Or did it?
Bush claimed he had nothing to do with the first two murders. If that were true, he would know no more about the brand marks than the police or the morgue would. So if he were to make a branding iron—for the copycat theory that Tully favored—he could go no further than the “incomplete” marks on the previous two victims. And that also would explain why the marks on the first two seemed to fade out and why the marks on the third were definitive.
Kramer, Kramer, Kramer. He could have constructed the branding iron in his workshop. No doubt about that. But why?
At birth, he was branded a bastard—uh, there’s that word again. But it’s true. He was branded illegitimate from conception actually. Not by society at large, but by the church alone. Yet nothing would happen as a result of that ecclesial designation. There was little chance he would even know about it. It would matter only if he were to try to enter a seminary toward a vocation to the priesthood. And once he did, at least as far as his psyche was concerned, all hell broke loose.
Like so many things in life, it had been an accident of timing as much as anything else.
There was a cartoon—old now—about Catholics eating meat on Friday. For centuries Church law had prohibited Catholics from eating meat on Friday. The object was the fostering of a penitential spirit, as well as the commemoration of Christ’s death on Good Friday. The obligation bound Catholics under pain of serious sin. Theoretically, then, Catholics could be—and maybe were—condemned to hell for eating a succulent slice of prime rib, or even a hot dog, on Friday.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, in 1966, the ban on Friday meat-eating was lifted. Overnight, it was no longer a sin. The cartoon depicted a typical scene in hell, wherein one devil says to another devil, “What are we going to do with all the people who are here for eating meat on Friday?”
To some extent, that was the situation in which people like Dick Kramer found themselves.
If, between 1917 and 1983—the lifetime of the first Code of Canon Law—a child was born to parents at least one of whom was Catholic but whose marriage was considered, for whatever canonical reason, invalid, that child was illegitimate in the eyes of the Church. The only practical sanction was in being barred from the priesthood. After 1983, on promulgation of the new Code, such an illegitimate child was home free.
A man such as Dick Kramer could conceivably build up quite an anger over that sort of seemingly cavalier treatment.
He would be angry . . . an idea was coming; it was knocking on Koesler’s mind . . . he would be angry . . . of course! He would be as angry with his parents—with his mother—as he would be with the Church. But not as long as Church law remained unchanged.
However, what if the Church were to simply change the law? What if, after all those years of feeling inadequate, soiled, unclean; what if, after all those years, the Church simply said, “Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore”?
The first time Dr. Moellmann showed Koesler the mark of the branding iron, something, some glimmering from the past tried to enter his consciousness. He knew the memory would get there eventually. He just didn’t know when.
Now.
Father Koesler needed to do some checking. And it could not begin until the workday began. But already he felt that deep sense of relief that comes from breaking through to the ultimate clue.
It was the middle of the night. There was nothing to do but wait. Koesler decided to read again. But so relaxed was he now that after a few paragraphs, he drifted into a sound if not untroubled sleep.
40
Shortly after the doors were unlocked at the chancery, Father Koesler arrived.
He’d been in this building many times in the past. At least to the clergy of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit, 1234 Washington Boulevard was a familiar address. The ancient building housed St. Aloysius Church, a three-tiered structure that was unique, at least to Detroit.
In the same building above the church were residence rooms for priests assigned to downtown functions, as well as for visiting clergy. In addition, there were offices for the archbishop, the tribunal, and the chancery, among other departments. Hidden away here—appropriately, some might say—were the archives of the archdiocese.
While Koesler had on occasion visited almost every other department in the building at one time or another, he had never, until this morning, called on the archives. Even before the chancery opened this snowy morning, he had phoned Sister Clotilde of the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary to make certain she could and would accommodate him this morning. She could and would, but she did little to hide her surprise that he would call her. They knew each other only in passing and, to her knowledge, he had never before visited the archives. And her sharp memory covered a great number of years.
She sat him at a large table and fixed him with a quizzical smile. “Now, what can I do for you, young man?”
It was his turn to smile. He was in his late fifties, and she couldn’t have been much older. Age, he thought, like so many other things in life, was relative. “I’m interested in the mottoes of Popes.”
She inclined her head slightly to one side. “You are, are you?” There was something tantalizing about her tone. But she said nothing more that might clarify the remark and Koesler didn’t pursue it.
“I’d like to start back around the turn of this century. In which case, each Pope, before becoming Pope, had been a bishop and then a Cardinal. And as bishop, each one had a motto as part of his coat of arms. That’s what I’d like to see.”
She whistled noiselessly. “A tall order, young man. But let’s see what we can find.”
Koesler started to rise but Sister Clotilde waved him back in his chair. “You stay put,” she ordered. “I’ll bring things to you. It’s easier that way.”
The first item she brought was a mug of steaming coffee, for which he was duly grateful. Next, she brought a chronological list of Popes. “Maybe,” she said, “this will help you tell me exactly who you’re interested in.”
“Absolutely. Very good. Okay, let’s see . . .” Koesler ran his finger down the list. “Let’s try Pope Benedict XV, who was Pope from, uh . . . 1914 to 1922.”
She returned loaded down with books, several of which she pushed toward him. “You start with these and I’ll take the rest.”
There followed the quiet turning of pages, then exchanges, one book for another.
Koesler said, “I think this is it, Sister, doesn’t this look like the motto for Cardinal Giacomo della Chiesa?”
“It sure does. And he became Pope Benedict XV. Is that what you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know. Wait a minute.”
Koesler checked the motto against the drawing he’d brought with him—a reproduction of the marks left by the branding iron. “No, that’s not it. It doesn’t fit.”
“What doesn’t fit? Maybe it’d help if you told me what we’re looking for.”
“It’s just too complicated to explain just now, Sister. I do need your help though.”
Clotilde sighed. “Very well. Somebody else you want to look up?”
Koesler ran his finger down the list. “Let’s see . . . yes: Pope Pius XI—1922 to 1939.”
“I guess I should be grateful for small favors.” Sister Clotilde shuffled back into the archives, arms burdened with the books just used and being returned to their shelves. “At least you’re picking on fairly recent popes.” Though no longer in view, she could be heard talking to herself. “Dear, dear, dear; where are you, Achille Cardinal Ratti? Ah, here!”
She reentered the reading room, again laden with books. “Here we go again.” She divided the volumes between them.
After several minutes of searching, Sister Clotilde said, “Ah, here it is. This is it: the coat of arms for Cardinal Ratti, soon to become Pope Pius XI.”
Koesler almost snatched the book from her hands.
“Well, for the love of Pete,” she chided. “Take your time, Father Koesler. Moderation.
In all things moderation.”
“Sorry.” He quickly but thoroughly checked the motto against the marks that had been burned into the flesh of three murder victims. It did not match. His expression told the tale.
“No go, eh?”
“Not yet.”
“There’s more?”
“One more.”
“Who?”
“Pius XII.”
“I don’t know why, but I had a feeling we were headed toward him.” She was gone for a few moments, then returned with more books. “You’re sure now . . . no more?”
“No more. This has got to be it.”
“I think I can find this one.” Clotilde selected a volume and paged through it. “Here you go: the motto on the coat of arms of Eugenio Cardinal Pacelli. Opus Justitiae Pax—‘Peace, the Fruit of Justice.’”
Koesler began to shake his head, but took the volume from her anyway. He tried to work the motto into the upper half of letters that the brand had made. It was not even close to fitting.
He sat back with wildly conflicting emotions.
He was wrong. His theory, which had seemed so promising last night, went nowhere this morning. Definitely out of character for him. He was by no stretch of the imagination a “morning person.” But, to the extent he had been so sure of himself, he now felt a rather deep depression.
On the other hand, his groundless theory was one more indication that Father Kramer was innocent. Koesler had given it his best shot. Usually when he reached a conclusion such as this, it proved to be well founded. And, as devil’s advocate, for the first time in this investigation he had thrown aside the presumption of innocence for Kramer.
Accepting Lieutenant Tully’s challenge to look at the facts with complete objectivity, Koesler had tried to tie the murders to Kramer and had failed.
Yes, definitely mixed emotions. But, if anything, the predominant feeling was one of relief that Kramer had come out of this clean. The next order of business would be to get Dick Kramer out to Guest House so he could get a handle on his alcoholism before it got completely out of control.
So deep in thought was Koesler that he had to fight his way back to reality and focus on what Sister Clotilde was saying.
“I said, there’s more to this, you know.”
“More? What do you mean?
“I mean that the mottoes don’t stand pat when a Cardinal becomes Pope.”
“What?”
“The coat of arms automatically changes when one becomes a Pope. And so, it seems, does the man’s motto.”
“What?”
“You’re repeating yourself. Here . . .” She handed him an impressive tome.
He studied the book, somewhat bewildered as to its relevance. It was Acta Apostolicae Sedis—The Acts of the Apostolic See—Volume XXXXII (1950). A slip of paper marked a specific place in the book. Koesler paged to it.
It was a document entitled Munificentissimus Deus—“The Most Gracious God.”
He could not guess why Sister Clotilde had given this to him, nor why she had marked this section. He flipped several pages and came to the end of the document. It was signed, Ego Pius, Catholicae Ecclesiae Episcopus, ita definiendo subscripsi—“I, Pius, Bishop of the Catholic Church, identify this with my signature.” Then came the seal:
“You see,” Clotilde said, “Eugenio Pacelli took another motto once he became Pope. Veritatem Facientes in Caritate—‘Accomplishing Truth in Charity.’”
Koesler stared at the motto for several moments. Then, slowly, he began to trace the words into the brand markings. They fit. Perfectly. It was a premonition come true. He stared at them.
After several moments, Sister Clotilde spoke. “That what you were looking for?”
Koesler nodded.
“When we got down to Pius XII and were still looking for mottoes, I thought that’s what you might be looking for. Something came to mind and I thought that might be it.” She paused. “Don’t you want to know how I guessed?”
He looked at her wordlessly.
“I remembered that a few weeks ago, one of your confreres was in here looking for exactly the same thing. But not the motto for Eugenio Pacelli; the one after he became Pius XII.” Another pause. “Want to know who it was?”
Barely audibly, he said, “Father Kramer.”
“How did you know?”
“Bingo.” But there was no joy in it.
41
They sat around the small dining room table in St. Anselm’s rectory. With three large men, the table seemed smaller than usual.
Mrs. Mary O’Connor, parish secretary and wide-ranging factotum, had made a generous supply of coffee. Inspector Walter Koznicki, for one, was most grateful that Mrs. O’Connor, and not Father Koesler, had attended to the coffee.
Koesler was clearly a wreck. His hands were trembling slightly but noticeably, particularly perceptible to the trained eye of a psychologist.
Koesler’s state was the principal reason Dr. Rudy Scholl had decided not to return to his office. He wanted to make certain that Koesler would be all right before leaving him. It had been a stress-filled afternoon for everyone, but especially for Father Koesler.
Nor had Koesler’s condition been overlooked by Inspector Koznicki. He thought it might be helpful to keep the priest talking. So Koznicki had asked a series of questions. As, now, “Tell me, Father, how were you able to make sense of those markings left by the branding iron? That really turned out to be the linchpin in this case.”
Koesler’s smile was self-deprecating. “It was last night. I couldn’t sleep. Among the things on my mind were those meaningless marks on the victims. You see, it had never seriously crossed my mind that Father Kramer could possibly have been responsible for these murders. But last night, I finally decided to take Lieutenant Tully’s suggestion and at least consider the possibility.
“One thing I knew that none of the rest of you did was that Dick Kramer was technically illegitimate, at least in the eyes of the Church. The significance of that popped into my mind last night when Lieutenant Tully was talking about his—I guess—well-founded theory on the importance that illegitimacy plays in the eventual crimes committed by quite a few multiple murderers.
“The total impact of illegitimacy hit Dick Kramer just as he became a teenager and applied for entrance in the seminary. I suppose this knowledge would affect different boys in dissimilar ways. Apparently, it devastated Dick and had its effect from that time on.
“All this I knew from talking to an older priest friend of mine who also is a friend of Dick’s.
“So from that point, I asked myself: Supposing just for a moment that Father Kramer could have committed murder—what might motivate him to do the unspeakable? Could he have harbored a grudging resentment, even subconsciously, against his mother? In a mind too tired and stressed to think clearly, Dick might have held his unfortunate mother responsible for his distinctively second-class Church citizenship. After all, traditionally, the man proposes marriage, while the woman accepts or rejects. So perhaps Dick thought that since his father had been married previously and thus was excluded from a Church wedding, his mother should have turned him down. But she didn’t. They were married by a justice of the peace and when Dick came along, he was considered by the Church to be a bastard. And, without special dispensation, he would be barred from the priesthood.
“Then, each of the victims was an older woman. Could that mean that someone—Dick?—was striking out at a mother figure?”
“Very interesting, Father,” Koznicki said. “True, we did not know of the special character of Father Kramer’s irregularity. How could we have known? How were we to guess?”
Dr. Scholl shrugged, responding only because Inspector Koznicki happened to be looking in his direction. Essentially, he continued to study Father Koesler, who now seemed somewhat more self-possessed. Silently, he endorsed Koznicki’s ploy of encouraging Koesler to talk and get outside himself.
Koesler, for his part, was experiencing an
other of his recidivist urges. He wanted a cigarette. Fortunately none was at hand.
“Now,” Koznicki continued, “how in the world did you come up with the motto that completed the branding marks?”
“I don’t really know. I guess it was some land of fluke . . . a combination of things, as I recall. What triggered my thinking was that I remembered that illegitimacy is no longer an impediment to the priesthood.”
“It is not?” Koznicki was never sure what the new Church would or would not do. He considered for a moment. “That may be a step in the right direction.”
“Oh, I agree,” Koesler said. “But I wondered what that might do to a man like Dick Kramer. Imagine having your whole life turned topsy-turvy by a Church law. To have that law overshadow everything you do. Then, when the Church finally gets around to revising its law for the very first time since it was first codified in 1917, there isn’t even a mention of the previous impediment!
“I thought it very possible that Dick—again, maybe subconsciously—now might be angry not only at his own mother, but also maybe in a more repressed way at Holy Mother Church.
“Then something else happened. You know that older priest I mentioned? His name is Monsignor Meehan. I visit him pretty regularly at the Burtha Fisher Home. I guess it does us both good. We just keep telling each other the same old stories over and over.
“One of the old stories, which I hadn’t heard for a number of years, concerned the selection of mottoes for a couple of Detroit’s auxiliary bishops.
“You know, the first time I saw a picture of those branding marks at the medical examiner’s office, something was knocking at my mind. It couldn’t get in then, but I knew eventually it would.
“It happened last night. And it happened in a simultaneous way.
“At almost the same time as I was recalling Monsignor Meehan’s story about a squabble over mottoes for coats of arms, I was also thinking about how angry Dick Kramer might well be over the Church’s flip-flop attitude on illegitimacy. The two thoughts seemed to converge. Obviously, there was a change of leadership in the Church to bring about such a 180-degree switch in attitude. So someone in Dick’s shoes could project his anger on one or another Church leader who ruled at a significant time. And that leader, now dead, would be personified by the motto he chose to symbolize his life.
Marked for Murder Page 29
