The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  Bob Koesler had been on the basement steps, bringing up a bottle of Cutty Sark. He dropped the bottle. It smashed against the brick floor. Without thinking, he ran toward the sound of the rifle blast.

  From one of the spare rooms on the second floor, Sergeant Dan Fallon emerged and came down the stairs two at a time.

  From the kitchen, Sergeant Fred Ross, who had reentered the rectory from the rear, ran toward the office area, revolver drawn.

  The three converged at Neighbors’ office.

  Koesler looked at what remained of the killer. The priest felt desperately ill. Blood was gushing from a large hole in the man’s chest, the left side of his face was missing, and there wasn’t much remaining of the right side.

  Koesler remembered the tortured voice he had heard in the confessional. He forced himself to kneel at the mangled body. He traced a cross in the air above the still figure, and whispered, “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” And then he added, “Your penance is five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys… I’ll say them for you.”

  He bowed his head, and then rose. In all the confusion, he had forgotten his fellow priest.

  Ted Neighbors was not at his desk. Quickly, Koesler circled the desk. Neighbors was under it. He had lost the Spanish red.

  Sergeants Fallon, Ross and Harris, and Lieutenants Washington and Koznicki were seated around the desk in Koznicki’s office.

  The Rosary Murders case was concluded, the special task force dissolved. Its members would return to their regular departments and precincts. None of them had slept. None had felt the need. One thing had led to another with such rapidity that they were consumed with desire to tie up all the loose ends. Sleep was easy to postpone.

  “Well, Walt,” Harris said, “Your Father Koesler turned out to be a pretty damn good detective.”

  “Yes,” said Washington, “maybe they ought to make murder mysteries required reading in the seminary.”

  “—or even in the force,” Harris interjected.

  Koznicki laughed. “Yeah… Koesler was right on the money—except for the killer’s plan for the tenth murder. And there was no way Koesler could have known that was planned for tomorrow, Easter Sunday.”

  “It was lucky for us that guy left a diary and those detailed blueprints for the murders,” said Fallon. “He called the last one his ‘Resurrection’ …a real weirdo.”

  “Yes,” Washington agreed, “but the research and planning that went into those killings. My God! He spent months plotting, tracking the routines of those people to hit them at their most vulnerable moments.”

  “And,” Ross addressed Washington, “your nun was, indeed, the intended tenth victim.”

  “Makes you wonder,” Washington said, shaking her head. “I spent a lot of time with Sister Goode. She was like a little frightened sparrow. Just dedicated to helping little kids. Probably never hurt a soul. Makes you wonder how anyone could want to kill her.”

  “They were all in the same book,” said Harris. “None of ’em were likely targets for murder. The only thing each of ’em had in common was a name that fit the killer’s game.

  “Which reminds me…” He turned toward Koznicki. “…d’ya think he would’ve tried for Neighbors last night if you hadn’t pulled that reverse around left end?”

  Koznicki pondered momentarily. “I don’t know… I just don’t know. We may never know. According to the timetable he left, he had scheduled the Neighbors killing for 11. Obviously, he discovered or strongly suspected our presence and held off. Whether he would’ve been desperate enough to try it anyway, we’ll never know.

  “Actually, I intended to maintain our secondary plan until 12:32 and then go to ordinary surveillance.”

  Ross looked puzzled. “12:32?”

  “Yes.” The laugh lines at the outer corners of Koznicki’s eyes crinkled. “Father Koesler and I talked about that. He said from all he could gather, the killer’s theology appeared to be very traditional. And he mentioned something I had forgotten: that in the old days of fairly regular abstinence laws, some Catholics in Michigan used to give themselves an extra thirty-two minutes to eat meat, because midnight ‘Sun Time’ didn’t occur until 12:32.”

  “I’m getting happier by the day that I’m a Presbyterian,” said Harris. “Not so many rules.”

  They all laughed.

  “Makes you wonder about the psychopathic mind, though,” said Washington. “Anybody who could be this successful at premeditated murder should’ve been a successful businessman and too busy to muck about in crime.”

  “Robert Jamison? He was very successful in his field—insurance,” noted Fallon. “We talked with his manager early this morning. Jamison had been a top salesperson until recently. Funny, the guy said he almost called us because that composite reminded him of Jamison.”

  “By the way,” Ross said, with a touch of pride, “did you all know that the next name on Brainard’s check list was none other than Robert Jamison?”

  “No kidding!” said Fallon. “Well, then your feeling that we were about to break this case either way was right, eh, Lieutenant?”

  Koznicki’s laugh lines crinkled again. He said nothing. But he was proud that his team’s good hard, thorough, investigative work would’ve led them to the killer regardless.

  “What’s going to happen to Brainard and Schommer?” asked Washington.

  “They’re with Internal Affairs. But it should be an open and shut inquiry. Jamison wasn’t playing games with that .38.” Koznicki looked thoughtful.

  “Actually, there are two ways of looking at what they did. The decision on what course of action to take was entirely theirs.

  “One might argue that when they saw that limping figure approach the rectory, they should have apprehended him before he could possibly become a threat to Father Neighbors.

  “However, one could also argue—and I’m sure they will—that evidence against the guy, at that point, might prove inconclusive. They claim that they had the suspect in view at all times in the doorway and the office—except for a second in the hallway, and they believed if he didn’t strike at the door, he didn’t intend to do so in the hall.” He grimaced wryly. “I’m glad they weren’t mistaken.

  “On the other hand, one could claim that they wanted the opportunity to strike on their own. Only they know.

  “But I’m sure the public’s relief that this murderer was stopped will not escape the attention of anyone, including the guys in Internal Affairs. Schommer and Brainard will probably return to TSD with commendations. And probably rightly so.”

  “O.K., dammit,” Harris said angrily. “But wasting Jamison made it impossible to discover his motive. None of the papers—not even his diary—held a clue as to why he decided to kill those priests and nuns. One corner of this case is gonna be forever open because we can’t find out from him what his motive was.”

  Koznicki had completed clearing out his desk. He stood and looked at the four people with whom he had worked most closely over the past week. He paused when he came, finally, to Sergeant Harris.

  “Well, Ned,” he said, “only in fiction are you assured of knowing everything by the end of the book. In real life, we just have to get used to knowing that in some cases we’ll just never know.”

  The five officers did know that this moment marked the end of the unique relationship of an elite group. It was with a sense of regret that they parted and headed finally for some much needed rest.

  Mackinac Island’s six square miles boasted no mechanized vehicles. Mackinac’s Grand Hotel boasted the world’s longest porch. On this day, it also boasted the presence of Pat Lennon, with whom Joe Cox had been on the phone for nearly half an hour.

  Cox was almost giddy. He had told Pat of how he had tricked Koznicki’s secretary into telling him where the lieutenant was going to be, of the humorous-in-retrospect incident during Good Friday services at St. William’s, of the endless hours of fruitless waiting
, and finally, of the apparent cancellation of the stakeout at eleven-thirty.

  “I was sick—just sick—when I saw the cops pull away. I figured all that time had been wasted. But I had a hunch. Basically, I’d been following Koznicki all day, and I knew where his car was. When he didn’t pull out, neither did I. I stayed with him like a shadow. Out of sight, but glued on.

  “When the thing came down just before midnight, I was right there. Man! You wouldn’t believe that scene! And I was the only newsguy there. Nobody else. I was the only one… Pat? Pat? Are you there?”

  He’d been engaged in a dramatic monologue for so long, he began to wonder if anyone was listening.

  “Yes, I’m here.” Pat listened with a mixture of pride in what he’d accomplished, and amusement at his small-boy enthusiasm. So much for the clichéd cool, sophisticated, unflappable reporter.

  “The cops who shot the guy,” he continued, reassured that someone was listening, “were the two guys from Tactical Services. They used AR-15s with bullets that—you know… sort of tumble. God! You should’ve seen the damage. One shot got him high—practically ripped off his head. The other got him in the chest—ripped almost his entire spine out.”

  “You can spare me some of the details, if you don’t mind.” Pat was glad she hadn’t had breakfast yet.

  “I was the only one who got to talk with the TSD guys. And that’s because I got to them before Internal Affairs put a muzzle on ’em.

  “And the killer’s name is Robert Jamison… remember the nun who wrote ‘R-O-B’ with her own blood before she died? That’s it: ROB for Robert.

  “The cops can’t figure a motive yet. The guy’s daughter committed suicide a few years back. Then his wife left him. He was doing poorly at work. Depressed. But no one’s been able to figure why he did all this… why he took it out this way.

  “Anyway, I called the story in, and guess what: they put out an extra! No one can even remember when the last time the Freep put out an extra. Nellie decided we weren’t gonna let the News get it in print before we did. It was OUR story. And I’ve got a long feature running in tomorrow’s issue, too. Pat, it’s a Pulitzer— everybody here just smells it.

  “Pat?… uh, by the way, how are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll bring back a feature on everything you wanted to know about tourism in northern Michigan.”

  “There’s one more thing I wanted to tell you…” He hesitated. “I think I’m becoming monogamous, dammit.”

  “Don’t worry, lover; I’ll be back before you can say Nelson Kane.”

  Father Paul Pompilio cut a small slice from his hot dog, tapped it several times in the neat glob of catsup on his plate, placed the morsel in his mouth, laid his fork down, and began masticating.

  He and Father Joe Farmer were spending lunch reading the Free Press account of last night’s thrilling ending of the Rosary Murders case. Farmer and Father Koesler had finished eating. Farmer smoked a cigar. Koesler was “smoked out” from last night’s cigar-cigarette marathon with Ted Neighbors.

  “You’re very prominently mentioned in this story, Bob,” said Pompilio, beginning to saw off another bite of hot dog.

  “Yeah,” added Farmer, “your picture is even in the paper.”

  “The next best thing to being canonized,” said Koesler. He tried to decide whether his system could stand a cigarette yet.

  “It says here,” said Pompilio, chewing stoically, “that you were the one who figured the whole thing out.”

  “Yeah,” said Farmer, “I think I’ll start reading murder mysteries so I can get my picture in the paper sometime.”

  “Well, gentlemen…” Koesler hazarded a cigarette. “…all I can tell you is that the Detroit Catholic is going to have just about as interesting an issue Thursday as the Free Press put out today.”

  “The inside story, eh, Bob?” Farmer winked at Koesler.

  “Did you notice that the police were unable to come up with a motive for the killings?” Pompilio asked.

  “Yeah,” Farmer commented, “that’s almost as bad as one of your whodunits without an ending.”

  “Or,” said Koesler, “amplexus reservatus.”

  Both Farmer and Pompilio looked up from their papers inquiringly.

  “Withdrawal from sexual intercourse without ejaculation,” explained Koesler.

  Farmer and Pompilio returned to their newspapers, each distracted by the new thought.

  Koesler had resolved that it was necessary for him to continue to observe and protect the seal of confession, even now. If he were to make public what he knew, a lot of curiosity would undoubtedly be satisfied. But to what purpose? And prospective penitents, poor sinners of the future, would be uncertain that their sins would be protected from posthumous revelation. It was crucial, he decided, not to jeopardize something so historically sacred. The seal was the seal, dead or alive.

  “Say, Pomps… Bob…” Farmer announced, “…I just heard a new one—true story—from Pete Badoglia, who just came back to Grand Rapids from being an air force chaplain.”

  Good Lord, not another story, Koesler groaned inwardly.

  “Seems over in Vietnam, Pete was trying to get this one air force officer to go to confession, and the guy just wouldn’t. Finally, it’s time for the guy to be sent back to the States. So he comes to Pete and says now he’s ready for confession.

  “Pete asks him why now—after all, he’s gone through all those dangerous missions and wouldn’t go to confession, why, now that he’s being sent to the safety of home, does he want to go to confession?

  “The guy says he’s got it all figured out. He says he’s watched the other pilots. The ones who go to confession are shot down in action. Probably, he figures, ’cause they’re ready to go. So, he figures that if he’s not ready to go, he won’t get shot down.

  “So, Pete tells him, ‘Get outta here. You’re… you’re too dumb to…’” Farmer, as usual, was losing total control. “ ‘…too dumb to… commit a mortal sin!’”

  “Too dumb to what, Joe? Too dumb to what?” Pomps had lost another punch line.

  My God, thought Koesler, a clean joke. What’s this world coming to?

  Monsignor William Danaher had his peculiar opinions about the Rosary Murders, and nothing that had happened or been written in the past week had made him change his mind.

  Motive! he grumbled to himself, as he sat in the confessional in his otherwise empty church in an eastern suburb of Detroit. So, no one could guess at the motive, eh?

  Well, he knew the motive. It was the scandalous behavior of today’s priests and nuns. Priests who get into marches and boycotts instead of being on duty in their parishes, instead of ringing doorbells, bringing in the sheep. Priests who refuse to wear their clerical garb and who won’t listen to the pope, who has the overall view of suffering humanity. Priests who play fast and loose and won’t pray and lose the faith and leave the priesthood.

  And nuns who abandon the classrooms and take jobs that any layperson could do. Nuns who shun their habits, sanctified over centuries. Nuns who can’t be distinguished from laywomen. Nuns who wear miniskirts.

  Where was the respect that the laity once had for their clergy and religious? That’s where it was: the reverence and respect had turned into a series of murders.

  Monsignor Danaher had never enjoyed many penitents. Even in the old days when many Catholics went to Confession monthly—even weekly—there had never been much of a line waiting at Danaher’s box. He was, by popular consensus, a demanding confessor who asked embarrassing questions, yelled a lot, and gave out tough penances.

  Moderately tall, lean, silver-haired, he appeared to be the essence of the ascetic man of God. He was what was termed a ‘one-point kneeler,’ a rare breed. When he knelt, only his knees touched. He didn’t rest his elbows, nor did he lean back to rest his rear on the edge of the pew.

  Now nearing retirement age, Danaher welcomed the thought. These young whippersnappers had built a new Church. Not Catho
lic… more like Protestant. There were no more black and white unequivocal moral laws. Well, they could damn well live with it. He would take his modest savings and pension and retire to the home he had purchased in Sun City. He had carefully planned for that day of retirement. Putting away a little after each Christmas collection, special gifts on the occasion of being transferred from one parish to another, and skimming a bit from his regular salary.

  In the beginning, he had never planned a retirement. But, as the Church changed, he longed to get away from this new monstrosity as soon as possible.

  It was now nearly 9 P.M. Time to lock up. He opened his breviary. Time to say some of the Divine Office before closing shop.

  Someone entered the penitent’s side of the confessional. Monsignor Danaher snorted. Wouldn’t you know! Wait till the last minute to come to confession! Get everything else—all the important things—out of the way, then come and make peace with God.

  Danaher turned off the small light in his confessional, closed the door to the unoccupied confessional and waited—but not long. “All right, all right, get on with it!”

  Silence.

  “We haven’t got all night, y’know.”

  Silence.

  “Are you going to begin?”

  “I don’t know how to begin. This is the hardest confession of my life, Father.”

  “Very well, but, come along now.”

  “This has been going on for years. I’ve been living a lie. Going to confession and not confessing all. I was always so ashamed.”

  “What is it, man? Get it out!”

  “It’s… with my daughter. I don’t know how it began. But I haven’t been able to stop, and I haven’t been able to tell anybody, an—”

  “Incest!” Danaher’s was the voice of the condemning angel. “Incest? No one has ever confessed such a heinous sin to me before. It is beneath a Catholic man.”

  “I know that, Father. Now I can see that I need help.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “A…a few years, Father.”

  “God have mercy! How many times a week or month?”