“No. It’s what he refused to say. He was really open about just about everything else I asked.”
“Any chance you can get it?”
“I think I could get it if I could get into the room they call Control on the fifth floor. But I’ve tried everything. That task force Koznicki’s assembled ... I know it’s a cliché word, but the only way to describe it is ‘crack.’ And they’ve got no dummies on the door.” Cox paused a moment. “Nellie, if I could get it, would we use it?”
It was Kane’s turn to pause and then smile. “No, we gotta let the cops have their little secrets if they’re gonna stay employed. But, remember, we want to at least be in on the solution of this thing if we don’t crack it ourselves. So it would be good to know what they know. Hell, Joe, we don’t want to see any more murders than the cops do. But it’s a delicate balance. Stay on it.”
“O.K. I’m going to see Koznicki Monday and check out any good leads they may have gotten.”
Leaving Kane to finish looking over the freeway story, Cox reflected on how generally satisfying it was to work for a guy like that. There were few enough ethics or principles left in the news business. What few were left, Kane seemed to have. He wondered what might happen if Kane came out the loser in the current power struggle. It might just mean that Cox might be forced into job hunting. He cared too much about the profession of journalism to be drawn into a shlocky performance.
A rather promising day had developed into a brooding early evening. Clouds coaxed the sun into early obscurity. The humidity was high, and the wind spanked obsolescent street lights and made them shiver and sway, casting eerie shadows of bare tree limbs across the old and stately homes. It might better have been Halloween than the threshold of spring. But Michiganders knew this too would pass. As the popular local expression had it, if you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute and it’ll change.
Residents of Arden Park had either retreated into their homes for the night or were headed for weekend parties. The three nuns who lived at No. 25 had just begun eating their evening meal. Sister Mary Grace had spent a good part of the afternoon preparing a simple but savory fish dinner.
In her forty-three years as a nun, Sister Mary Grace had performed a potpourri of jobs, just about whatever her superiors had asked of her. In her first couple of decades as a religious, she had taught school. Later, when postgraduate degrees became both demanded and common, she had been directed into more domestic work. By now, she was the equivalent of a master chef, able to turn quite ordinary fare into near gourmet meals. Hers was an uncluttered life. Whatever she did, she did to the best of her ability and demanded no more of herself.
Sister Anita and Mother Mary had already complimented Sister Mary Grace on the meal, even though they had just begun it. Anticipating a satisfying dinner from Sister Mary Grace was the safest bet in town.
The casual passerby might have presumed this was far too large a home for three old ladies. What the casual passerby could not know was that the three nuns not only observed canonical poverty as one of their three vows, but they were frugal to the point of being genuinely poor. Outside of the one small front room they’d converted into a chapel, the other enormous street-side rooms were usually stocked with food, clothing and medicine that were dispensed liberally on designated days. When these rooms were not in use, they were shut off—without heat—from the rest of the house.
The sisters ate in what had been the servants’ dining area adjacent to the large kitchen. Usually, they ate in silence. On the one hand, they felt they had said and heard just about everything by this stage in their lives and, on the other, they were wise enough to know that silence is a positive virtue and one ought to have good reason for breaking it. The occasional exception was Sister Anita, who sometimes babbled a bit.
“I see they’ve just about completed the new Renaissance Center downtown.” Sister Anita threw the line out like a center jump ball. It was certain Sister Mary Grace would not contest it.
“Yes, they have,” replied Mother Mary, retrieving the conversational ball. “I saw it the other day. Looks like a concrete fortress. I didn’t get close enough to see if they’ve got a moat around it, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Sister Mary Grace left the table to get some homemade rolls that were toasting in the oven.
“Oh, dear, do you really think it’s that bad?” Sister Anita thought it so bad she rested her fork on her plate and pondered the possibility of a mistake that gigantic. “I thought this was supposed to be a fresh start for downtown Detroit.”
“A fresh start like the Tower of Babel.” Mother Mary delicately balanced a forkful of peas. “It may get a few more people in from the suburbs for a brief visit. Somebody even told me that Ford’s may move some of their office workers in from Dearborn. But it’s not going to do anything about the real problem. No, my dears, if there is one thing I grow more convinced of the longer I live, it is the words of our Blessed Savior, ‘The poor you will have with you always.’”
At the reassuring Biblical words, Sister Anita resumed her fork and pried apart a small morsel of fish. Sister Mary Grace threw open the napkin covering the rolls; a soft puff of smoke rose like a Native American’s signal, and the unique aroma of fresh-baked dough filled the small room.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it, dears.” Mother Mary, who always answered the doorbell, gave a determined shove against her chair and it skidded noisily over a few floor tiles. “It’s probably someone who knows we don’t have office hours.”
“Oh, Mary.” Sister Anita fluttered her napkin. “I forgot. We’re all out of meal tickets. What if it’s somebody or a family who needs food?”
“Then I’ll bring them back here.”
Sister Mary Grace was so startled she dropped her knife. It clattered against the butter dish. She had no talent for multiplying loaves and fish. Especially halfway through a meal.
“Don’t anyone get upset…” If Mother Mary had been any wider she would’ve had to exit the kitchen door sideways. “…I’ll handle it,” she said, quieting Sister Mary Grace’s fears.
Mother Mary waddled through the long hallways, floorboards creaking madly on either side as much from their age as from her weight. The thought crossed her mind that this was an unusually patient caller. The bell had not sounded again since its first ring. That was out of the ordinary.
She reached the door, then hesitated. She knew no conscious fear, but one couldn’t be too careful. There were, after all, the other two nuns to consider. She turned on the porch light and peered studiously through the semi-opaque door glass. The caller appeared to be a man of medium height, wearing a hat, and with his coat collar pulled up.
She unlocked the door and opened it. “Yes?” she said, her eyes fighting the shadows. “May I help you?”
The man took a step closer. Her eyes widened in recognition. She was about to smile, but something in his quick movement toward her changed the forming smile into a small gasp of surprise and fear. His left hand covered her mouth as, simultaneously, he thrust his right hand from tight at his side. She didn’t actually see the long broad knife. She caught only a reflection of light from its shining surface. In one powerful movement, it pierced her several layers of clothing, entered her side, brushed by a rib and lodged just beneath her heart. He twisted the knife; it tore through arteries, and blood gushed through the wound.
It was all so fast she felt little pain. No more than if she had received an injection. What pain there was was swallowed by shock. She staggered backward a step and then a half, stumbled and fell heavily on her back.
The man knelt quickly at her side, careful to avoid the blood that had already saturated her clothing, and was beginning to seep onto the tiled floor. Taking a plain black rosary from his pocket, he wrapped it around her left wrist and trailed the beads between her thumb and index finger. He closed the door behind him, removed his gloves, and walked quickly into the darkness.
With her right h
and, Mother Mary felt the wound, the knife still in it. She held the hand above her face, saw it covered with red. With her bloodied index finger, she traced some letters on the floor at her right side. Her finger stopped moving. The blood continued to pump from her chest. She began a silent prayer for forgiveness for her assailant. Her eyes stared at the ceiling but saw nothing.
It was one of those times when everything worked in favor of a police investigation. Sister Anita had grown impatient when Mother Mary did not return to the dinner table. Anita was the one who found the body, and she had called Sister Mary Grace. They knew that even together they could not have moved Mother Mary’s huge bulk, even heavier in death. So Anita called the police.
The first officers to respond noticed the rosary immediately and began the string of calls that would summon at least the key members of Koznicki’s special task force.
Within the first quarter hour, Sergeant Fred Ross, who had been having dinner with his family, was on the scene. In full uniform, within a few moments he had everything organized. As soon as enough members of the task force arrived, which was only a matter of minutes, Ross ordered the house cordoned off. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. They were mostly from Second Avenue; a few had been shopping on Woodward. Porch lights were on in most of the homes on Arden Park, but the residents were behind curtains, gawking at the growing number of police cars with their rotating flashing lights. It was not the typical scene one saw on TV or in the movies. Everything was too quiet. No sirens, no noise at all. The assembled crowd was waiting for someone to tell them what had happened. What was going on was efficient, brisk police work that required no explanations.
Detective Sergeant Dan Fallon had been about to begin his regular Friday night poker game when he was reached. He had been next on the team after Ross to arrive, in the same rumpled brown suit he’d been in all day. Ross had been mostly occupied with getting statements from the two nuns. Both Sisters had been confused and nervous. But under Fallon’s calm, sympathetic questioning they were able to remember more details than they had first thought they could. Meanwhile, Ross was guarding the body like a mother hen.
Lieutenant Koznicki had not been difficult to locate. His children had known where he was—at a dinner party in Grosse Pointe Farms—and the phone number. As soon as he was notified, he made arrangements to have his wife driven home after the party, and he then left immediately for Arden Park.
By far the most difficult member of the team to locate had been Sergeant Harris. He’d gone to a discotheque in northwest Detroit, and when finally reached by phone, there had been a good deal of shouting on both ends of the line just to be heard above the noise before he could understand the message. The last of the core group to arrive, he came up the walk just in time to meet the solitary and solemn figure of a priest, who was slowly descending the porch steps, having just given Mother Mary the last rites of the Church.
They made an odd-looking tableau as they stood around the dead woman’s body: Ross in uniform, Fallon in extremely plain clothes, Koznicki in a tuxedo, and Harris in black velvet trousers, a ruffled shirt, and a shrieking orange jacket.
“God, Walt…” Harris found himself shuddering. “…why would he hit Mother Mary?”
“Why would he hit any of them?”
“Yeah, but Mother Mary! Even her enemies liked her.”
“The shit is gonna hit the fan on this one,” said Ross reflectively.
There was no doubt all of them were stunned, just as everyone else would be once the news got out. For a moment, each was lost is his own thoughts.
Koznicki broke the silence. “It’s our first real break.”
“Yeah…” Fallon removed his hat and scratched his head with the same hand. “But what does it mean?”
“‘R-O-B’-robber? Do you think?” asked Harris, rhetorically.
“Not ‘robber,’ I think,” said Koznicki. “By the time she traced those three letters on the floor, she had been stabbed. She was dying and she probably knew it. I think we can safely assume that, because she did, indeed, die before she finished writing whatever she was trying to tell us. There was no point in telling us the person who killed her was a thief. If he were a thief, we’d know soon enough by what he stole.
“No, Mother Mary either knew or thought she knew her assailant. And she tried to tell us his name. This may just be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
Koznicki was evidently exhilarated, and it was contagious. They all felt his elation.
“Well, what do you wanna do with this one?” asked Fallon, scratching his head and replacing his hat with the same hand—the habit reversed. “Do you wanna keep this one from the media?”
“By no means,” answered Koznicki. “No, this is something our killer didn’t count on. His first mistake. Until now, everything has gone his way. I want him to know he made a mistake. It’s sure to shake his confidence and maybe cause another mistake. Meanwhile, we’re going to make the most of these three letters.”
“Yeah, but the shit is gonna hit the fan after this one,” said Ross, repeating himself.
“You’re right, Fred,” said Koznicki, “and if we’re not careful, we’ll overreact to the public pressure. We’ve got to make sure nobody on the team panics. At this point, it’s just as easy for us to make that fatal mistake as it is for the killer. We’ve got to continue with solid, methodical police work. I’m counting on you, Fred, to check right through the rank and file of our team, no matter how much flak comes from this murder. We’ve got to bring in a good solid case, and we’re not going to do it if we react to pressure by panicking or trying to cut corners.”
“Yessir, Lieutenant.” Ross, Koznicki knew, would be the last to panic under almost any pressure. It was no idle commission.
“Dan, Fred, wrap this up, will you?” It had been a long day. Koznicki wanted to get home, get some sleep, and start fresh tomorrow, armed with their new clue. “Fred, spread the word to the team to be in early as possible. Dan, handle the media tonight. Be sure they have the ‘R-O-B’ evidence clearly. I don’t want our killer confused by any inaccuracies of the press.”
Fallon and Ross nodded. Koznicki and Harris retrieved the topcoats they had deposited on a nearby chair. They stopped to repeat a few consoling words to the two nuns who were still in a combined state of confusion and loss.
As they walked toward their cars, Koznicki paused and fingered Harris’ jacket. “Nice threads,” he said, smiling.
“Thanks,” Harris replied, and added, “Congratulations.”
“On what?”
“Learning more of the vernacular. I’m gonna make a cool dude outta you yet.”
For some reason, Father Koesler wasn’t as shocked as he thought he should be. He’d been sitting in the rectory living room with Father Pompilio when word of Mother Mary’s murder had been broadcast on the eleven o’clock TV news. Of course, the news had that sudden breath-taking impact any unexpected cataclysmic announcement has. But Pompilio and most of the people Koesler had talked to today were especially and particularly disturbed that the victim was Mother Mary.
To Koesler, each and every one of the recent murders had been equally tragic and senseless. Since he had been unable to determine any rhyme or reason to these killings, he presumed the murderer was selecting his victims more or less at random. The target, as far as Koesler was concerned, might have been any priest or nun who was available and vulnerable at the time the killer decided to strike. And that made just about any priest or nun appropriate, because just about all of them were both available and vulnerable anytime. Last night, it happened to be Mother Mary.
Just now, duty called. And Koesler was trying to get comfortable for a Saturday afternoon shriving session in the confessional St. Ursula’s parish provided. Thinking of homicidal maniacs reminded him of the maniacs who designed confessionals. It was still cold enough to turn the heat on in church, and heat was the special torture feature of St. Ursula’s confessionals.
At St. Ur
sula’s, heat moved by large blowers descended from the ceiling. It was neither an effective nor a comfortable system in the body of the church, but it was torture in the confessional. In “the box” it was either freezing or steaming at any given moment. If it was cold when you arrived, you bundled up, pulled your coat collar up around your neck, and shivered. When it got cold enough, the blower would activate, and heat would pour down, forcing a general unbundling. When it got sufficiently hot, the blower would shut down, and cold would begin creeping up from the floor, forcing a general rebundling. The process continued through early spring.
Koesler recalled an assigned confessional in another parish. It was the only one he’d ever experienced that had no window nor any other means of ventilation. In summer, it was a steambath. Once, a salesperson had asked if he were interested in an air conditioner for the confessional. Was he! However, when the appliance had been installed, there was no room for Koesler’s long legs. And when it was turned on, it made so much noise Koesler couldn’t have heard the penitent if he or she were shouting, let alone whispering.
Today, he’d brought his dog-eared copy of The First Deadly Sin with him. Penitents were so few and far between these days, he always brought something along to read. He’d selected The First Deadly Sin because it had been several years since he’d first read it. But more because the fictional murderer’s M.O. in some ways resembled that of Detroit’s very real Rosary Murderer. He hoped rereading the novel might give him some clue as to some method of discovering the identity of Detroit’s killer.
It was cold in the church, nearing that magic degree that would call forth heat. Koesler, trying to stay warm, tugged his coat collar tightly. He was still trying for some measure of comfort when the afternoon’s first penitent arrived. Koesler flipped off the overhead fight, slid shut the small door to his left, and leaned over to the open door on his right. All was in near total darkness. “All right,” he whispered, letting the penitent know he was listening.
The Rosary Murders Page 11