“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.
“That’s why I visited the archdiocesan archives this morning: to check out this theory. The first possibility, according to my hypothesis, was Pope Benedict XV, who was Pope during the time the first Code of Canon Law was written and published. The second guess was Pius XI, who was Pope when Dick Kramer was born.
“Neither of their mottoes fit the incomplete markings on the victims.
“But the third guess hit pay dirt. Pius XII was Pope when Dick was at first rejected, then accepted by the seminary. This was the time when the enormity of Dick’s situation hit him like a ton of bricks. And Pius XII’s Papal motto fit perfectly in the puzzle the killer left.
“I suppose that would have been enough by itself. But when Sister Clotilde, the archivist, mentioned that Father Kramer had looked up the identical information sometime earlier, well . . .”
“Yes,” Koznicki agreed, “that was a rather neat package.”
Dr. Scholl noted that the tremor in Koesler’s hands increased at this point. The priest began toying with a toothpick in an apparent effort to ease his agitation.
Koesler continued. “The evidence against Dick seemed incontrovertible. And yet I still couldn’t believe that good man could possibly have done it. There had to be something deeply, radically wrong. Some terrible psychological aberration that caused this.
“That’s when I called Dr. Scholl. I’ve referred so many troubled people to him, we’ve come to know each other quite well. Anyway, the doctor was kind enough to take all this time away from his schedule to help.” He looked directly at Scholl. “For all you’ve done today, I will be forever grateful. Especially for, in effect, breaking this to Father Kramer.”
Scholl simply nodded.
“Since Inspector Koznicki didn’t join us until we got to Mother of Sorrows to confront Father Kramer,” Koesler said, “maybe you could now explain your diagnosis to him, Doctor?”
“Well, it’s hardly a full-blown diagnosis at this stage,” Scholl said. “And I’m sure the inspector is familiar with a dissociative reaction.”
Koznicki was indeed familiar with that specific variety of abnormal behavior. Forensic psychiatrists had alleged it often enough in court to elicit an immediate negative reaction from both police and prosecutors. But even without this doctor’s expert testimony, Koznicki was very much prone to agree with this diagnosis. His nod, more for Koesler’s benefit than his own, encouraged Dr. Scholl to expound.
“Briefly,” Scholl proceeded, “it’s based on very normal behavior—just as is every abnormality. Fear of heights, for instance, is quite common. But when the fear becomes so intense that it immobilizes a person, when it becomes beyond control, when it is irrational, it too becomes an abnormality, a pathology.
“So it is with a dissociative reaction. Perfectly normal people go on vacations to get away from the demands of everyday life. The housewife appreciates getting away from the house, from cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, and the like. The businessman may prefer a wilderness where there are no demands to shave, dress according to Molloy, attend meetings, and so forth.
“The dissociative reaction raises this natural desire to escape to a pathological level. It can take the form of massive amnesia, or a fugue—flight—or even multiple personalities. And I would not be surprised if we have all three of those manifestations in the case of Father Kramer.
“In Father’s case, it would seem at least that he has been holding in an enormous amount of pressure and stress over a great number of years—starting at age thirteen when he was rejected by a seminary and discovered he was considered illegitimate. He seems to have compensated by attempting a constant overachievement.
“Frankly, carrying all that emotional baggage, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did without a breakdown.”
“It was the drinking that threw me off the track in the beginning.” Koesler was addressing Koznicki. “I figured that if Dick was, by his own word, drunk pretty regularly on Sunday afternoons, and specifically on the two Sundays when the murders were committed, he couldn’t possibly have done them. But the doctor assured me it is possible.”
“Not only possible,” Scholl completed the thought, “but I’ve seen it in my own practice any number of times. People go through elaborate functions and have no recollection of them whatsoever. What probably happened here was that Father Kramer did not drink as much as he thought he had. Or that he had built up a pretty good tolerance for a considerable amount of alcohol. In any case, the relaxing effect of the drink helped him slip into the reaction. As much as anything else, it was a matter of duration. I think Father suppressed this pressure for as long as he possibly could, and then he reacted.”
“And he wouldn’t know? He wouldn’t have the slightest notion of where he’d been or what he’d done?” Koesler, still in a sense of near-disbelief, asked.
Scholl nodded. “A person must present a difficult report at work on Monday morning. A report for which he is completely unprepared. On Sunday he travels to Chicago. He is still there on Monday morning rather than in Detroit where he’s supposed to be. He has experienced a fugue, a flight. He has no memory at all of having traveled to Chicago. He doesn’t know how he got there or why he went. Only that he could not face that meeting. Then his defense mechanism took over.
“You saw earlier when I mentioned to Father Kramer the incident of his having gone to the archdiocesan archives to find the motto of Pope Pius XII, he remembered rather vaguely having done so. But he was unclear as to why he’d done it. Many dissociates can remember events that led to a fugue without any memory of the flight itself.
“What happens then—and, specifically, what happened in Father Kramer’s case—was that his personality began to disintegrate. One Sunday, operating under a completely distinct personality, he forged and made the branding iron he would later use. He hid it and when the fugue was over, forgot it entirely.
“But he was ready. He was ready to throw off all that pressure and stress.
“And so the tragedy took place. On two consecutive Sundays, Father Kramer—or, rather, a distinct other person within Father Kramer—stalked a likely victim. His subconscious mind had been feeding for years on the notion that his mother, having given birth to an illegitimate son, was a whore. So he went looking for an older prostitute. He accompanied her to a place of assignation. Then he killed her, ripped out her reproductive organs, and branded her.
“As he returned to his normal self, he had lost a good deal of his subconscious hostility, but could not possibly face what he had done—or, rather, what his other personality had done. So he made a sweeping
denial of the tragedy and of his participation in it. Then he made a sweeping repression of all he had denied. In other words, first he denied it happened, then he repressed the denial. As a result, he made all of his actions inaccessible and unconscious.”
Dr. Scholl paused, satisfied that he had adequately explained Father Kramer’s pathological reaction to intolerable stress. And indeed he had, particularly as far as Inspector Koznicki was concerned. Koznicki was certain that Scholl would testify for the defense along with a parade of expert witnesses. And, from his vast experience, Koznicki knew their testimony would be effectual, particularly in Father Kramer’s case. It was almost the only possible explanation for what had happened.
“Finally,” Scholl concluded, “you both saw Father Kramer’s reaction earlier this afternoon when I, in effect, talked him through the whole scenario. At first, he seemed a bemused listener. After all, he had just been released from prison. Another man—Bush—had been indicted for all three murders. And Father was back in the safety of his rectory with no memory of what he had actually done.
“But, as my explication of what really had happened continued, Father changed. First, in an incredulous reaction. Finally, there was a radical change as the truth began to seep into his conscious mind and the inaccessible began to become accessible.”
Koesler would never forget it. Indelibly etched in his memory was the naked horror on Dick Kramer’s face when he first began to comprehend what had happened. Koesler knew he would forever remember Kramer’s cry of utter despair when faced with reality. That long, tortured wail, “Nooooo!” And, at that point, Kramer had only begun to get the first dark glimpse of the hell he would have to enter.
Fortunately, they had been able to get Father Kramer admitted to the psychiatric ward of the hospital under arrest and watch. He had been heavily sedated. He had a long, long way to go.
Father Koesler seemed more calm and self-possessed than he had even a few minutes before. Dr. Scholl decided everything was under control here and that it was more than time for him to get back to work. He made his farewells and departed.
Koznicki seemed undecided about leaving. “How about one more cup of coffee, Inspector?”
“Well, very good.” Seeing it was not Koesler’s coffee. “One more then.”
“What now?” Koesler asked as he poured coffee in both cups.
“Now?”
“The disposition of these cases. Like they used to do on the TV ‘Dragnet’ series. What’s going to happen?”
Koznicki rarely indulged in speculation. He firmly believed that police work ended in the courtroom. From that point on, it was up to the justice system. However, he couldn’t help but have an opinion based on years of experience. He could not bring himself to withhold that opinion when his friend asked for it.
“Arnold Bush,” Koznicki said. “I do not see any way for him to avoid murder in the first degree. If that is the verdict, there is a mandatory sentence of life in prison with no possible parole. The only way out, short of death, would be a pardon by the governor.”
“And Father Kramer?”
“Ah, yes, Father Kramer. That is another question. I believe we have just heard the totality of his defense in Dr. Scholl’s explanation of a dissociative reaction. Father is blessed with one of the finest defense attorneys possible. But even with a far lesser lawyer, I feel Father’s plea would be ‘not guilty by reason of insanity.’ And I believe that will be the verdict.”
“Then what will happen to him?”
“If that is indeed the verdict, Father will be sent to Ypsilanti for sixty days, to be examined and evaluated by forensic psychiatrists. Then, dependent on their findings, he would be committed to a state facility until he is pronounced cured.”
Koesler pondered for a moment. “Then there is a chance he will be free someday?”
Koznicki nodded as he blew over the surface of his hot coffee and tasted it. He wondered if there were any diplomatic way of suggesting that Father Koesler take a lesson or two in coffee-making from Mrs. O’Connor. Or from anyone, for that matter.
“And then what?” It was Koznicki’s turn to ask.
“Then?”
“If and when Father Kramer is pronounced cured and released from custody, what will happen to him then? What will the Church do?”
“A good question.” Koesler sipped the coffee. He could not tell the difference between Koesler-brewed coffee and anyone else’s. “I’m not sure. I think it would be impossible for him to return to a ministry here. Not with all the notoriety of this case.”
“But Father, the publicity has been nationwide. For all practical purposes, worldwide!”
“You’re right. It has. So then what? A missionary to the backwoods of some Third World country where there hasn’t been any news of anything? Something hidden away in one of the chancery offices? I don’t know. This sort of thing scarcely happens. Only once in my lifetime—and this is it.”
They were silent for a time. Koesler picked up one of the cookies Mrs. O’Connor had thoughtfully put out. He nibbled as he mused. Suddenly he brightened. “I think I have a solution, Inspector. But you’re going to accuse me of having watched too many soap operas.”
“I would never do that to you, Father. Your solution?”
“A good part of Dick Kramer’s treatment, rehabilitation, what-have-you, will consist in coming to terms with himself—and with his priesthood. It is distinctly possible that in the time he is in therapy he may evolve a whole new outlook on life—life in general, his personal life, his life in the priesthood.
“I could well imagine that when he walks away from prison he may walk away from the priesthood as well.”
“You really can?”
“Uh-huh. It would solve a lot of problems—for himself and for the Church. The Church really has no place to put him. And he must learn to live with what he’s done. He’ll have his hands full just doing that.
“Which leads me to my final thought for Dick Kramer: Call it a wish or a prayer—but I hope he will marry Sister Therese Hercher.”
Shock passed over Koznicki’s face.
“With his most peculiar set of circumstances,” Koesler continued, “I expect he could get one of those rare laicization decrees that would enable him to marry in the Church. Therese could comparatively easily be released from her vows. It certainly would not be the first time in modern history that a priest and a nun would marry. She fairly worships him—a fact that has been evident to nearly everyone but him. And he will need her. He will desperately need her.
“And that, Inspector, is as close as I can come to a happy ending. And it’s a long way off with plenty of ‘ifs’ all around it.”
Koznicki touched napkin to his lips. Koesler helped him into his coat and accompanied him to the door.
“Giving it some thought,” Koznicki said, turning back at the doorway, “I very much like your scenario for Father Kramer. And I join you in your prayer. But one final question, Father. Before you found the motto of Pope Pius, did it never even once enter your mind that Father Kramer might be guilty?”
Koesler smiled. “Just once. Officer Mangiapane told me about the show-up when that eyewitness identified Father Kramer. I was sure she was mistaken. Then, when it seemed certain that Arnold Bush had committed all three murders, I had to wonder. The witness said the man she saw on those front steps had ‘kind eyes.’ Bush’s eyes are hard, even cruel. Father Kramer has the gentle eyes.”
They bade goodbye.
As Koesler closed the door, he realized he had to add one plea to his prayer for Father Kramer. That one day he might be able to forgive himself.
42
In the background, on TV, the Red Wings were playing the Black Hawks. As with any time a Detroit team played a Chicago team—football, basketball, baseball or, in this case, hockey—there were no holds barred.
Neither Alonzo Tully nor Alice Balcom were paying much attention to the game. Each worked very intensely at very difficult jobs and whenev
er possible they spent quiet times together.
Tonight they were intertwined at one end of the couch. Tully was massaging Alice’s shoulders and neck. Alice emitted periodic sighs of pleasure and unwinding.
“It’s all over, isn’t it, Zoo?”
“Over? Not hardly; the Wings are down by only two goals.”
“Not the hockey game, Zoo; the case. The Cass Corridor Slasher.”
Tully snorted. “Goddam, I’m not sure. Everytime it looks like we’ve got a lock on it, something else develops.” He paused. “Forget it. You’re right. It’s dead now. It’s over.”
“And Kramer is guilty of the first two?”
“Pleading insanity.”
“Will it stick?”
After hesitation: “Probably.”
“Are you sure?”
Pause. “No. That’s up to the court. We got the guy.”
“And the third was a copycat.”
“Yeah. Bush. Arnold Bush.”
“One thing I can’t figure. The other guy—Bush—he set up Kramer, didn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But how did he know Kramer did the first two?”
“Blast Yzerman! Can you beat that! Gets a penalty while we’re two goals down and five minutes left in the game! . . . What? How did he know? He didn’t know. What he knew was we released an artist’s sketch of the killer. Bush knew the sketch resembled him. He also knew he looked like Kramer. The killer dressed like a priest, drove a black Ford, looked very much like both himself and Kramer. After that it didn’t much matter.
“As far as Bush was concerned it didn’t make much difference whether Kramer was the guilty one or not. Though the possibility there was a third look-alike out there dressing like a priest, et cetera, was pretty slim.
“Bush, of course, knew the killer’s M.O. He saw the results of it in the morgue. His plan was to set Kramer up, have him arrested. If Kramer actually was guilty, so much the better. If he wasn’t, like as not the real killer would lay low for a while and see what happened to Kramer—who might just take the fall. Then, as soon as Kramer is out on bail, Bush had one free copycat murder at his disposal, which would satisfy his need for revenge on whores and which could be dumped on Kramer.
Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries: fk-10 Page 30