The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  “Poor Mike. From the reports, it seemed it was a quick death.”

  “Instantaneous.”

  There seemed to be nothing further to discuss about the murder. In addition, it always seemed awkward holding a conversation in church. Koesler beckoned Koznicki to follow him. “Won’t you have a little breakfast with me? And you can tell me what brings you here today.”

  Koznicki quieted Sophie’s surprise at having a guest for breakfast by requesting just toast and coffee.

  “When my secretary told me she was unable to contact you in time yesterday and that you had come all the way downtown for our appointment, I decided I owed you a visit.”

  Koesler noted that his breakfast companion ate his toast unbuttered. Dry toast and coffee! There must be some meal during the day when that bulk gets filled, he thought, but said only, as he waved an empty spoon in reply to Koznicki’s quasi-apologetic statement, “Oh, that’s all right; couldn’t be helped.”

  “I wonder,” Koznicki rubbed the thumb and index finger of both hands over his plate, gently distributing crumbs, “if you have the material you were talking about that we would have discussed at our meeting yesterday.”

  “Yes, sure. I brought it home with me. Just a minute and I’ll get it.”

  Koznicki looked about the rectory dining room. Strange to hear a place like a rectory referred to as “home.” Since Koesler worked at an office, it was not true in his case, but, for most priests, a rectory was half home and half business, and neither one did any priest own. He was trying to think of people who lived where they worked and simply waited for customers to come. No advertising. No sales pitch. He had thought of no one but priests and, perhaps some ministers, when Koesler returned with a manila folder.

  “Here, this should help.” Koesler opened the folder and spread the clippings before Koznicki. “It may not be everything on Harold Langton, but it’s all I could find. However, I think these clippings are indicative of something.”

  “Yes. For one thing,” Koznicki had arranged the clippings so that their datelines corresponded with their geographic locations in the state, “our friend Langton gets around a good deal.”

  “And at times he is violent.”

  “And, at times he is violent,” Koznicki echoed. “I’ve been vaguely aware of Mr. Langton, mostly from items in the papers. I haven’t met the man. I’d have no reason to. He hasn’t murdered anyone—that we know of.”

  Koesler did not miss the point, but he was concerned about what would happen to Langton. This was the first time since childhood that Koesler had considered himself a stool pigeon. “What will happen now?”

  “To Langton?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll do some quiet investigating, probably call him in, ask a few questions. With all due respect, Father, is your conscience bothering you?”

  Koesler smiled self-consciously. “Yes, a little bit.”

  “I can understand that, Father. You’re thinking of yourself as an ‘informer’ with regard to Mr. Langton. You shouldn’t. Mr. Langton probably would have surfaced rather early in our investigation. You’ve just saved us some time. And remember, right now he is not a suspect. He is a lead. One of the better leads, I might add.”

  “That surprises me.” Koesler poured a second cup of coffee for himself and another for his guest. “I mean that Langton would be such a good lead. I mean, you’ve got that composite picture from those hospital witnesses.”

  “You saw the picture?”

  “Last night on the local TV news.”

  “Did it remind you of anyone?”

  Koesler thought a moment. “Now that you mention it, no.”

  Koznicki smiled. “That’s the way it goes, pretty much, with composites. Look at it this way, Father,” Koznicki shifted in his chair as Sophie quickly cleared away the breakfast dishes. “We have a picture of someone who was described to our artist by two people who saw the suspect briefly. It did not remind you of anyone. It will not remind most who see it of anyone. Some will misidentify it. Rarely does such a lead result in an arrest.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way. But now that I remember the composite drawings I’ve seen in papers and magazines, they hardly ever look like a real human being.” Koesler was anxious not to take too much of Koznicki’s time, but the policeman showed no sign of haste.

  “In addition, Father, the description we have is from two hospital employees who were unable to identify a man who may, indeed, work at the hospital. He may simply have been out of his designated station at that time. In that case, he would really be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You’re checking on whether or not he’s an employee?” Koesler had not yet decided whether he preferred the always-resolved challenge of mystery novels or the danger of real murders that might never be solved. But, like it or not, he was thoroughly caught up in the Rosary Murders.

  “Of course, Father, we are checking into that even now.” Koznicki sensed the priest’s fascination and wished to encourage it. Police regularly depend on every conceivable source of help. “So you see, Father, with our case as open as it is, your suggestion of Mr. Langton as a lead is most appreciated. Our investigation may clear him entirely. If so, it is to his benefit. If not, we may have closed our case.”

  Inasmuch as Koznicki gave no indication of wishing to leave, Father Koesler invited the policeman into the living room, where they could continue their discussion more comfortably. Koznicki swiftly appraised the rectory living room. Large color TV, an adjoining office space, a series of tasteless pictures on the walls, and several pieces of overstuffed leather-covered furniture, not one piece of which matched any other. Typical of a series of male occupants in search of decorless comfort.

  “You were saying, Lieutenant, something about closing the case. Did you mean that in terms of catching the murderer or does that imply you think there may be more murders?”

  “Both.” Koznicki settled himself in a too-soft armchair. “If we catch the culprit now, there will, of course, be no more of these murders. However, I do not believe our murderer is finished.

  “For instance, Father, consider the Oakland County killer. He murders young boys and instead of discarding the bodies carelessly or trying to conceal them, he arranges them carefully. Particularly by his method of disposing of his victim’s bodies, he is communicating something to the police that may help them stop him.

  “Or take that special series of murders in New York City. The primary victims are young brunette women, each of whom was shot with a .45-caliber pistol. The murderer sends notes to the police and news media signing himself ‘Sam’s Creation.’ So, he’s known as ‘Son of Sam.’ He, too, communicates to help the police catch him. Otherwise, no communication would take place.

  “Now, our murderer is very subtle. So far, the rosaries he leaves behind are the only clue that definitely joins the murders. Yet, it is almost accidental that we’ve found them. He will not help us very much. Think, Father, what have we so far?”

  “Three murder victims, two priests, one nun.”

  Koesler had been paying rapt attention. He was glad to rejoin the conversation. “One murder on a Wednesday, two on Fridays. Ten days between victims one and two, one week between two and three.”

  “Tell me then, Father, do you see any pattern at all besides the rosaries?”

  Koesler needed no time for this answer. “No, I certainly don’t.”

  “Well, then,” said Koznicki, rising, “if the killer continues with his careful planning or we do not get very lucky, there will be more murders, and a pattern may emerge more clearly. As disconnected as everything seems so far, I am certain the killer is telling us something we simply do not yet understand. If he should finish whatever it is he’s planned, we should by then understand what he’s been trying to tell us. But, by then, of course, we will have been too late.”

  “Like the medical examiner,” Koesler added.

  “Exactly. The one who discovers eve
rything when it’s too late to do anything. So, Father,” Koznicki slipped his coat on and took his hat, “there’s something more for you to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Think about it. Just think about it. Something may click. You like solving puzzles.”

  With that and a word of thanks for breakfast, Koznicki departed. As Koesler shut the door, it occurred to him that if he thought about this long enough, he’d probably move to New York, where it was safe.

  Father Dailey’s death had been discovered too late for any significant coverage in the Saturday Free Press. It was one of those stories that fit radio and television perfectly.

  Ordinarily, Joe Cox would not have come into the Free Press on a Saturday. But today he was working on an article about the priest’s murder for the Sunday editions.

  The story almost wrote itself. Facts of the killing: time, place, caliber of gun. Details of the victim’s life—most of these facts Cox had culled from the Detroit Catholic’s morgue. Connection with the other “Rosary Murders.” Statements from the police, city officials, members of Dailey’s “team,” and remarks from parishioners.

  Once again, Cox picked up the composite picture of the supposed killer that had been released by the AP Friday. He could think of thirty or forty people who resembled the indefinite line drawing—including his former wife.

  Actually, he had picked up the drawing several times as a better excuse for studying Pat Lennon, who was also working on a story. Although her desk was two removed from Cox’s, this Saturday there was no one occupying those desks. Cox simply was not sure of Pat Lennon. She exuded sensuality in her walk, the way she stood, always with her weight on one or the other foot, her husky voice, her full figure. If you’ve got it, her attitude seemed to imply, flaunt it. Yet, in several months of working in the same office, she had never exchanged more than a few words with Cox.

  He thought of whistling or humming a chorus of “Some Enchanted Evening,” but dismissed that as too uncool. He also considered tapping out a Morse Code message on his typewriter but quickly discarded that. His article completed, he decided to linger, type a letter or two and, if desperate, try the repetitious “The quick brown fox…” He was determined to stay until she was through with her work and see what, if anything, might develop.

  At the moment she was smiling. And, Cox thought, the smile made her particularly appetizing.

  Pat Lennon was doing a story on Michigan State Police patrolling the Detroit freeway system. The state police had taken over this job almost a year ago. Because of budget and manpower cuts, both the Detroit Police and the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department had been forced to cut back the number of cars they could put on the freeways. It had not taken long for Detroit’s dedicated looters to take advantage of the opportunity. As a result, motorists were fearful of driving on Detroit freeways, and cars that had to be abandoned there soon became carrion for criminal vultures. But soon after the state police took over patrolling, the message went out through Detroit’s petty crime community that the freeways were no longer safe for looting. Now, nearly a year later, the freeways were among the safest places in the metropolitan area.

  Pat was smiling as she completed her article for tomorrow’s paper. She was typing out an anecdote one of the state troopers had given her during an interview. A motorist had told the trooper the story just after the state police had assumed responsibility for the freeways. The motorist had been driving his pickup truck on the Lodge Expressway near Woodward, when the engine began to ping. He pulled off onto the shoulder, opened the hood, and began looking among the maze of wires and innards for the source of the trouble. Suddenly, he got the impression his truck was moving. Walking around to the rear of the truck, he saw two black men jacking up the back bumper. They looked slightly startled when they saw him, but one of them hurriedly explained, “It’s O.K., you can have the engine; all’s we wants is the tires!”

  Pat finished typing the story, giggled audibly, wrote a concluding paragraph to the article, and was done.

  As she whipped the paper out of the carriage, her eyes met Cox’s intently for a moment. She said, simply, “Let’s.”

  Dropping their copy in the copy editor’s basket, the two walked off together into the sunset.

  One of Detroit’s living legends was Mother Mary Honora. Ten years before, at the age of sixty, she had decided to end a forty-two-year career as a parochial school teacher. At an age when most people anticipate a proximate retirement, she had begun a fresh vocation of social activism. As a member of the Immaculate Heart of Mary order, she had taught a goodly number of Catholics throughout the state of Michigan, many of whom were now prominent clergymen, nuns, politicians, and business and labor leaders. She preferred the title “Sister,” but so many Detroiters remembered her in a series of Mother Superior roles that everyone continued calling her “Mother.”

  She lived in a small mansion in what had once been an extremely wealthy section of Detroit near the cathedral. Most of the stately old homes still stood; some were occupied by families of some means, mostly black professionals. Some were owned by a few of the major pimps and drag dealers. A few were a sort of revolving door for fairly bizarre cults. Prophet Jones had lived in the neighborhood. So had Sweet Daddy Grace. It was an area in Detroit’s north central section that couldn’t quite make up its mind what it was going to become. The neighborhood had barely escaped being a victim of the 1967 riots.

  Mother Mary had moved into a house her IHM order had purchased for her. Two other IHM sisters, both slightly older than Mother Mary, had moved in with her, both because they admired her and to escape being put on a religious shelf. The two cooked, kept house, and generally made themselves useful dispensing food, medicine, and clothing that Mother Mary scrounged from every possible source. Together, they were as sweet and lovable as the two sisters in Arsenic and Old Lace, without the arsenic.

  Mother Mary had known little of the special problems of the poorest urban section of a city like Detroit. But she brought a generous heart and a willingness to learn and help. Just after moving into their Arden Park home, there had been a learning experience that still embarrassed the three nuns, although Mother Mary could laugh about it now. The one room they had been most eager to complete was their makeshift chapel. They had converted what had been a good-sized den in the front of the house into an attractive place for worship. Several priest friends agreed to take turns saying Mass there.

  After the first Mass in their prized chapel, the nuns wanted to show everyone that Christ in the Eucharist had taken residence in their neighborhood. So the good nuns had placed a large red vigil candle in the chapel’s front window. One of their more sympathetic neighbors discreetly told the nuns the next morning what a red light in the front window would more likely signify in that or any adjacent neighborhood. The nuns agreed there were more effective ways of getting their message across and hastily removed the light.

  Since that and other similar early blunders, Mother Mary, if not her two companions, had grown streetwise. She did not seek publicity, but it was a rare month when Mother Mary did not appear in one or more of the local news media. At times her copy was so appealing she appeared in the national media too. There was, for instance, the time the city council wanted to destroy some very livable houses in the name of urban renewal. To make their point, in the face of determined opposition led by Mother Mary, the city fathers had a wrecking crew go through the homes destroying bathroom facilities. That evening, viewers of Detroit television news watched as Mother Mary presented a toilet seat to the members of the common council. Then there was the time Mother Mary’s picture appeared on the front pages of both the News and the Free Press, as well as on all three television channels. Clad in full IHM habit, there she was, a member of a picket line around Detroit’s Playboy Club, along with some of the bunnies. It wasn’t that she was in favor of bunnydom; she simply agreed with their demand for better wages.

  Today, she was bundled against the biting
chill in her great blue coat over her habit. Sister Anita had insisted she wear her heavy overcoat. “This is the time of year,” Sister Anita had warned, as she supervised Mother Mary’s departure, “when Detroiters come down with pneumonia. They think it’s got to be spring when it’s really still winter. We old ducks should have better sense. Besides, maybe you’ll encourage some of our neighbors to bundle up if they see you sensibly dressed.”

  Mother Mary’s thick round frame shook with laughter at the memory. Nothing else the nuns had done seemed to influence the lives of this overgrown ghetto. After ten years, there was still every bit as much crime, drug dealing, and murder as there had been when the nuns moved in. But if nothing else had been accomplished, the nuns had come to be accepted and loved by the poor, black and white, for whom they had been able to provide some of life’s necessities.

  As she walked briskly along Rosa Parks Boulevard, nearly every passerby greeted her with a cheery word. “Hi, Mothah Mary. How you do-un?” She returned each greeting, occasionally halting to speak with one whose personal crisis she knew to be particularly precarious.

  She no longer needed to beg for food or clothing. Everyone from the Teamsters to city and state politicians to suburban parishes saw to it that Mother’s Arden Park home was well stocked regularly. From time to time, downtown businesses sponsored fund-raising events for her mission.

  Today’s journey was to neighborhood branches of the large supermarket chains. It was common for them to rip off the poorer sections. Sometimes fresh hamburger was wrapped around stale meat. As long as it looked good, the poor would buy it. And when they learned that they’d been duped, they had no way of protesting. More often than not, prices were higher in poorer urban sections than in suburbia. Ghetto residents either didn’t have the transportation to shop elsewhere or didn’t even understand comparison shopping.