Koesler silently cursed the walls. This was one of those times when a human needed a human shoulder and found only unyielding plasterboard.
As gently as he could, Koesler whispered, “Take your time. There’s no hurry. Just begin when you feel better.”
There followed another prolonged silence, broken by irregular restrained sobs. Finally, a man’s choked whisper. “I… I’m the one…”
A wave of presentiment engulfed Koesler. The man could have been anyone. But Koesler felt the beginnings of an icy chill that had nothing to do with the thermostat. “You’re the one? You’re the one what? Take your time. There’s no hurry.”
Another silence, during which subtle sounds indicated the penitent was settling down, getting a semblance of self-control.
“I’m the killer…” Another silence.
Koesler had to test his presentiment. “Of the priests and nuns?”
“Yes.”
Koesler’s mind was racing. He was confused. Could this be a part of the killer’s regular procedure? Does he talk to his victims before killing them? God! Am I next? If a shot came, it would be pointblank. Koesler tried to lean aside and away from the screen. But… he’d better try getting the man to talk. And to do so, he’d have to talk to him. And to talk to him—one couldn’t shout in the confessional—he’d have to lean close to the screen.
He closed his eyes—the very action was a prayer—and put his mouth to the partition. “Why are you doing this?”
A long silence.
“Incest.”
This wasn’t making any sense. Could the unknown penitent be insane? Koesler’s thought pulled up short. Silly; of course he’d have to be—wasn’t anyone who committed a series of murders like this insane?
There was no longer any sound in the church. The two of them were undoubtedly alone. Koesler tried to calculate the danger, but it was impossible. He could only continue and see if he could make some sense of it.
“Incest? How could incest have anything to do with the mur— killing of priests and nuns?” He tried to pick his words carefully.
“Years ago…” The quiet voice took on a tone of bitterness. “…many years ago, I was committing incest with my daughter. It went on for years. I told myself it was all right. I told my daughter somehow it was all right. She was fifteen. She was a good girl. We both knew it was wrong. We needed help. I told her to go to one of the nuns in her school. I went to the parish priest in confession.”
There was a pause.
“What happened?” Koesler whispered.
“The nun told her her father wouldn’t do a thing like that, that there must be something wrong with her to think foul thoughts like that and to spread lies about her own father. The priest was indifferent. He gave me a mechanical penance and dismissed me. I pleaded; I begged him for help, some kind of help… he told me to pray, and he shut the door.”
Silence.
“Then… ?”
“We went back to it. Miserably. More out of habit than anything else. It was joyless. Cheap.”
Silence. Koesler’s mind was in disarray.
His jumbled thoughts were brought sharply back to stark reality by the man’s next words. “Then, one day, my daughter committed suicide.” And then, in a monotone that was at the same time triumphant and defeated, “I have planned revenge ever since.”
Koesler was now perspiring heavily. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I had to tell somebody. Somebody who couldn’t tell anybody else.”
“But would you like to make this a valid confession? We can do that if you’d like.”
A seemingly indecisive silence. Then:
“Oh, God! Oh, God! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I’m NOT DONE YET!”
The final three words were shrieked with such intensity that Koesler recoiled against the opposite wall of the confessional. It was as if a diabolic power had been unleashed on the other side of that thin partition.
The man swept past the confessional’s curtain, stumbled several times and ran sobbing from the church.
Koesler sat for a few moments, his heart racing, his mind in a shambles. The words taking shape before him were, “Satan entered Judas and he left them. And it was night!”
Koesler made his way back to the rectory slowly, thoughtfully. He did not even hear Angelo’s salutation as the janitor began locking the church.
Pompilio and Farmer were seated before a blaring TV set in the rectory’s living room.
“Say, Bob,” said Pompilio, as Koesler entered, “you should of heard Joe tonight. He was terrific.”
“What? Oh. Well, maybe next time.”
Farmer studied Koesler who was standing motionless just inside the living room door. “What in the world happened to you? You’re as white as a ghost.”
“Is anything wrong, Bob?” asked Pompilio, with some concern.
“What? Oh, no. I guess I just need a drink.” Koesler crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. He dropped a couple of ice cubes in a cocktail glass and was about to fill it with Scotch when he thought better of it. He needed a clear mind now. He poured in a finger of Scotch and filled the remainder of the glass with water. “I think I’ll go up to my room. There’s nothing wrong, Pomps. I’m just tired, I guess.”
Koesler climbed the stairs accompanied by the awesome thought that he, alone, had knowingly talked to the killer. He, alone, knew the killer’s motive. He, alone, could be sure the series of murders was not complete. And he was tortured by the question, could he tell anyone?
His instinctive inclination was to call Lieutenant Koznicki, immediately. On the other, and heavier, side of that coin was the storied seal of the confessional. Hundreds of novels, scores of movies had anchored their plots on that seal. Should protecting the seal cost a priest his life, or another innocent life, no reason was sufficient, no cause important enough to violate that seal.
Although, he thought, there certainly were extenuating circumstances in this case, he was filled with doubts he knew he’d have to resolve.
He could call another priest. Maybe Leo Clark, the moral theology prof at the seminary. But, no matter whom he called, the answer would be no more than an opinion that could be mistaken.
His dilemma ranked as the most serious problem he’d ever encountered.
He’d have to solve it himself. If a mistake were to be made, he’d rather shoulder the blame himself—even if it had to be for all eternity.
Koesler stood before the bookshelf that held his old theology textbooks. Many were the times, particularly when moving from one rectory to another, he’d been tempted to leave them behind. Nostalgia had always won. And now he was glad. Much of the thinking on moral theology had changed in the years since he’d been a student. But he was certain he could depend on the principles governing the seal of the confessional, even those found in a book published over twenty-five years ago.
He found it. Noldin’s Summa Theologiae Moralis, De Sacramentis. He leafed through the index until he found “De poenitentia”—on penance—and located “de obligatione sigilli”—on the obligation of the seal. He found page 419 at the same time that he found his Latin had deteriorated. But he plowed through the text with a dedication born of practical necessity.
His study revealed three pertinent conclusions: the inviolable seal applied only to a “sacramental” confession, meaning that the person revealed his sins with the intention of being forgiven; a judgment was required as to the elusive intention of the penitent; and, finally, the text was flooded with warnings about protecting the seal in the face of any doubt.
The reasoning was clear enough. People told priests the secret evils of their lives. Secrets frequently shared with no other human. Penitents needed the assurance that what they confessed would never be revealed. Thus, under NO condition could the secrets of the confessional escape it. Human nature being what it is, the seal must have been violated at some time in history, but Koesler was unaware of any specific violation. He was sure the unble
mished image, at least, of well-kept confessional secrets encouraged the continued confidence of penitents.
He was also growing more certain that what he had heard tonight fell under the seal. True, the killer had said that he had come because he “had to tell someone.” And he had fled before absolution was even offered, however conditionally. But how could Koesler be sure the killer had not at least entered the confessional with the intention of being forgiven. There was no way of being sure. And the textbook was insistent on “tutior pars”—favoring the seal when there was a hint of a question.
Sort of like—Koesler mused—baseball’s rule of thumb. In case of a tie, the decision is in favor of the runner… in case of doubt, the decision is in favor of the would-be confessor.
Yet he was so eager—so anxious—to share his unique information with the police. He might be able to save the lives of other priests and nuns, literally. But how? If what he had learned was protected by the seal, it meant that he was bound to make certain that no specific sin could be attributed to a specific person. What, he thought, if he told Koznicki that the murderer had confessed to him, revealed the motive, and said that there would be more killings?
But what, he reflected further, playing devil’s advocate, if the police were able to determine the identity of his penitent? There had probably been other people still in the church when the man had entered the confessional. What if one of them knew the identity of the man he or she had seen entering the confessional? Or could describe him so accurately it would eventually lead to his arrest? Koesler wouldn’t be able to keep Koznicki, or any halfway worthwhile policeman, from doing his job—questioning churchgoers—in an attempt to do his sworn duty.
But what of his sworn duty?
He must remain silent.
He would have to guard even his own reactions to any future involvement in this case. It would be a violation of the seal if he even inadvertently let slip anything he’d learned in the confessional, if he let his knowledge gained in the confessional play any part in identifying the killer.
Someone once said that it wasn’t so hard to do right; what was hard was to know what was right to do.
For one who wanted to do what was right, Koesler’s was a pretty helpless feeling.
Most people perceive sexual promiscuity as a vice. To Joe Cox, it was a life style. Since his first sexual experience in high school, he had held to the simple formula that girls were nice, and sex was fun. It was a philosophy that proved inimical to stability. Cox had tried marriage once. It had been a barren and doomed experience that left him a determined bachelor but an active heterosexual. As he had once explained to a friend, “There are any number of women in this world with round heels. I am a man with round toes.”
While his availability to these round-heeled women was virtually undiscriminating, he tended toward the brief encounter. When it came to extended affairs, Cox was an epicure. He cared little for women with underdeveloped bodies or undeveloped brains. Nor could he tolerate candidates for a weight farm. He favored women with full-formed curves and lively minds. On the rare occasion that he chanced upon one who measured up in both categories, he would prolong the relationship until the shadow of an altar crossed his path. Then he was gone.
Cox had been living with Pat Lennon for almost two weeks. She, also a victim of a marital disaster, seemed as determined as he to avoid repeating history. So far, the enjoyment of their relationship had been mutual. At times, they dined at The Old Place, out Jefferson Avenue. At others, they dropped in for the authentic German cuisine of nearby Schweizer’s. Most often, they shopped for gourmet food among the aromatic odors of the Broadway Market, and for the Rolls Royce of meats at Ye Olde Butcher Shop, a friendly, Babylonian-owned market near the Lafayette Towers, where Lennon rented an apartment not far from where Cox lived. It was, of course, expensive renting two apartments when they were living in only one. But neither was sure yet how long their relationship would last.
Since Nelson Kane’s warning, Cox and Lennon had been scrupulously punctual about arriving for work. The punctuality had seriously cut into their morning lovemaking, thus throwing into question the saying that all the world loves a lover. The Free Press management had never considered making allowances for love time in its union contracts.
In certain ways, newspapers were the antithesis of the assembly line. In other ways, there were definite similarities. The machines that handled wire service copy kept up a fairly steady chatter through the day. Copy editors, whose job it was to read that copy, were presented with an assembly line procession of news. Reporters, staff writers, and columnists, on the other hand, worked very hard when they worked, which was by no means all the time.
This morning, for example, Joe Cox had started work diligently. He began by transcribing notes he’d taken at a press conference the day before. Next, he began a series of phone calls. He was currently working on two stories. The Rosary Murders consumed much of his time. But he was also following leads on a possible story involving Detroit’s mayor and the city’s burgeoning drug traffic. Allegedly, some commercial property the mayor owned was being used as a center for cutting and marketing imported drugs. The trouble with a story like that was that after weeks of following leads, sometimes taking dangerous chances, there frequently was no truth to the allegations. Or there was a story so weak it wasn’t worth publishing. The appreciated element in a story like the Rosary Murders was the given reality of the story. Not only were people being killed, but the reporter who stayed close to the story and perhaps got lucky might contribute something to the crime’s solution. Of such circumstances are Pulitzer Prizes made.
At the moment, Cox was between busy periods. For the past twenty minutes, he had been sitting at his desk waiting for the birth of a fresh idea and the return of several phone calls. In his idle mind, a distinctly unprofessional idea was forming. He remembered something he’d seen on the building’s fifth floor the previous day.
Cox maneuvered his chair a few degrees to the left so he could see Pat. She was gazing into space, tapping her front teeth with the eraser end of a pencil. She appeared to be in a state of inactive boredom similar to his own. He rose, and, in the noisy activity of the city room, crossed unnoticed to her desk. He bent and whispered in her ear.
“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she said, but not loudly enough for anyone to overhear.
Cox whispered again. He stood for a moment while Pat seemed to be considering what he said. Then he bent over and whispered again.
Finally, she shrugged, smiled, and, a few minutes after his departure via elevator, followed in the same direction.
It was about fifteen minutes after the exit of Cox that Nelson Kane stood and scanned the vast rectangular expanse of the city room, unable to locate his reporter.
“Cox!” he bellowed, as if his voice could reach what his eyes couldn’t see.
“Anybody know where Cox is?” Kane addressed those in the periphery of his desk. He received a series of shrugs and negatively shaken heads. “Goddammit!” Kane continued, to no one in particular, “I’m gonna get some leg irons for that guy and chain him to his desk.” Kane kicked his own desk, hurting his toe and further intensifying his frustration level.
He lumbered toward the elevators, limping slightly as he favored his injured toe. “Probably in the goddam coffee shop,” he muttered. At the elevators, Kane met Larry Delaney, the Free Press theater critic, who’d been watching Kane’s approach.
“Hurt yourself?” Delaney asked.
“It’s nothing. Old war wound acting up,” Kane lied for no reason. “You haven’t seen Joe Cox, have you?”
“Matter of fact, I have. He was getting off the elevator at the fifth floor as I got on.”
“Thanks.” What the hell is he doing on the fifth floor, Kane wondered. I’m gonna burn his ass when I find him. He boarded the elevator, noticed the fifth-floor button had already been pushed, and settled back to futile fuming.
As he limped through the
fifth floor, Kane alternated between asking, “Anybody seen Joe Cox?” and breathing sotto voce curses. Adding to his frustration was the fact that he was forced to ask for information from fifth-floor denizens—movie critics, record reviewers, columnists—people the news-oriented Kane considered the effete prima donnas of journalism.
Finally, Kane found someone who thought she knew Cox’s whereabouts. “I think you’ll find him in that empty office at the end of the hall,” said TV writer Beverly Peters, with a trace of conspiratorial enjoyment in her tone.
Kane did not bother knocking. The absence of a nameplate clearly indicated this was a vacant office.
That was only partially correct, as Kane discovered when he opened the door. In that no one had been assigned the office and it contained only a desk and a chair, it was vacant. However, literally, it was not unoccupied.
Pat Lennon reclined on the desk. Joe Cox was leaning over her. They were having intercourse. Kane thought he might be having a heart attack.
Lennon let out a small shriek. Cox’s lower jaw dropped. Kane coughed and said, “Cox ... I want to see you… when you’re… uh… done!”
Kane slammed the door determinedly. He shook his head, whistled softly, and murmured, “Good God! We’ve got an X-rated staff!”
Inside the room, Cox was indeed done. The interruption had destroyed the mood. He cursed his luck as he hitched up his trousers and remarked, “It’s nice to be needed, but why in hell did Kane pick this moment to need me?”
Pat Lennon, arrant libber though she was, was clearly embarrassed. As she pulled down her skirt and smoothed the wrinkles, her jumbled thoughts tumbled out. “I never should’ve let you talk me into the damn-fool scheme. I feel like a little girl who got caught doing something naughty. Honestly, this is ridiculous! If Nellie Kane were my father confessor, he’d give me about ten rosaries for this!”
Cox, his fly half-zipped, stood stock still and looked intently at Lennon. The gears in his mind came unmeshed. “What did you say?” he demanded.
“That this is ridiculous. This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Ollie!”
The Rosary Murders Page 19