The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  The soft way was not for Ed Killian. Someone had given him a clock radio several Christmases ago. He had used it as a clock, sometimes as a radio, but never as a clock radio. No way for a man to get up in the morning. Music or some idiot talking about farm prices.

  Killian threw back the covers, stepped briskly to the open window, and began his deep breathing exercises. Foggy day. Sure sign of spring.

  God! How many parishes had he been assigned to now? This was his fifth. At their roots they were all alike. People. Churchgoers and sliders. Very few anywhere near happily married, most couples together because everyone expected them to be. A couple of sadomasochistic nuts who were forever trying to involve the parish priest in their sick games.

  He slipped out of his pajamas and into his jogging togs, wrapped a towel around his neck and noiselessly left the rectory. No need disturbing the pastor, who was actually younger than Killian. A fact that was no embarrassment whatever to Killian.

  He can have it, Killian thought, as he began his exercise with a moderate, steady pace. It was the most wonderful vocation in the world until those young jackasses came along with their bright new words. Renewal, ecumenism, charismatics, folk liturgies, guitar masses, shared responsibility, parish councils. Hell! It’s just people. A few high spots. A lot of disappointments. When they were down they used to come to confession. Now, Hell! They go to some group-grope led by some hairy hippie young priest. Spends all his time making up happy-time liturgies. Wouldn’t know how to say a breviary if you put one in his hand. Doesn’t know how to relate to one person who’s in need. Got to have a community. No such thing as an individual person anymore.

  Unconsciously, Killian had picked up his pace in keeping with the tempo of his thoughts. Now, aware that he was moving slightly too rapidly, he slowed.

  Wasn’t worth thinking about all that was wrong with the Church anyway. Just get angry. He had made his own cocoon and he was relatively safe and happy within it. Outside of doing his job and staying as far away as possible from the machinery of the new Church, he was just living for retirement, which was by no means just around the bend. As a young priest, he had never thought he would ever retire. You were supposed to die in harness. But then he never would have thought he’d resign a pastorship, either.

  Not many of St. Olaf’s parishioners were up yet. Normally, those who did rise this early and who lived near the rectory could see the priest as he jogged by. And they could set their watches by him as he passed. It was always the same, every weekday.

  Because of the fog, no one could see him today. They could hear the soles of his shoes hitting the sidewalk in measured paces. If they had wanted to set their clocks, they could have. It was twenty-two minutes after six.

  Killian turned onto the pathway that surrounded St. Olaf s playground. No homes close by here. Shrubs and trees that bordered a large field. The grass had just about decided it was time to turn green.

  The priest would take two turns around the playground and head back for a bracing shower. People who didn’t start their days in this vigorous way didn’t know what they were missing. He slowed his pace a little. He’d wait for the second time around to turn it on.

  Sweat was beginning to pour from his body. He used the ends of the towel around his neck to dry his eyes. As he looked up, trying to refocus, he thought he saw a figure approaching on the pathway. Which was strange; he seldom encountered anyone on the path, especially this early. He felt a sense of foreboding. For a second, he had an impulse to turn and race back to the rectory, but he dismissed that immediately. As he neared the walker, he was able to make out a few details of the man. Moderate height, heavy head of hair. What did they call that kind of haircut? Shaped. Trench coat, hands in pockets, probably feels the cold, ought to get out and run mornings.

  The path was quite narrow. The walker stepped slightly off the path to allow the priest space to continue his exercise. As they came even, the walker said clearly, “Mornin’ Father.” The priest merely grunted. But, as they passed, the man’s right hand emerged from his coat pocket, bearing a shiny black gun.

  Partly due to his apprehension, the priest caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. In mid-stride, he began to turn, but the stranger’s gesture was one smooth continuing movement. He pulled the trigger as the revolver reached the level of the priest’s head at a point just behind the priest’s right ear.

  It was a small, popping noise. Not enough to draw anyone’s attention. Inside the priest’s head, the bullet exploded, driving bone, tissue, veins in crazed directions. His hand snapped to his head as his body pitched sideways onto the soft turf. He groaned once and was dead.

  Quickly, the stranger knelt at the priest’s side, looped a small black rosary around the priest’s left wrist, guided the beads between the thumb and index finger, removed his gloves and walked swiftly down the path, disappearing in the fog.

  Detective Sergeant Dan Fallon had been the first of the special task force at the scene of the latest murder. He was just entering the inner office of Room 504 of the City-County Building. In the room were Lieutenant Koznicki and Sergeant Harris. Koznicki was the first to speak.

  “Another one confirmed, Dan?”

  “Yes, sir. Luckily, I was less than a mile away when the call came. We were able to get things moving faster than any of the others.”

  “Who found the body?” Koznicki had selected a pen and begun taking notes.

  “Kids. On their way to school. Pretty big shock for ’em. They knew who it was right off. I guess the priest was a jogging nut. They thought he’d fainted. Then they saw the blood. The only good part about it, it scared them enough so they didn’t touch anything. They told some nun at the school and she called. A black-and-white got there in time to keep everyone back. The rosary was wrapped just right around the deceased’s left hand. Far as we could see, a single entry just behind the right ear, and one hell of an exit. Must’ve been hollow-nosed.”

  Harris had briefly left the room and now returned with a cup of coffee, which he handed to the seated Fallon.

  “What’s the situation now?” Koznicki leaned back, pencil still in hand.

  “The medical examiner’s got the body, and ballistics got the bullet.” Fallon blew across the steaming contents of the paper cup. “Both will call as soon as they complete their work.”

  “Anything else at the scene?” Koznicki expected little. If the killer had made another slip such as he had with Mother Mary, Koznicki knew it would have been mentioned at the top of the report.

  “Not really. The ground was soft enough to leave footprints. Trouble is, there were too many prints to identify the killer’s. It was tough on the kids who found him. A doctor was called; he treated them for shock.”

  “Whaddya think, Ned?” Koznicki turned to Harris.

  “Interesting that he used a gun.” Harris turned back from the window. He’d been absently watching the traffic on Jefferson. “It’s the first time he’s used the same method of homicide twice.”

  “That’s right.” Koznicki leaned forward. “First, he pulled the plug on the old priest, then drowning, a revolver, a knife, now a gun again.”

  “Unless,” Harris added, “he used a different gun from the first time.”

  The phone rang. Koznicki picked up the receiver with his left hand, the pencil ready in his right.

  “Koznicki… yes… I’ve got that. You’re sure it was the same… what about the difference in… I see… O.K., thanks.”

  “Ballistics?” Harris asked.

  “Right. It was the same gun in both killings. He used regular ammo on Father Dailey, and hollow-nose on Father Killian. But in both cases it was the same .38-caliber revolver.”

  “Why the difference in ammo?” Fallon dropped the empty cup in the wastebasket.

  “I’d love to find him and ask him,” said Harris.

  “Unless… unless…” Koznicki drew one finger over his mustache. “Unless that incident with Mother Mary has frightened him enoug
h to make him change his M.O.”

  “How’s that?” asked Harris.

  “There’s no indication this guy has ever killed before. We’ve had nothing like this set of circumstances in any other series of homicides, ever. The first three times he kills, everything goes exactly as he’s planned it. With our experience, we know the odds against that happening.

  “His fourth murder, however, something very significant happens that is outside his planning. His victim lives long enough to give at least a partial identification. He learns the hard way that murderers make mistakes, and he knows a mistake could end his plans before they’re completed. So he switches to a bullet that is much more likely to inflict a mortal wound.”

  “Not bad, Walt.” Harris’ enthusiasm returned. “And it gives us another lead.”

  “What’s that?” asked Fallon.

  “Stores that sell ammo. Thirty-eight hollow-noses aren’t all that common. He may have had to stock up on a considerable supply. In any case, it could be one of our better leads.”

  “Right you are,” said Koznicki, who had already begun writing the order.

  Fallon leaned forward. “But Ross has got just about everybody who’s free checking on the ‘Robs’ who were students of that nun.”

  “Don’t worry.” Koznicki handed the written order to Harris. “It’s about time we added to our staff, and this is a good reason for doing so. By the way, how’s that ‘Rob’ search coming?”

  “Slow,” answered Fallon. “It’s proved that the old nun taught a helluva lot of Roberts, Robins, Robinsons, and so forth. They’ve got just about all the available names from her past. They’re starting to check out each one now. It’s slow, but Ross is making sure it’s thorough.”

  “Good,” said Koznicki. “I’m sure one of ’em is our man.”

  “Only problem is,” sighed Harris, “do we have time to find him?”

  When Nelson Kane learned that the priest’s body had been found by a group of school children, he decided, as much on a hunch as any rational reason, to send a female reporter along to help cover the story. Again, on a whim, as much as anything else, he assigned Pat Lennon to accompany Joe Cox.

  As they left the city room together, they were escorted out by discreetly raised eyebrows. Perhaps all the world loves a lover, but it was an acknowledged fact that all the Free Press was intrigued by and gossiped about who was sleeping with whom. And the Cox-Lennon liaison was the best bit of gossip going. However, whatever could have been surreptitiously said about them was literally innocuous. Cox and Lennon couldn’t have cared less what anyone said or thought about their affair. If free spirits had not already been invented, Cox and Lennon would have held the patent jointly.

  Kane’s hunch had been prescient. Lennon was the only reporter allowed to speak with the children. She had talked to them in the St. Olaf School infirmary just before they were released to their parents to return home.

  “How’d it go with the kids?” Cox turned the Free Press’ Plymouth onto Jefferson for the long ride back to the paper.

  “Zilch! I had a distinct coup with very little grace.”

  “Huh?”

  “I was the only one who got in to see them, but I got almost nothing. I still don’t know why the cop let me into the infirmary. He must think women won’t hurt kids or even scare them. I know Reston was sore as hell.”

  “That’s Reston’s problem. He who lives on his reputation will die by it.”

  “But, once inside, nothing. The kids were still too shook up to be very coherent. After all, they’re only in grade school. They just happened to be on their way to school. They just happened to be the first to see the body. For each and every one of them, this was the first dead body they’d seen outside a funeral home. Nobody remembered even seeing the rosary.”

  “Well…” Cox was having trouble maneuvering through the sluggish midday traffic. “You can always use their shock as your lead.”

  “That occurred to me, smartass.”

  “That’s right. I forgot you were good at more than one thing.”

  Lennon gave a short, piercing whoop. “I’m grateful to know your opinion of my homework, sir. I haven’t written my review of your performance last night yet.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to write it. Free Press readers are in for a treat.”

  “If they don’t fall asleep. I did.”

  They rode in silence, smug that they lived well together.

  “What did you get?” Lennon crossed her shapely legs. Cox chanced a glance.

  “The story.”

  “I know that, dummy. What is it?”

  In a flat, emotionless, Dragnet fashion, Cox recounted what had happened, pausing only occasionally to editorialize. As when he told of Killian’s penchant for jogging every morning. “You see?” He swiveled, and wagged an index finger at Lennon. “If he had begun each morning with a screw for exercise, instead of running all over the neighborhood, he’d be a healthy and, I might say, a considerably happier man now.”

  As he finished his narration, Lennon slowly shook her head. “The trouble with you, lover, is that you don’t understand what priests and nuns mean to Catholics.”

  “How would you know? Were you ever a Catholic?”

  “I AM a Catholic.”

  Not many things surprised Cox, but that did. “Whaddya mean? You never go to church.”

  “That’s just what I mean. You don’t understand. There’s no way I can stop being a Catholic. Even if I don’t go to church anymore. I’ve got this indelible mark—”

  “What mark? Where? I’ve never seen one, and I’ve looked.”

  “On my soul, idiot! That’s what you get when you’re baptized.”

  “No shit! If it’s on your soul, it’s not only indelible, it’s also invisible, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then you can’t see it. So how do you know you’ve got it?”

  “How do I know? How do I know? The Bible told me so!”

  Done with that word game, they were again silent for a short while.

  “So what does this latest murder do to all the current theories going around?” Lennon recrossed her legs. Again Cox glanced appreciatively.

  “Well, it shoots hell out of one of my pet theories,” Cox answered. “This one’s an anachronism.”

  “A what?”

  “The first priest’s plug was pulled in mid- to late afternoon. The first nun was killed in the late evening. Then there’s a priest in the afternoon and another nun in the evening. This priest was killed too early to fit in my theory. He’s out of his proper time. An anachronism.”

  “That sounds like a pretty flimsy theory in the first place.”

  “Sweetie, there are so few solid things to go on in this case, after a while you go for anything that seems to make any sense at all—no matter how far-fetched.”

  They were stopped for a light at the corner of Jefferson and Cadillac, not far from her apartment. Pat noticed that all ten of Cox’s fingers were dimming on the steering wheel. “How would you like,” she began in her sultriest voice, “to stop off for a quick one before we face the remaining hazards of the day?”

  “Good Lord!” He tried unsuccessfully to mask an unmistakable tone of relief and anticipation. “You are insatiable!”

  Sister Marie Magdala Connors felt proprietary about St. Camillus Hospital, and she was aware of her covetous feelings. But her reason was simple: virtually no one else cared. Most officials, both civic and religious, treated St. Camillus like an orphan. From time to time, the hospital was patted on its figurative head and thanked for staying in the core city. As a private hospital, there was no earthly reason for continuing this discouraging and financially unrewarding service. Heavenly reasons were all that could explain this singular determination to prolong this terminal fiscal illness. That also explained the hands-off policies of both ecclesiastical hierarchy and city government. St. Camillus was a bottomless pit, a money-eating monster, all expenses and almost
no income.

  St. Camillus, or more specifically, the poor who made up almost all the hospital’s patients, needed not only health care, but acceptance and love. Sister Marie was intent on delivering these rare inner-city gifts as long as humanly possible.

  Evening visiting hours were nearly over. Sister Marie decided to visit emergency. Friday nights were surpassed only by Saturday nights in the number of victims of drug overdoses, guns, knives, hates, jealousies, and organized crime. Tonight was typical.

  Emergency was organized chaos.

  Every admitting cubicle and stall was occupied. The hallways were filled with stretchers, gurneys, and wheelchairs, each with its groaning, bleeding, or otherwise suffering cargo.

  Doctor Savage, in charge tonight, made a quick evaluation of each patient as soon as possible, and they were filtered through the admitting routine with a speed dependent on need.

  Sister Lilla, a small, nervous young nun in a modified white habit, hurried over to Sister Marie.

  “Marie,” she said breathlessly, “do you know where the chaplain is?”

  “Father Schuck? I have no idea. Have you tried calling?”

  “Everywhere. I can’t find him. And he hasn’t even contacted his answering service. Several of the sick down here have asked for a priest, and a few of the more seriously injured should be anointed. But where IS the man?”

  Yes, where is he? Sister Marie remembered the good old days when prime qualifications for Catholic hospital chaplains were senility and having been placed solidly on the diocesan shelf. There had been a lot wrong with that system. The problems centered on the conflict of senility and what should have been a demanding job. But one thing you could always count on: when you needed those old men, they were always around.

  The new breed of chaplain was a much younger man, especially trained for a hospital ministry. However, unlike his ancient predecessor, he tended not to consider his hospital as a round-the-clock responsibility. People were supposed to die during office hours. Thus, there were frequent and unexpected emergencies during which he simply could not be found.