Marked for Murder

by William Kienzle

  “A priest is accused of these ‘messy’ murders.”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t think he did them.”

  Moellmann’s face expressed more surprise than Koesler’s statement merited. That, thought Koesler, must be part of the performance.

  “Lieutenant Tully thinks the priest is guilty,” the M.E. stated.

  “I don’t.” It was said a bit more forcefully than was Koesler’s habit. Perhaps he was playing along with Moellmann.

  “And you don’t!” Moellmann’s wonderment seemed unfeigned. “Lieutenant Tully is an excellent detective. I have never known him to be this convinced and not be correct.”

  “Every rule has its exception. But if I’m going to help my friend, Father Kramer, I’ll need all the help I can get—particularly since, as you say, Lieutenant Tully is so convinced he’s guilty. That’s why Inspector Koznicki sent me to you.” Koesler hoped the implication was obvious. From Moellmann, Koesler needed information, not discouragement.

  “Very well.” Moellmann led the way into his inner office. He proceeded to go through his file cabinets, extracting rather full manila folders, to which he added the one he had carried from the basement. He put all of them on the desk between himself and Koesler. “There, that’s it. The current ‘Case of the Mutilated Prostitutes.’” He then proceeded to arrange photos and charts on the desk.

  Koesler looked about as if searching for some specific something.

  “What is it, Father? What are you looking for?”

  “The tapes.”

  “The tapes? What tapes?”

  “Don’t you tape-record your autopsies?”

  “Tape—? Oh, you mean like Quincy and all those medical examiners you see on the television?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Moellmann grinned. “No. No, I have a body chart at each body and I make all notations on that chart. Then when I come up, I fill in all the details while they are still fresh in my mind. Each person works according to his upbringing. You know? In Goethe’s Faust, it says someplace in there . . . eh . . . ‘The way he coughs, the way he spits’—in German it rhymes—‘he has copied the boss.’ So no one here—all eight doctors here—no one dictates. Everybody does the same as I do.”

  Koesler nodded understanding as he tried to absorb the enormity of the violence depicted in these pictures.

  Moellmann watched Koesler intently. The priest didn’t realize it, but he was undergoing a test. He could stomach studying these pictures—or he might become physically ill. Moellmann would continue his help only if Koesler was not upset at the horror exhibited.

  Koesler was surprising himself in keeping everything down and quiet.

  “You see,” Moellmann said, “I have the police make sure that I get a set of the scene pictures because I want the whole file, the whole case all together.”

  “These are all pictures the police have taken, then?”

  “No, no. I have our photographer take more pictures. You see, I take more interest in these bodies than in all the others—arteriosclerosis and stabbings and shootings. Because these are a ritual and they are more interesting, I spend more time with these. Make very definitive diagrams, drawings, and be very explicit so I don’t lose anything in translation. And I make sure that they are photographed very adequately. Not only for documentation, but also for purposes of teaching. Because you don’t see this often.”

  Koesler wondered whether, in this instance, familiarity bred tranquility. He was getting more used to the pictures and, as a consequence, was able to study them more intently. “Did you use the word ‘ritual,’ Doctor?”

  “Yah. I’ve not seen people ripped open like this after death.”

  “That happened after the women were dead?”

  “Yah, after death. That immediately makes it a ritual.”

  “You mean the evisceration?”

  “No, the whole thing. The strangulation, the cross, the evisceration. This combination—that is what makes it a ritual.”

  “And you’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “Well, not exactly. I’ve seen people with tic-tac-toe on them.”

  Koesler’s mouth dropped open. “Tic-tac-toe? You mean with X’s and O’s? Somebody played tic-tac-toe on a person’s skin?”

  “Yah. With a sharp object. A knife, a screwdriver, something like that. People do strange things.”

  “I should say.”

  “Sometime back, maybe you remember, we had a series of prostitutes who were murdered on Cass Corridor. He used—I don’t recall what it was—but it was something plaited, about this wide. . . .” Moellmann raised his right hand, fingers indicating a span of a couple of inches. “It was black . . .”He tried to recall how it was he knew its color. “. . . because I had it eventually. He left it— I don’t know—or they found it on somebody. Maybe somebody came in and caught him and he just ran and left the victim with this thing. But all the other victims had this plaited imprint on the skin and we would see the body and we would say, ‘Oh, that’s another one of those.’ There were four or five of those.

  “But you see, that’s what I would say when they brought in one of these. The first body, I knew it was a ritual. And I knew there would be more.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course. There was no reason to perform such an elaborate ritual just once. I knew I would see it again. The only question was, how many times. If Lieutenant Tully is correct and if . . . uh . . . Kramer stays in jail, this will be all.”

  Koesler prayed the murders were finished. He rejected the hypothesis that they were over because Kramer was locked up. But he had to admit that among all those close to the investigation, he stood virtually alone in believing in Kramer’s innocence.

  But believe he did. So he had to get on with it.

  “Then, these marks, Doctor . . .” Koesler directed Moellmann’s attention to one of the photos. “. . . around the neck of the victim. These are marks of a plaited object?”

  “No. No, that was the weapon in the other cases I just told you about.”

  Koesler surmised that patience was not Moellmann’s long suit. He was fleetingly thankful that he’d never had the doctor as a teacher.

  “See?” Moellmann continued. “There are the marks of a belt, though not a very ordinary belt. See, the indentations—there, on the skin. I’ll show you. Press your fingers against your wrist. Hard, a lot of pressure. See, it is blanched. If you do it hard enough, it will stay. See what I’m talking about? See how fast it goes away now when you take your fingers away. That’s because the blood goes back in. But if the person is deceased and the belt stays on the neck—he doesn’t remove it; he leaves it on there—then, when I remove the belt, it will be pale all around. I’ll be able to tell you the width of the belt because the upper and lower edges of the belt will scrape the skin. As you can see, the instrument used here—the belt—is rather wider than the ordinary belt.”

  Koesler, looking carefully, could detect nothing outstandingly unusual about the mark on the victim’s neck. On the other hand, this was the first time he had ever studied the body of a strangled person. He decided to give the benefit of any doubt to Dr. Moellmann’s expertise.

  He looked away from the photo to find Moellmann studying him. “Are these pictures disturbing you, Father?”

  “Well, I couldn’t say they qualify as light morning viewing. And I may pay with a few nightmares. But, all in all, no; I’m all right.”

  “Good.” Was it Koesler’s imagination, or did Moellmann seem disappointed? “This, here, the branding mark, should be the final thing that interests you.” He began rummaging through the photos, in search of blow-ups of each victim. He found them and set them side-by-side before the priest. “See, these are shots of the left breast of each of the women—magnified, of course. You can see clearly the form of a cross burned into the flesh.”

  “This happened after they were dead?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

 
; Thank God, Koesler breathed.

  “Now, you see, these are the first two victims. There is some form of lettering on the horizontal bar of the cross. Here is a closeup of just the lettering. Here is a magnifying glass. Look.”

  Koesler looked. The marks meant nothing to him.

  “They don’t mean much, do they?”

  “No.”

  “For a time—well, for the first couple of weeks—we thought the marks might be the top part of some letters. And that the reason the bottom part of the letters was not imprinted was because of the natural curvature of the breast. See, the top of the vertical bar is the strongest, deepest imprint. So, what the guy did was start there at the top and sort of rolled the iron downward. See, the bottom of the vertical bar is the weakest imprint. We reasoned he was not putting as much pressure on the iron as he rolled it down the woman’s breast. Maybe a difficult angle or something.

  “But then, with the third victim, we were in luck. This time he was able to exert pretty much equal pressure during the whole process. See, now on the third one, the marks don’t fade out at the bottom. They are etched clearly and definitively. But, sad to say,” Moellmann turned both palms up, “they still seem to mean nothing. Just gibberish.”

  Koesler studied most intently the brand on the third victim.

  Without doubt, there was a greater clarity. Still he could not glean any meaning from them. The longer Koesler studied the marks, the more certain he was that they were letters—the topmost portion of letters. The hypothesis, after the first two murders, that this was some sort of truncated lettering, certainly seemed accurate. But the branding of the third victim contradicted that theory. There was no gradual fade-out of the letters nor of the bottom of the vertical beam. The marks were crisp and clean. But why would someone go to all that trouble just to leave a mark that was impossible to fathom? Was it some sort of code? There must be some explanation of all this. But what could it be?

  As he drifted back to the present, Koesler noticed that Moellmann was gathering the photos, notes, and charts and returning each to its proper folder. The show was over; the time Moellmann had allocated for this exhibition was up.

  Koesler rose and gathered his coat and hat. “Thank you very much, Doctor. It was very kind of you to give me so much time.”

  “This came to you through the courtesy of Inspector Koznicki. And now, Father, you know about as much as the police. Much of what I showed you is very confidential.” The statement was delivered as a warning.

  “I’m good at keeping secrets, Doctor.”

  “You know, don’t you, that Father Kramer has a workbench with appropriate tools so that he could easily have fashioned this branding iron?”

  “Yes, I know that, Doctor.”

  “And still you think he is innocent?”

  “Yes.”

  Moellmann shook his head. “One last thing: Did those markings mean anything at all to you?”

  “Not really. Although the longer I reflect on it, the more they remind me of something. But I can’t think what. It may come to me—probably in the middle of Mass or a shower, or shoveling snow.”

  “Well, if it comes, don’t keep that a secret.”

  35

  Father Koesler’s mind was reeling as he descended the stairs to the morgue’s street floor. If it was possible to learn too much in a brief period, he’d just done so.

  On reflection, it was not so much the sheer weight of new knowledge as the fact that he expected himself to utilize it. He was beginning to wonder whom he was kidding. Dr. Moellmann was a highly respected pathologist—among the best, if not the best, of the country’s medical examiners. And he had no argument with Father Kramer’s guilt in these murders.

  Inspector Koznicki: one of Koesler’s better friends. The priest knew the inspector to be a cautious man, rich in experience in police work, particularly in homicides.

  Originally, Koznicki had been on the side of the angels. Indeed, until this very morning, Koesler had been sure he could count on the inspector’s active support. Now even Walt Koznicki had lost confidence in Kramer’s innocence. Though he would continue to give counsel, it was obvious he held out no hope. Koznicki was going through the motions out of friendship rather than conviction.

  And both Dr. Moellmann and Inspector Koznicki, as the foundation for their opinion, cited Lieutenant Tully.

  Through Koesler’s several adventures in the realm of homicide, he had never before encountered Tully personally. Although he had been vaguely aware of the lieutenant’s reputation, this was the first time they had figuratively crossed swords. Apparently, Tully was something more than merely good. Reputedly, he possessed some sixth sense when it came to homicide. A sense that his fellow professionals respected.

  Koesler could not help thinking that if Tully had been a woman and operated on an intuitive hunch that Kramer was guilty, he would have been derided as an hysterical female. But as a macho man, his sixth sense was revered. Yet, in the final analysis, it was no more than a highly formed, experientially proven intuition.

  And to cap the climax, Dick Kramer seemed to be on their side. Why in God’s name had Kramer not spent yesterday in the credible company of someone—anyone? At the very least, he might have taken steps to guard against his inclination toward alcoholism. He knew Sundays were his Achilles’ heel. He had confessed as much to his attorney as well as to Koesler.

  Why hadn’t Kramer managed to stay sober one single Sunday? The Sunday for which he would most need an alibi?

  Finally, what was there about the mark of the branding iron? The whole thing was so ugly, so perverted. But, at least as far as Father Koesler was concerned, the mark of the cross and its accompanying inscription was a puzzle that needed an insight and then a solution. He could not say the answer was on the tip of his tongue. It was buried far more deeply than that. Knowing himself, he realized that no amount of concentration would bring this solution to the fore. It would come, if it came at all, spontaneously. And there was nothing he could do but wait for that moment and hope it would come.

  He was pulling up the collar of his overcoat preparatory to leaving the building, when he heard an insistent voice behind him. “Father! Yoo-hoo! Priest! Wait a minute! Please!”

  Koesler turned. It was a woman in the uniform of one of the morgue’s technical assistants. A tall, blonde, not unattractive woman. Koesler searched his memory, but could not recall ever having met her. This was a constantly recurring nightmare. He had been a priest so long and had served in so many parishes and met so many people that he simply could not remember everyone from his past. Yet almost everyone expected to be remembered. His acquaintances had it so much easier than he. All they had to do was call him “Father” and they were home free. Whereas he had to come up with a name. One of the tricks of the trade was to postpone for as long as possible using any name at all. Perhaps it would come to him. Or the individual might volunteer the name.

  So Koesler merely remained in a half-turn and watched, as the woman closed the distance between them. “Father?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are a Catholic priest, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” If she wasn’t sure whether he was a priest, she was not from his past. So she was in his present and perhaps his future.

  “One can’t tell these days. But you looked like you were a priest.”

  “And you are . . ?”

  “Agnes Blondell. Ms. Blondell.”

  “How do you do, Ms. Blondell. I was just about to—” He never got the opportunity to explain that he had a very busy schedule. Much to Koesler’s surprise, the woman took his elbow quite firmly and began leading him downstairs toward the autopsy area.

  It was the element of surprise that worked for her. Before he knew what hit him, Koesler was down the stairs and into an area that reminded him of a many-celled dungeon. Out of the corner of one eye, he caught sight of the large metal trays on which bodies were undoubtedly placed for dissection and autopsy. Fortunately for him, n
one of the trays was occupied. The crew was nearing lunch break.

  All the while, the woman kept chattering. As best as he could grasp, Ms. Blondell was concerned about the eternal welfare of one of her fellow workers who claimed to be Catholic but she wasn’t so sure about that. His behavior vis-à-vis women—apparently unless they were dead—fell considerably short of white knights of old. The man needed to consult a priest. Maybe go to confession or whatever it is Catholics do when they need a priest.

  Koesler was embarrassed and growing more so by the moment. At the outset, he had not actively resisted her highhanded tactics because he had mistakenly assumed there was a medical emergency that required the spiritual ministrations of a priest. Now it seemed nothing more than a marital spat without benefit of marriage.

  “This,” Ms. Blondell announced in a righteous tone, “is Arnold Bush. He’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

  The man reminded Koesler of a creature who was dangerous only because he had been forced into an inescapable corner. Bush looked at Koesler. Bush obviously was annoyed. Bush looked at Agnes. Clearly he was furious.

  Koesler glanced around the room. The rest of the attendants and technicians seemed amused, although not in any overt way. And they were decidedly keeping their distance. Koesler surmised that the others had some reason to fear Bush. But, at least at this moment, that fear was not shared by Agnes Blondell.

  This scene that Koesler found himself a part of was by no means unique. However, it had been a long while since he’d been in a like situation.

  Usually it happened on those infrequent occasions when a wife would bring her husband to the rectory so that the priest could impose “the pledge” on the man, who, at that point, was usually close to delirium tremens. Thus coerced, the victim would pledge to abstain from booze forever. In a lifetime, some men took the pledge dozens of times. It is said you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. In Koesler’s experience, you could lead a man to sobriety, but you couldn’t guarantee he’d be sober next week.