Marked for Murder

by William Kienzle

  “Do you have to put it just that way?”

  “Tender? Don’t tell me you can’t believe a priest would do this.”

  “Well, I’d prefer to think a priest didn’t do it. But if it’s believing in Father Kramer or you, you know whose team I’m on.”

  “That’s better.”

  Tully backed the Pontiac into the side drive so, should the necessity arise, he could get out in a hurry.

  Before leaving the house, he had turned the thermostat down. The first thing he did on reentering was to readjust it upward to sixty-eight degrees. “God, this has been a cold day! First the ice rink, now the house.”

  Alice came up from behind and threw her arms about his waist. “I’ll warm things up for you, lover. Besides, for being such a good sport today, you deserve a good long back rub.”

  “I’d hate to tell you what part of my back needs the rub.”

  “I know. I watched you fall on it this afternoon.”

  The phone rang.

  As Tully reached for the receiver, he said, “If this call’s for me, I got a hunch I’m gonna need a rain check on the back rub . . . dammit.” He had made it crystal-clear to his squad that when he was off duty he was to be contacted only for puzzles, not for platters.

  “Zoo? Mangiapane.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tully had recognized his voice.

  “Zoo, all hell broke loose this afternoon.”

  Tully said nothing. Someplace down the line he would have to program Mangiapane to get right to the point.

  The silence told Mangiapane there would be no response. So he proceeded. “He did it again, Zoo. Kramer.”

  “What?”

  “Kramer did it again. This afternoon. Just like the other ones.”

  “That’s impossible. Kramer’s locked up.”

  “No he ain’t, Zoo. Somebody went bail for him yesterday.”

  “Jesus! I didn’t know.”

  “You weren’t here yesterday.”

  “Who put up the cash?”

  “Guy named Murphy ... the one with the Cadillac dealership.”

  “I know who Murphy is. Now, take it slow, from the top”

  “Okay, Zoo. Dom Salvia took the call about six this evening. Some broad calling in a homicide. Friend of hers. Part of their routine is they check on each other. They’re both hookers, Zoo. So when she checks she finds the other hooker dead in a bathtub.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “We haven’t found any yet. We’re still canvassing the neighborhood.”

  “How’d you make Kramer?”

  “Same M.O., Zoo. Exactly the same.”

  “Everything?”

  “Strangled, gutted, and branded.”

  “Same brand?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Damn! thought Tully. Where the hell does he keep the goddam thing? “Who’s the victim?”

  “This you ain’t gonna believe. One Mae Dixon.”

  “Mae Dixon.” Pause. “Isn’t . . . isn’t that the broad from last Sunday?”

  “That’s the one, Zoo. The same broad and the same place where we found Kramer last week.”

  “Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch,” Tully breathed with fervor. “What chutzpah! Same broad, same place. Well, that ties it. Let’s go get him.”

  “Already have, Zoo. He’s right back where he was yesterday. We got the judge to revoke bail.”

  “Good, good. Good! This time you got the goddam branding iron?”

  “Negative, Zoo. We couldn’t find it. And, just like last week, when we read him his rights and told him he could remain silent, damned if he didn’t go that route again. He hasn’t said a word, let alone tell us where the iron is.”

  “Then start over. Get the techs to go over the car again. Maybe this time he left it in there.”

  “Right, Zoo.”

  “I’ll be right down.” Tully hung up and turned to Alice.

  “I could tell from your end of the conversation. Kramer did it again?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How come you didn’t know he got out on bail?”

  “I probably would’ve heard about it if I’d been in yesterday or today. Too bad. I sure as hell would’ve put a tail on him. We’d have got him bare-naked. But that’s okay; we got him now.” Tully was struggling into his overcoat.

  “You’re going down to headquarters?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “From the look on your face, you’re going to enjoy this as much as you would’ve liked the back rub.”

  “Apples and oranges, honey. But this ain’t gonna take all night. I’ll be back in a while. Maybe I’ll still have a chance to cash in that rain check.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “We got him, Al.” Tully opened the front door and paused a moment before leaving. “Iron or no iron, this is the final nail in the coffin.”

  He fairly levitated as he left the house.

  33

  Father Koesler could not help feeling uncomfortable. He was not the type to impose on anyone. Yet here he was waiting to see Inspector Koznicki on a busy Monday morning.

  Koesler would not have dreamed of calling for an appointment had it not been for last night’s jolting news. For the third Sunday this month, the top story on radio and television had been the brutal murder of a Detroit prostitute. And for the second consecutive Sunday, Father Richard Kramer was accused of the crime.

  Koesler had reached Koznicki rather late last night. The inspector had been his usual courtly self and graciously agreed to meet with Koesler at headquarters at ten o’clock the next morning.

  After setting up the appointment with Koznicki, Koesler had phoned Sister Therese. As he had anticipated, she was devastated. She had seen Kramer only briefly after his release on bond. She had wanted him to go into seclusion somewhere to regain his energy and to avoid any further notoriety.

  But he wouldn’t hear of it. Over her strenuous objections he had returned to Mother of Sorrows, even though the chancery had sent another priest to perform the weekend liturgies. Kramer had gone into his own form of seclusion, unfortunately right into the heart of the maelstrom. Even though he put himself in the exact spot where anyone who wanted to could find him, he wanted to be alone. So she had complied and hadn’t heard from or about him again until Sunday night when all hell had broken loose.

  Koesler had talked to her at length, reassuring her and, finally, convincing her to stay at least temporarily with her parents, who lived in the far suburban community of Waterford Township. With Sister Therese safely tucked away, Koesler could turn full attention to the considerable mess in which Dick Kramer was mired.

  As he waited for Inspector Koznicki—he was early for his appointment—he wondered again at the relatively small office space allotted to the head of a division as vital as homicide. Koznicki’s bulk made the office seem even smaller than it was. On the other hand, Walt Koznicki was not the type to stand on ceremony, demand perks, or expect obeisance. He was an extremely hard worker, who, if not in love with his work, respected its significance.

  The door to Koznicki’s office opened and a detective Koesler had never met stepped into the hall. Noticing the priest, he greeted him with a smile that hadn’t been there previously. Koesler was used to the automatic deference frequently accorded the clergy.

  “Father . . .” Koznicki created the impression he had nothing more important to do this busy Monday morning than give valuable time to the priest. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “I’m early.” He knew Koznicki knew he was always early.

  “Well, come in.” Koznicki stood aside so the priest could enter. They were both large men, though Koznicki outweighed Koesler by forty or fifty pounds.

  Koesler took a chair near the desk. It was warm. Must have been used by the detective who had just exited. When Koznicki crossed behind the desk and was seated, the room seemed so crowded Koesler thought a disinterested third party might find the scene ludicrous. He decided from here on in he would have
greater empathy with sardines.

  “Tragic, tragic.” Koznicki folded his ham hands on the desktop and studied Koesler with great evident concern.

  “According to this morning’s paper, Father Kramer is back in jail . . . is that true, Inspector?”

  “Yes, sad to say, it is. We had to ask the judge to revoke bond. He really had no alternative.”

  “I didn’t even know he was out of jail.”

  “Understandable. It was approximately two days after bond was set that the bail was made. In a situation such as that, usually there is little publicity. Notoriety generally is attached to extremely public events like an arraignment or a preliminary examination, as happened in the case of Father Kramer. But unless Father Kramer, or someone else who happened to know, told you, more than likely, as happened here, you would have no way of knowing.

  “By the way, Father, something that has been puzzling us is the intervention of Mr. Murphy in posting the bond for Father Kramer. None of us can make the connection. And Murphy is saying nothing, particularly after yesterday’s events. Do you have any notion as to why?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Jim Murphy is a friend of Monsignor Meehan’s.”

  Koznicki’s raised eyebrows asked about that connection.

  “You see,” Koesler explained, “Monsignor Meehan was once Father Kramer’s pastor and, at another time, he was mine. For the past few years, Monsignor’s been in nursing care at the Little Sisters of the Poor. I visit him pretty regularly. We’ve talked about Father Kramer, especially lately with all the trouble. Monsignor wanted Father out of jail very, very much. And the Monsignor has been a priest for more than fifty years. He knows so many people, from the very wealthy to the poorest of the poor. I know he is a friend of Jim Murphy’s. Without even calling Monsignor, I’m positive that’s how the bail was made. But if it’s important, I could easily check.”

  Koznicki waved a hand. “It was only a matter of interest.”

  It happened with great infrequency these days, but just now Koesler wanted a cigarette. “How bad is it, Inspector?”

  “It could scarcely be worse. Everything was exactly the same as in the previous two homicides. But we have not recovered the knife that was used. Since the original has been retained as evidence, the supposition is that the weapon used yesterday was discarded afterwards.”

  “How can they be sure Father Kramer did it?” It was a foolish desperate question.

  “Because they are sure Father committed the first two murders. Because the judge found probable cause to hold him over for trial for the first two murders. And because the modus operandi yesterday was identical to the others. If only the murder had been committed while he was still in custody. But . . .” Koznicki turned palms up in a gesture of hopelessness.

  “But couldn’t someone else . . .?”

  “No one knows all of the details of the other murders. We have held back many of the particulars from the media so that only we and the killer would know the whole story, as it were. Thus, should someone other than the real murderer attempt what we call a copycat crime we would recognize the difference. But yesterday, every detail of the previous two was observed.” Koznicki paused. “Do you intend to continue your . . . special interest in this case?”

  “He didn’t do it. Of that I am certain.”

  “Not too long ago, I would have tended to agree with you.”

  “But now you don’t?”

  Koznicki shook his head. “However, I would not attempt to deter you.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “In whatever way I can. But I can offer you no hope.”

  “I need a lot of help. At this point I don’t even know where to begin.”

  Koznicki considered several possible suggestions. “I think it might be good for you to talk with our medical examiner, Dr. Moellmann. Have you ever met him?”

  Koesler shook his head. “No, but I certainly have read about him. Extremely interesting person, as far as I can tell.”

  “After you speak with him, you may change your mind about pursuing this case. And it is possible that would not be undesirable. Supposing I send Officer Mangiapane over with you, and while you are on your way, I will call and prepare Dr. Moellmann to talk with you. He would not feel free to discuss the details of this case with you unless he has authorization from me.

  “In fact, Lieutenant Tully is presently there.” Koznicki glanced at his watch. “They should be finishing the autopsy on the Dixon woman about now. This would be a most appropriate time.”

  Koesler got up to leave, then paused. “One more thing, Inspector. I have the impression”—he did not think he needed to mention that Sister Therese was his informant—“that Father Kramer intended to spend the weekend at his rectory. I suppose there was no witness to confirm this.”

  “There was a priest sent by the chancery to say Mass, since no one thought Father Kramer would be available to do so. But the substitute priest left immediately after the last Mass early Sunday afternoon.”

  “But Father Kramer did stay at his rectory? That’s where he was arrested?”

  “Yes.” Pause. “There is one more thing.” Koznicki seemed ill at ease. “He was intoxicated.”

  Koesler’s initial reaction was dismay. Clearly it was a measure of Kramer’s dependency on alcohol that he would drink yesterday of all days. Koesler was dismayed and depressed at how much Father Kramer needed treatment, specifically the treatment to be found only at Guest House. And how very remote was the possibility of that happening now. First, Father Kramer would have to be cleared of these charges of murder. And after yesterday, that task had been complicated enormously.

  It was Koesler’s secondary reaction that caused him to object strenuously: “But if Father Kramer was intoxicated, he couldn’t possibly have committed that murder!”

  From what Kramer had described as a Sunday routine of drinking until stupefied, Koesler’s concept was of a man so drunk he would lie wherever he dropped. And he could not understand why Inspector Koznicki couldn’t immediately understand this.

  “Oh, no, Father,” Koznicki insisted, “such is by no means always the case. People who are intoxicated can and do perform all sorts of actions. They drive—often successfully; sometimes, tragically, not. They work through an afternoon and evening after drinking too much at lunch. It goes on and on. Intoxicated people are, simply, unpredictable. Some collapse and sleep it off. Others go on with daily activity, sometimes impaired, sometimes more keenly. In fact, one might argue that, not infrequently, drink takes away natural inhibitions. Thus, if Father Kramer were intent on committing such a heinous crime, alcohol might repress his conscience.”

  Koesler considered this. And, in the end, rejected it. There was, of course truth in what the inspector said. But none of what he said fit Dick Kramer. The impossibility was that Kramer ever would be more “intent” on murdering someone. Not even possibly.

  “Well,” Koesler said, “if I’m going to begin, I’d better get over to the medical examiner’s office. And . . . thanks for your time and direction.”

  As Koesler left his office, Koznicki prepared to make calls—first Mangiapane as an escort, then Moellmann to prepare him for the visit. He watched as his priest-friend disappeared around a corner, and wondered what it would take before Koesler would be forced to abandon his quest—which, at this point, really was an impossible dream.

  34

  This was Father Koesler’s first visit to the Wayne County Morgue. As familiar as he was with downtown Detroit he had never paid any attention to the squat square building tucked in between Bricktown and Greektown. Nor had he ever adverted to the grisly procedures that were the regular course of business there. Now that officer Mangiapane had ushered him into the vast gray interior of the main floor, consideration of what was going on downstairs was inevitable. And creepy.

  Mangiapane introduced Koesler to the receptionist, who gave him a genuine, if surprised, smile. Priests were not frequent visitors at the morgu
e. Once in a long while, one might come in to identify a corpse. But even with some dispute among Catholic theologians as to when the soul departs the body, all would agree that the morgue was beyond the purview of the Sacrament of the Sick.

  “Inspector Koznicki just phoned, Father,” the receptionist said. “I sent the message down to Dr. Moellmann. He should be up here any minute now. He was just about done.”

  As she finished speaking, the sound of voices entered the lobby. Two men and a woman appeared. The woman and one of the men wore white coats. Koesler presumed, correctly, that the two were pathologists and that one had to be Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann. The man in plainclothes Koesler already knew to be Lieutenant Tully.

  Mangiapane’s introduction of Koesler to Tully was interrupted. “We’ve met,” said Tully. “Sorry to run off, Father, but I’ve got lots of work to do.” With that, he was gone.

  Shortly, the woman, too, was gone, leaving Koesler and Moellmann standing alone together.

  Moellmann scrutinized Koesler. “So,” he said (it came out “tzo”), “so this is the Father Koesler. I’ve heard about your work with the police.” Emphasizing the article made Koesler sound like an instant celebrity. If the tactic was intended to disconcert and put the priest on the defensive, it worked, at least to some degree. For a moment, Koesler was speechless. Then, “Someone’s pulling your leg, Doctor. I don’t work with the police.”

  “One keeps one’s ear to the ground, one hears things.”

  To Koesler, Moellmann seemed to be translating from a more familiar German even as he spoke. But Koesler had heard of Moellmann, too. He was, according to popular reputation, one who jokingly pulled legs unmercifully. But, at the core, he was one of the very best pathologists in the business.

  Moellmann led the way up the marble steps toward the second floor and his office. “Tell me, Father Koesler . . .” The “oe” of Koesler’s name became an umlaut; somehow it pleased the priest. “. . . what is your interest in this case? What brings a priest, of all people, to get involved in a murder so messy?”