried out at all times.
“Second, be thorough. Note every item on the check list you’ll be given. Make certain that each and every one of your subjects—and this is even more important if you have been assigned more than one subject—is aware of every detail of how you will work together.
“The tired old motto, better safe than sorry, is a weak way of paraphrasing what I’ve said.
“There are two further items I want to call to your attention and emphasize. You all know that in each previous murder, the killer has wrapped a small black rosary around the victim’s left wrist. It is heavily probable that he will not change his M.O., even now.
“Your subjects, therefore, will be in greatest danger when others can have close access to them. For instance, if your subject is a priest, rehearse with him the procedure that has him leaning forward when he opens the confessional slide door, so that he is out of a line of fire. He is not to sit upright until he is certain the person is an authentic penitent making a legitimate confession.
“Finally, the killer’s M.O. clearly indicates that he has carefully cased the routines and habits of his victims and has planned his attacks to take full advantage of these routines. You must be equally prepared. Go over every detail of your subject’s schedule for Friday. Learn his or her routine activities. Familiarize yourself with Good Friday services he or she will either conduct or attend. Above all, win your subject’s confidence so that he or she will promptly inform you if any of them notices anything out of the ordinary.
“Now, are there any questions? Karnego?”
A tall, well-groomed, uniformed policewoman stood. “About those cloistered places. I think there are some for men as well as women. How are they going to be covered?”
“O.K. By prior agreement, each and every such establishment within the city of Detroit will permit the presence of at least one officer, depending on the number of subjects in the establishment, for the entire day. A man for the males, and a woman for the females, of course.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Brainard leaned close to Schommer and said, “I ain’t never seen a nun who turned me on.”
“You haven’t looked lately, Dave,” Schommer replied.
Washington waited until the laughter and comments subsided. Then she asked, “Any more questions? Papkin?”
A rather portly, middle-aged uniformed policeman stood. “The nuns I remember from school… they… they…” He searched for a diplomatic term. “…they had it their way.” The audience broke up. Even the normally staid Lieutenant Washington grinned and shook her head knowingly. “I mean,” Papkin continued as the noise subsided, “I can’t remember an argument I ever won with a one of them. Matter of fact, now that I think of it, I don’t remember ever having enough nerve to argue. I mean, how do you turn that around for one day?”
There was still a small measure of snickering.
“O.K.,” said Washington. “Seriously, that’s liable to be one of your major problems. And it’s not just the nuns who may resist your protection. As we learned Friday, the priests can be stubborn as well. The best I can tell you is to think how you’d feel if your subject gets his or her own way and becomes the next victim. You think about that long enough, and you’ll keep a tight rein no matter what it takes.
“Any more questions?”
No hand was raised. “O.K., you’ve got your assignments. Let’s get crackin’!”
There was modified chaos in the room as some officers resumed their work routine and others began preparing
to leave.
Brainard and Schommer separated stacks of papers. Some they put in their desks. Others they stuffed into briefcases.
“Where you going?” asked Brainard.
“A briefing at the twelfth precinct. You?”
“Brief the thirteenth. It ain’t much, but at least it gets us outta this room.”
“Yeah, I was beginning to be a launching pad for spider webs. God, it’ll be good to get back to the action when this is over.”
“Won’t be long now. Hang in there, pardner.”
Brainard folded his computer readout sheet of possible suspects. The next name he would have checked out, had he had time for one more call, was that of Robert Jamison.
It had been a long, tiring day for Father Robert Koesler. Besides putting the April seventh issue of the Detroit Catholic to bed, he’d gotten a call just before noon from Patrolman Lou Jackson. The officer said he’d been assigned to be with Koesler throughout Good Friday and asked for an appointment that afternoon.
Koesler explained how very busy he was. The officer was insistent. Koesler gave up and made an appointment with him for two.
They met in the lobby of the paper. Koesler’s first impression was that Jackson could play linebacker for the Detroit Lions. From within that massive black body, a row of gleaming white teeth smiled at the priest. Well, thought Koesler, if you have to be protected, why not by the Colossus of Rhodes?
Yet, though no one else could know it, Koesler believed himself to be the least likely potential victim in the archdiocese. If he’d wanted to kill me, he thought, he surely would’ve done it in the confessional. I’m the only one who’s safe.
It was almost like being vaccinated.
Koesler’s afternoon alternated between trips to the editorial room to read page proofs and returns to his office, where sat officer Jackson, pen poised over notebook. The afternoon was otherwise filled with countless, “Now, where was I—” questions, as the policeman gradually extracted in minute detail everything Koesler thought he would be doing or would happen to him from midnight to midnight of Good Friday.
During the protracted interview, Koesler reflected that if every Detroit priest was going to have a cop babysitter, and he assumed they were, Good Friday would at least be a day of unprecedented good behavior on the part of Detroit’s clergy.
Then, there was Joe Farmer, the unsilent guest at every Wednesday evening dinner. Pomps with his molasses-slow method of eating, and Joe with his tired, if slightly risqué, jokes.
Dinner had been followed by Lenten services featuring Joe’s borrowed-from-St.-Alphonsus sermon, “Jesus Died for Your Sins.” It was heavy in blood and gore, with graphic detail. Koesler wondered whether, in either delivering or absorbing a sermon like that, it helped to be either a sadist or a masochist.
Pompilio, Farmer and Koesler were now seated in the rectory living room. Farmer, as was his wont, had, upon entering the room, immediately flipped on the TV. At the moment, he was telling a series of rather stale jokes. The combination of TV noise and Farmer’s habit of breaking himself up at his own punch lines forced Pompilio into a series of antiphonal questions.
Farmer: “Did you hear the one about the lady who kept coming to church in low-cut dresses. Plenty of decolletage!” He gestured to indicate just how plenty. “Most of the guys were paying more attention to her than to the sermon. So, one Sunday, the pastor is waiting for her outside church. When she comes up, sure enough, lots of chest.” Another gesture to indicate just how lots. “So the pastor says, ‘Sorry, but you can’t come in here like that.’ She says, ‘What do you mean I can’t come in here? I’ve got a divine right.’ He says, ‘You’ve got…’” Semistrangled laughter from Farmer. “‘…you’ve got…’” Laughter coming almost in gasps. “ ‘…you’ve got a great left, too, but you still can’t come in here!’”
Pompilio: “Got a great what, Joe? Got a great what?”
Bored and bone-tired, Koesler paged through the TV Guide to ascertain what program they were barely watching. It was “Eight Is Enough.” He stubbed out a cigarette and swished Scotch-on-the-rocks around in his glass. “Eight Is Enough.” His mind began to wander. Four priests and four nuns murdered. Yes, eight is enough. Maybe the special police protection would prevent any more murders. Maybe not. The thought of the killings, several of the victims Koesler’s close friends, depressed him. The mental battle over whether the Seal of the Confessional applied to the killer’s admission and avowal had been fought and refought, always with the same conclusion. Each successive agonizing conflict had racked him.
His eye drifted down the TV listings. He found nothing that interested him until he noted a late-night showing of “The List of Adrian Messenger.” Years before, he’d seen the movie. Still earlier, he’d read the book. He could scarcely remember the plot. He did recall the film’s special feature had been the cameo appearances of lots of disguised stars. And he remembered George C. Scott’s preoccupation with a list of names. That’s how he’d solved the murders, wasn’t it…
He sipped the diluted Scotch. Lists. Solved the murders. Certainly the police must have every conceivable kind of list for the Rosary Murders. Everything from manual to computer listings. Their lists hadn’t solved the crimes. Could it be possible the police had looked at their lists so long they were not seeing clearly?
Could it be possible they wouldn’t know what they were looking for—even if they saw it? Maybe if he tried his luck with some lists…
He was about to dismiss this line of thought, when he considered the alternative: sitting here with a partially watched TV program and Joe Farmer’s humor.
Not much of a choice.
Careful to take his drink with him, Koesler excused himself and climbed the stairs to his room.
Not willing to rely entirely on memory, he pulled out back issues of the Detroit Catholic, where facts and commentary on each murder could be found. Similar information could be found in any other periodical, local or national, but, being the editor, copies of the Catholic were right at hand.
Logic led him to begin by listing the names of the victims in the order of their deaths.
Father Lawrence Lord
Sister Ann Vania
Remembering that she had had another religious name, he added, “Paschal.”
Father Michael Dailey
Mother Mary Honora
Father Edward Killian
Sister Marie Magdala Connors
Father Harold Steele
Sister Margaret Mary of the Holy Martyrs
He lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nostrils, sipped his Scotch, and looked at the list, waiting for an inspiration that might be divine intervention.
Nothing came. He tried listing the manner of deaths.
Life-support system disconnected
Drowning
Shot—.38 caliber gun
Stabbed
Shot—.38-caliber gun, hollow-nosed bullet
Shot—.38-caliber gun, hollow-nosed bullet
Shot—.38-caliber gun, hollow-nosed bullet
Shot—.38-caliber gun, hollow-nosed bullet
Nothing.
Obviously, the killer had alternated between priests and nuns. There was no point in making a list that read, priest-nun-priest-nun, etc.
He decided to try listing the institutions where the victims had been killed.
St. Mary’s Hospital
St. Ursula’s convent
St. Gall’s
IHM House
St. Olaf’s
St. Camillus Hospital
Bessie Gate’s home, St. Enda’s parish
Monastery of Mary, Mother of Divine Charity
Two hospitals, two convents, a monastery, three parishes.
There might have been some pattern here, but if there were, he couldn’t see it.
He considered that freshening his drink might freshen his mind or put him to sleep. Either eventuality seemed desirable.
Back down in the living room, he droppe
d an ice cube in his glass and added Scotch. Pompilio and Farmer were convulsed over Joe’s latest attempt at humor.
“How’re things going, Bob?” asked Pompilio, totally unaware of what Koesler was up to.
“Slow,” answered Koesler, giving his listings project an undeserved speed.
Back in his room, he sat studying his lists. He tried a geographical inventory.
Central city
Near-east-side
Far northwest
Central city
Far east-side
Near-east-side
Core city
Northwest
Zilch.
He pushed his chair back from the small desk, closed his eyes and let the data tumble about in his mind.
Suddenly, his eyes opened, slitted for a moment, then closed again. After a few moments, he reopened his eyes, pulled close to the desk, and restudied the lists. He grabbed a pencil and began to underline words, occasionally shaking his head as if his system were not working. He stopped, stared at the total of his efforts, then suddenly returned to underlining certain words, decisively.
When he had completed his task, a sense of exhilaration almost overcame him. He looked at his work with a mixture of incredulity and certainty. After another moment’s thought, he picked up his copy of The Catholic Directory and Guide for the Archdiocese of Detroit and began to page furiously through it.
Wanda Koznicki was knitting, mostly just to keep her hands busy. Her gaze kept darting to her husband seated across from her in their home’s compact den. He was not reading the newspaper that lay open on his lap. Brahms’ Third Symphony, one of their favorites, was playing on the stereo. Walter Koznicki was lost either in that or in thought.
“What is it, Walt?” She paused in her knitting.
“Oh.” He seemed startled. “It’s just this case.” He didn’t have to tell her which case. “If all our assumptions prove to be true, the killer may strike for the final time just two days from now. There are times when I just feel helpless.”
The Rosary Murders Page 25
