The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  Just as Koesler completed his call to the Connor Street Police Station, Father Pompilio stepped into the rectory living room. It was impossible to miss the distress on Koesler’s face.

  Pompilio put his hand on Koesler’s shoulder. “What is it? What’s wrong, Bob?”

  Koesler recounted as quickly as possible what he’d found in the convent, adding, “Paul, it looks like an accident. Just a horrible accident.”

  “Oh my God! Oh my God! I’ve got to get over there.” Even as Pompilio left the rectory, sirens could be heard, and the police cars pulled up to the convent.

  Koesler leaned back in the overstuffed black leather chair and lit a cigarette. Only then did he notice how badly his hands were shaking. And why not? Sister Ann had been a friend. To discover her nude and dead had been deeply shocking. More fundamentally, Koesler had to admit, he’d always had what he could only describe as a natural revulsion for dead bodies. Anything from a dead bird or mouse to a dead human. On those occasions when he’d been called to anoint someone who was apparently dead, it had required a conscious, determined effort to touch those cold, hard, bluish eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, and hands. Whenever it happened, the rest of the day or night, depending on when he was called, was shot.

  He remembered just a couple of months ago on a Saturday, he was eating lunch alone at St. Ursula’s when a call came in that one of the parishioners had been found dead and could a priest come. He was the only priest within shouting distance. So he pocketed his sick call set and walked the two blocks. A crowd of neighbors and the curious had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the house. He stepped through them and up to the front door. Someone had kicked in the glass. He looked in through the door and noticed the police were talking to someone at the rear of the house. Looking down, he saw that a drapery had been thrown down on the other side of the door, probably, he thought, to cover the broken glass. As he stepped through the door frame, his foot touched the drapery, which, he unmistakably sensed, covered not glass but the dead man. In horror, he pulled his leg back through the frame. With that, some idiot child on the street began chanting in glee, “He stepped on the dead guy’s face! He stepped on the dead guy’s face!” The child was precisely correct. And that experience had ended all further thoughts of lunch and even dinner that day.

  But Sister Ann! What a loss. She was giving so much of herself. He felt doubly guilty that he had experienced that same revulsion for her in death that he had with everyone else in the past.

  The quiescence, the cigarette, and the cup of coffee Sophie had brought him were beginning to have a soothing effect when suddenly he remembered the rosary. The rosary. He remembered thinking the tub was an unlikely place to bring a rosary. But there was something else. Something he could not quite place that bothered him.

  Of course. He searched his pants pocket and emerged with two rosaries. One his, the other the one the Baldwin girl had given him. The one Father Lord had been found holding. He could not remember exactly, but it seemed that the rosary he had found in Sister Ann’s hand was similar to this one.

  He’d better get over to the convent.

  As Koesler approached the convent, he realized he must have been lost in deep reverie not to have been aware of all this commotion. The entire neighborhood seemed to have gathered.

  The crowd easily deferred to Koesler as he made his way from the rectory. “What is it?” “What happened?” “What’s going on, Father?”

  He could not pause to speak with any of them. “It’s an accident. A bad accident,” he murmured as he walked quickly toward the convent.

  As he reached the front door, he was nearly knocked over by two white-uniformed men who were exiting. Between them was a stretcher holding what must have been Sister Ann’s body, wrapped in a plastic container. He’d seen this sight hundreds of times on television and in the movies. But this was the first time he’d ever seen it in reality.

  He shuddered. A person’s whole life impersonally packaged in plastic. There was a collective gasp from the crowd. They knew what this was. They just didn’t know who it was.

  By the time Koesler reached the dead woman’s room, the various proceedings were nearly concluded. The most evident figure in the room was Father Paul Pompilio. He was doing his best to make sure he would be in this story. Channels 2 and 7 had sent mobile crews. The Channel 7 group was packing its gear. Channel 2 was still filming. In the center of their klieg lights was Pompilio, talking about what a sad day this was for the Church in Detroit that such a tragic accident could remove so vital a religious figure from our midst. Koesler was fairly sure that when the tapes were edited, Pompilio would not be as prominently featured as he obviously hoped. Looking about the room, Koesler recognized Warren Reston of the Detroit News. He was talking with one of the six burly policemen in the room and taking notes. There was one other man, whom Koesler didn’t know, standing by the wall near the bed. Koesler guessed he must be a newsman or a plainclothes cop. Koesler approached him.

  “Excuse me. Are you a police officer?”

  “No. Cox with the Free Press. If you want to talk to a cop, the one to see is the guy standing near the bathroom. He’s in charge.”

  “Thanks.” Koesler wove his way through the crowded room. As he did, he noticed the small pool of water where he and Angelo had placed the body. But no rosary.

  “Excuse me, officer, did you find a rosary on the floor here?”

  The policeman, who had been writing on a small pad, looked up. His eyes swept Koesler, starting with the priest’s shoes and ending at his eyes. “You the one who found the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t a moved it.”

  “I’m sorry. I know we shouldn’t. It was just instinct.”

  “You shouldn’t a moved it.” Sergeant Ross believed repetition was the mother of learning. In his precinct in the heart of Detroit, Ross saw lots of bodies, most of them murdered, some of them drug-related assassinations, some of them the famed family quarrel that ends with a gun. Somebody was always fooling around with evidence. It made police work that much harder. It didn’t hurt to repeat warnings. “What’s your name, Father?”

  “Koesler. Robert W.”

  “Is that K-e-s-s-1-e-r?” he asked as he wrote.

  “K-o-e-s-l-e-r.”

  “We have a statement from…” He flipped three pages back in his note pad. “…one Angelo Trupiano. Now I’d like to get yours.”

  Koesler told him the whole story. As he did, he was peripherally aware that the Free Press reporter had moved close enough to listen and was also taking notes.

  “Now, what’s this about a rosary?”

  “It was on the floor when I left here.”

  “I know. We found it. Mr.…” He flipped back again. “…Trupiano told us the deceased was holding it. Crazy place for a rosary. The bathtub.”

  “Where is it now, please?”

  “We have it. Evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  “In the deceased’s death. The cause of death is not yet determined.”

  “But it looked to me like an accident. It looked like she slipped getting into the tub, was knocked unconscious, and drowned.”

  “That may be a fair assessment of the present physical evidence.” Ross regarded amateur detectives as being as helpful as bunions. “But we won’t know till the autopsy. Until then, everything’s evidence.”

  “Autopsy?”

  “Routine. What is your interest in the rosary?”

  Koesler told the Sergeant about Father Lord and the rosary he’d been found holding, about how he—Koesler—had received it, and that he wasn’t sure, but he thought the two rosaries were similar. Throughout the statement, Ross’ expression remained unchanged as he jotted notes. But Koesler sensed a heightened interest from the reporter, who had now moved closer to them and was writing furiously.

  “Do you have this rosary in your possession at the present time?” Ross asked.

  “Yes, I have it right here.�
�� Koesler fished out both rosaries, separated Lord’s from his and returned his own rosary to his pocket.

  Ross took a small white envelope from his pocket, made a notation on it and opened it. “Would you please place it in here? We will advise you as to its whereabouts after the investigation is concluded. You will be available here if we need further information?”

  “Yes. At least you can reach me at the rectory. Is that all you want me for, now?”

  “Just one more thing.” Ross closed his note pad and tucked it and his pencil away in his inside jacket pocket. “If you hadn’t come over here to see me, I would have come over to see you.”

  With that they parted.

  But Cox was by no means done.

  “Excuse me, Father. Could I get a little more information about this rosary business? Did you say the nurse who gave you the rosary was Nancy Baldwin?”

  “Yes, she’s a nurse at St. Mary’s.”

  He knew. He knew. Small world. Same girl from whom he’d gotten his exclusive story on the Lord murder. Cox had Koesler go over the story again to make certain of every detail. He thanked the priest and hurried from the convent.

  As he turned onto Gratiot heading downtown, Cox could hardly contain himself. The TV people had locked themselves into an “accidental death” story. If the nun had been murdered, the News might discover it in time for Sunday’s edition. But he, and he alone of the media, had a possible link between the murder of a priest and a nun. If it were true, he was certain the police would not hand out that kind of information. They’d have to prove it, and they’d want to do it quietly. For him, it was an accessible story that would set this town on its ear.

  He propped his press card on the dashboard, locked his car, and walked toward the Wayne County Morgue. Since it didn’t matter to the dead nun now, he fervently hoped she’d been murdered.

  It was fortunate for Koesler that he’d been out of town on Sunday. For on Sunday, the Free Press had published Joe Cox’s story. “MURDER OF PRIEST AND NUN LINKED,” screamed the front-page headline. The bugline read, “Rosary Killer?”

  By Saturday evening, Koesler had felt wiped out. He called a Franciscan friend at Dims Scotus monastery, and asked if he’d cover Koesler’s Mass schedule at St. Ursula’s the next day. He told Pompilio—who was flipping back and forth between Channels 2 and 7 to determine which was giving him better exposure—that he’d be out of town until Sunday night, but that the Franciscan would cover his Masses.

  After supper, he drove out I-94 to a small cabin on Lake Huron. He and three of his priest classmates had bought the cabin several years before. It was their retreat. No newspapers or television or magazines. Not even a telephone. There he could be alone. Not only was it still very much winter that far north, he was further assured of solitude, because the other priests would be busy Saturday night and Sunday.

  And so he had missed the big Free Press story, as well as dozens of phone calls.

  Now, on Monday, he had just completed the eight o’clock Mass, after which several disturbed parishioners had given him sketchy details of the Free Press’ Sunday story. He was now addressing a breakfast of corn flakes, bananas, and milk. There was a batch of phone messages from Sunday, all of which had been taken and recorded by Father Pompilio. They were paper-clipped together under a cover note from Pompilio. “Dear Bastard,” the note read, “Here are your Sunday calls. The next time you take a goddam Sunday off, hire a secretary.”

  Koesler smiled and began shuffling through the messages. Most were from friends and fellow priests. There were a few strange names. One of his two sisters had called; so had Nancy Baldwin (he hadn’t seen the Free Press story yet, but she must have been in that—two big stories featuring her this week, poor girl). Irene Casey had called. She probably wanted to know how the Detroit Catholic was going to handle the story now. Finally, there was a message, marked urgent, from Police Lieutenant Walter Koznicki. That name was familiar, but Koesler couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it. Probably in one of the papers. A return call was indicated on the lieutenant’s message. That looked pretty official, and Koesler resolved to make that call as soon as he finished breakfast.

  He didn’t have to wait. “There’s a call for you, Father,” Sophie was shouting from the kitchen. “It’s a Lieutenant Koznicki. Do you want to take it now?”

  “It’s O.K., Sophie. I’ll get it in the living room.” He regretted having to leave the crisp corn flakes. The next time he’d see them, they would undoubtedly be soggy. “Hello, Father Koesler here.” He could hear Sophie’s extension click off.

  “Father, this is Lieutenant Walter Koznicki. I’ve been reading about you in the paper.”

  “I haven’t read it yet. I was out of town yesterday.” Ordinarily, Koesler was given to flip repartee on the phone. But, ordinarily, he didn’t talk to police lieutenants about what was probably official business.

  “I know you were out of town.” Koznicki’s tone was that of one who somehow knew where everyone was at all times. “I have, of course, read the Free Press story. I also have a copy of the statement you gave Sergeant Ross last Saturday.”

  There was a pause, which Koesler was determined not to fill.

  “Father,” Koznicki continued, “there are several bits of information we need that only you can give. I wonder if you’d mind stopping by my office this morning. Say, ten o’clock.”

  “Gee, Lieutenant, I really ought to get down to the Detroit Catholic this morning. There are several things that need my…”

  “Father,” Koznicki interrupted. “It is of utmost importance that I see you at ten.” There was a perceptible change in his tone. This was no casual invitation. “I’d be glad to send a car…”

  Wow, Koesler thought, a bit of overkill.

  “No, that won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I’ll be there. You’re at police headquarters on Beaubien?”

  “No, I’m in special temporary offices on the fifth floor of the City-County Building. Simply take the elevator to the fifth floor and ask for me.”

  “Fine, I’ll see you at ten.” To hell with the corn flakes. Monday was quickly being ruined.

  Nelson Kane was treating Joe Cox to breakfast in the modest eatery on the first floor of the Free Press Building.

  Kane, slightly more than six feet tall, was in his mid-forties and fighting the battle of the bulge. Too many beers with the boys after big stories of the past had given him a paunch. Now that he was being considered for an executive position at the Free Press, he was trying to get his act together. Two or three times a week, he walked the six long blocks to the downtown YMCA for a workout. He was letting up on food and beer consumption. Not, however, on straight whiskey. He subscribed, philosophically, to the drinking man’s diet.

  The trick to conversing with Kane was to wait your chance to get a word in edgewise. Ostensibly, Kane had taken Cox to the coffee shop to congratulate him on his clear scoops, two in a row, the second better than the first. This far into breakfast, Kane had been conducting a nonstop monologue on the riot of ’67, for the coverage of which the Free Press had won a Pulitzer Prize. If humility is truth, then Kane was being humble. For, in objective reasoning, that Pulitzer was primarily due to Kane’s ingenuity, imagination, and dedication. That, in three words, was what Kane admired in Cox. A similar kind of ingenuity, imagination, and dedication. The total connotation of these three words was the only explanation for Cox’s latest stories.

  Cox, seated across the booth from Kane, was almost dwarfed by him. A graduate of Marquette University’s School of Journalism, Cox was the type of person who blended into backgrounds. Perhaps five-foot-seven, sandy-haired, clean-shaven except for a full mustache. His eyes were alert, constantly darting as if there were not enough time to absorb all the details of life.

  Kane was putting the “30’s” on his account of the riot. He ran a hand through his dark, thinning hair and shifted his everpresent cigar to the left side of his mouth. Something like a typewriter carriage, thought C
ox.

  “We made that goddam news happen, Joe,” Kane was winding down. “I mean, it was one of the most goddam satisfying moments I’ve ever had.”

  “Yeah, I remember reading it and thinking at the time it would be a great story to cover.”

  “Not to regret. These latest two stories of yours are great son-of-a-bitch stories.”

  “There was an element of luck.”

  “Luck, hell. Nobody else got ’em.”

  “Yeah, but the whole thing could’ve gone down the tube if the nun hadn’t been murdered or the coroner hadn’t discovered it so quickly.”

  “I’ll give you that. The speed was a break.”

  “Actually, kind of clumsy of whoever did it. The bruises on her shoulders would’ve been enough, but then when the doc found that she’d been drowned first and then had her head smashed against the wall—there was just no more doubt.”

  “It’s goddam crazy. You’d think with all these cop shows on TV, everybody’d know what you can do with forensics.”

  “It kinda makes you wonder about the killer. Is he that dumb, or is he trying to tell somebody something?”

  “Too early to tell. There’s no damn connection between the two murders except those goddam rosaries.”

  “And right now, that’s pretty thin. That’s why I had to write such an iffy story. That rosary connection could fall apart fast.”

  “Right. And everybody’s got a piece of the story now. It’s gonna be harder than hell to stay ahead of it. Kid, this is our goddam story. We broke it. And we’re gonna finish it. You’d better get your ass over to headquarters and find out who’s in charge of the investigation.”

  “Right.”

  With that, Kane rose abruptly and quickly passed through the foyer into the elevators. Cox was about to leave when he noticed the check on the table, It was left to him to pay for breakfast.