“It worked pretty good until that priest spotted that photo in Bush’s apartment.”
“‘That priest,’” Alice reminded, “was more help than you thought he’d be.”
Tully chuckled. “You ain’t gonna let me forget that, are you? If Koesler hadn’t been so goddam stubborn about Kramer bein’ innocent, God knows what woulda happened. Kramer was up for Murder One—two counts—until Koesler found Bush. Then Bush was up for Murder One—three counts—until Koesler found the key to the puzzle. Now Kramer will probably walk when the shrinks say he’s cured. And Bush’ll rot for his copycat crime.”
“A little lower, Zoo. Bight there between the shoulder . . . ahhh. So, like I said, the priest was more help than you thought he’d be.”
“There were times when I thought he was more of a hindrance than a help. But when he located the branding iron Kramer used, I had to admit you were right.”
Alice sat bolt upright. “He found the iron!”
“Yup. That hasn’t got to the news yet.”
“And you didn’t tell me!”
“I been busy.
“Actually, he didn’t find the thing; he told us where to look. He said he got the idea from talking to some old priest in a nursing home. It was some kind of joke about a guy who flunked his priest test when he said they should burn down a church and throw the ashes in a sacrarium.”
“A suck-what?”
“Somebody—Mangiapane probably—was talkin’ to Koesler about how we’d looked everywhere for the iron. We practically took Kramer’s car and the rectory and the church apart lookin’ for that iron. So Koesler ups and says how Kramer probably considered the iron a sacred instrument in what Doc Moellmann said was a ritual. And when they’re done with sacred items, priests are supposed to dispose of them so they won’t be desecrated by us human beings. And the traditional place to do that is the sacrarium.”
“The suck-what?”
“Babe, I’m gonna end up knowin’ so many Catholic words I’ll be able to teach catechism. In the sacristy—where the priest gets dressed for Mass—there’s a sink they call the sacrarium. It don’t lead to the sewer system. It goes straight into the ground. We dug out the sacrarium in Mother of Sorrows church and—voila!—the branding iron. And with all the letters on it . . . just like Koesler found in that Pope’s motto.”
“Your turn,” Alice announced.
He did not object as they traded places and she began to knead the tension from his shoulders.
“Well, that pretty well wraps it up” She paused. “You know, you could feel pretty sorry for that Father Kramer.”
Tully was in deadly earnest. “I could feel lots sorrier for him if I didn’t feel so bad about three ladies who would be alive today if it weren’t for him.”
Acknowledgments
Gratitude for technical advice to:
Robert Ankeny, Staff Writer, Detroit News
Roy Awe, Investigator, Attorneys' Grievance Commission
Olga Bachmann, Ph.D., and Rudy Bachmann, Ph.D., Clinical Psychologists
Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University
Sister Claudia Carlen, I.H.M., Archivist, Archdiocese of Detroit
Detroit Police Department:
Robert Hislop, Commander, Major Crimes Division
Sergeant Mary Marcantonio, Office of Executive Deputy Chief
Thistleton Robertson, P.O., Organized Crime Division
Barbara Weide, Lieutenant, Homicide Section
Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department
Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit
Sister Elizabeth Harris, H.V.M., Director, Women ARISE
Margaret Hershey, R.N., Pulmonary Care Unit, Detroit Receiving Hospital
Timothy Kenny, Deputy Chief, PROB, Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney's Office Noreen Rooney, Editor, TV Listings, Detroit Free Press
Andrea Solak, Principal Attorney, Grants and Legislation, Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney's Office
Werner Spitz, U.M.D., Wayne County Medical Examiner
Any technical error is the author's
Marked for Murder copyright © 1988, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
ISBN 978-1-4494-2367-4
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.
The Father Koesler Mysteries
1. The Rosary Murders
2. Death Wears a Red Hat
3. Mind Over Murder
4. Assault with Intent
5. Shadow of Death
6. Kill and Tell
7. Sudden Death
8. Deathbed
9. Deadline for a Critic
10. Marked for Murder
11. Eminence
12. Masquerade
13. Chameleon
14. Body Count
15. Dead Wrong
16. Bishop as Pawn
17. Call No Man Father
18. Requiem for Moses
19. The Man Who Loved God
20. The Greatest Evil
21. No Greater Love
22. Till Death
23. The Sacrifice
24. The Gathering
Here is a special preview of
Eminence
The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 11
1
He killed the first guy he ever shot.
Dumb luck, expertise, or a finely tuned reflex response? It didn't make a damn bit of difference to David Powell. He was dead.
David Powell, fifteen years old, grade school dropout, with a prodigious arrest record; purveyor of just about every manner of controlled substance, from the relatively innocuous marijuana to the current drug of choice, crack cocaine.
The essence of David Powell-soul or whatever-was gone now. What remained had been dropped on a slab in the morgue. How had Shakespeare expressed it-"Shrunk to this little measure . . . a bleeding piece of earth."
Alonzo Tully was not particularly strong on Shakespeare, but he was pretty sure of those phrases from Julius Caesar.
Zoo, as he was known to just about everyone, had been a Detroit police officer for twenty-two years, thirteen of them in Homicide. He dealt in death. He could not count the times he had stood in this dank, gray room in the Wayne County Medical Examiner's building, attending an autopsy. Certainly he had been here for each and every murder case he'd investigated.
Tully believed that each investigation needed all the help it could get. And, after the murder scene itself, the next best place to build one's case, chronologically and every other way, was the morgue. The autopsy process, and the morgue's boss, Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann, were instructive teachers.
However, Tully needed little enlightening with regard to the death of David Powell. The case, as Hollywood was wont to put it, was open and shut. Or, in the jargon of the police, a platter case, i.e., presented on a silver platter.
Tully had killed Powell. It was as simple as that-on paper. It was far more momentous to Tully.
In his twenty-two-year career as a police officer, Tully had had to draw his gun numerous times. But outside of a firing range, he had never pulled the trigger. A record by no means unique in the department.
He had told no one, but, last night, after it was over and the details were wrapped up, he had wept. It was the
first time since his childhood. And it hadn't happened that often even then. However, last night, at home, in Alice's arms, he had wept.
Tully dealt in death, but this was the first time he had ever killed anyone. And it had to be a kid!
Moellmann removed Powell's clothing meticulously. More than once, the M.E. had found bullets among the deceased's garments. Bullets that had plowed through a body, exiting to lie among the clothing. Once a bullet entered the body there was just no telling where it might go. The course and extent of damage depended on such variables as the angle of entry, the distance between weapon and target, the class of weapon, the type of bullet, and the path it took inside the body. Bullets had been known to ricochet off bones. Bullets had been known to penetrate the aorta and be transported via the bloodstream elsewhere in the body.
It was not unheard-of for Moellmann to wisecrack during autopsies. Today, out of deference to Tully, whom he respected, the M.E. merely made factual observations as he conducted his examination. And, due to his Prussian demeanor, which dictated that his subordinates follow his lead, the morgue was uncharacteristically quiet this morning as the other doctors mumbled through their respective autopsies.
The clothing was removed and packed away for subsequent examination by the police crime laboratory. Powell's body lay naked on the shiny metal tray. Firm, young flesh. A kid.
Memory transported Tully to the events of last evening that had led to this. He could remember every detail. Indeed, would he ever forget?
Actually, Tully's squad had been investigating another crime entirely. As happened so frequently in Detroit these days, it was a multiple homicide connected with the drug traffic. Three dismembered male bodies had been found in plastic garbage bags in an alley in the north-central section of the city. All three were known drug dealers. Drugs-the most common current cause of gang war in this and many other cities in America.
There followed some intense investigation, calling in of markers, and clandestine meetings with snitches. Everything pointed to a crack house on Curtis not far from Livernois in the vicinity of the University of Detroit.
Tully and five of his squad placed the house under surveillance. This was not a drug bust, nor did they want it to become one. They were looking for David Powell. According to their information, it was Powell who had shot the victims, execution-style, before they were dismembered.
The weather had been pleasant enough for an evening in late July. A clear sky, a gentle breeze, not oppressively hot.
The six officers were in three unmarked cars, cruising the streets, occasionally parking, but making sure that at least one of them was keeping the house in sight at all times. The sort of duty that too often seemed unending. As it had last night.
There were times, as traffic in and out of the house was fairly steady, that the officers strongly suspected the information given them was, intentionally or not, incorrect. Maybe David Powell was not in the house. Perhaps he had never been there.
Then it happened. At about half-past nine, just as it was getting dark, Powell was sighted at the door talking with three young people who had just arrived.
In a matter of seconds, all three cars drew up in front of the house. Sergeant Mangiapane, first on the sidewalk, was approaching Powell.
Tully cursed silently. Of all the officers on this detail, Mangiapane most resembled the stereotypical cop. Large, and a good target, he was walking too quickly, too purposefully.
Tully was out of his car only seconds behind Mangiapane.
Everything happened quickly, too quickly to be assimilated at that moment. Only later, in retrospect, could events be pieced together.
Tully saw the flash of the nickel-plated pistol as it emerged from Powell's cardigan. Evidently Powell had no doubt or hesitation. In one motion the gun was in his hand and aimed at Mangiapane, who was only then going for his own weapon.
But Tully's .38 was out as he shouted at Powell. Later, it seemed it had been the shout that had momentarily distracted Powell. He wavered for a split second, unsure as to whether he should fire at the big white cop in front of him or at the guy who was yelling.
At that instant of indecision, Powell opted for what should have been a sure kill directly ahead: he fired point-blank. Mangiapane spun and fell heavily to the pavement. Was Mangiapane dead or alive? Tully's presumption was that he was dead. How could Powell have missed the kill at that distance?
No time to speculate; the next shot would be at him. But it was a shot that would never come. Tully, aiming almost instinctively, fired once. Afterward, he remembered the look of almost childlike surprise on Powell's face-as if he had but a moment to wonder that his life was over so soon. Then he tumbled down the porch steps.
Pandemonium.
One of the other cars called for backup. In no time, the street was overflowing with cops keeping order and bystanders attempting to upset order.
Tully was numb. Of the numbers of dead and dying he had seen in the course of duty, this one alone belonged to him. Once in his career as a police officer, once in his entire life thus far, had he fired at anyone. And he had fired only once. One bullet, one dead person.
Absently, he wondered about that bullet. Where had it hit Powell? Before he could check out the dead man, Tully had been whisked from the scene. With all the ensuing commotion, no telling what might have happened next.
It seemed an unspoken consensus that it was essential to get two people out of there. Mangiapane needed medical attention and Tully needed protection from the crowd.
Two EMS vans had arrived only minutes after the shootings. Mangiapane and Tully were packed into one and Powell in the other. Powell had no vital signs. But the technicians worked on him feverishly just in case.
Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital pronounced him dead on arrival.
Mangiapane's was a shoulder wound. He was rushed from Mt. Carmel's emergency room to the operating room. His condition was now listed as stable. That announcement was for the media's benefit; Tully had more detailed information. Powell's bullet had lodged in Mangiapane's right shoulder. The bullet had been removed during a relatively brief operation. The prognosis was complete recovery. After an indeterminate time for rehabilitation, Mangiapane should be as good as new.
The fact that Mangiapane had caught the slug in his right shoulder interested Tully. Since he himself had come from Powell's left, Tully reasoned, his shout had distracted the kid just enough that he had shifted the gun ever so slightly toward the sound. Thus the bullet caught Mangiapane in the shoulder rather than inflicting a more serious wound to the chest.
Tully's stream of consciousness led him back to the question of his own bullet, the fatal shot. He returned his attention to Doc Moell-mann and the autopsy.
The M.E. had finished checking the body for bullet wounds, either entering or exiting. There was but one wound. The bullet had entered and stayed.
Tully stole a glance at the body chart Moellmann and the other doctors used to diagram wounds and marks. There was a notation that the wound's shape was oval, which indicated that the bullet had struck Powell's body at an angle. Only natural since Tully had fired from ground level up toward the porch. There were no powder burns; Tully had fired from a distance.
Moellmann continued his examination. Tully had to admit his interest was marginal. Unlike any other autopsy he'd ever attended, he knew exactly what had happened, who had done what to whom and, in all probability, what the conclusion would be. About the only question left to be determined was the path the bullet had taken and where it had finally lodged. Moellmann would take his time tracking its course.
There were, Tully supposed, medical examiners who cut and hacked their way through bodies in search of bullets. But not Moellmann nor his associates. Moellmann's creed was to describe the wound path in anatomical order and to document the path of the bullet by following the track of the hemorrhage through the organs before they were removed from the body. This saved the time and trouble of relying on X-rays to locate the bulle
t.
While Moellmann measured and probed, Tully's interest strayed to a body on an adjacent table. The dead man seemed to have been elderly. Quite obviously his throat had been cut. Another straightforward probable cause of death.
Dr. Thomas Litka noted Tully's interest. Catching Tully's eye, he nodded toward the corpse. "Zoo, meet John Doe Number 26."
"Only 26?"
Litka shrugged as he placed an abbreviated ruler alongside a gaping wound in John Doe's neck. "That's about par for this time of year."
Tully knew it was almost miraculous that the doctors, even with all their technology, managed to identify as many John and Jane Does as they did. From experience Tully knew that every avenue to identifying Number 26 had been explored with the probable exception of fingerprints.
"How about the prints?"
"Being processed." Dr. Litka did not look up. "But I've seen this kind of pickup too many times. They aren't going to find his prints. No sir, I got a hunch we'll keep him a month, then they'll bury him as Number 26."
Tully was willing to defer to Litka's experience. "Where'd they find him?"
"In an alley; northwest side, near Eight Mile."
"Last night?"
"Uh-huh."
"How long'd he been dead?"
"They made it sometime yesterday afternoon. Found him about 9:00 or 10:00 last night."
About the same time David Powell got his, thought Tully. Two exits: one old, one young.
"A bum," Litka continued, nodding toward the dead man's clothing, now in a neat pile. "No identification at all. Filthy. No labels. But all there. They didn't even take his shoes."
Tully wondered at it. So senseless. There ought to be a motive for something so violent, so cataclysmic as murder. Yet, not infrequently, there was none, or at least no detectable one.
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