“No, about the rosaries.”
“Oh, that. Only that if Nellie Kane were my father confessor, he’d probably give me a bunch of rosaries for my penance.”
Cox still had not continued the zippering process. “What does that mean?”
“What does it mean? Oh, I forgot. You’re not a Catholic.”
“And you are.”
“We’ve been through that. It’s just that when a Catholic goes to Confession, the priest gives a penance to say, a sort of punishment for the sins. The worse the sin, the heavier the penance. Usually, it’s just a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys. If the sins are really miserable, the penance escalates. Sometimes into a rosary or more.”
“But why a rosary?” Cox’s hand on his zipper still had not moved.
“Because it takes so long to say it.” Lennon sighed; she was tiring of this subject. “There are five decades, with one large bead and ten little beads in each decade. You say an Our Father on each of the big beads, and a Hail Mary on each of the little ones. That’s a total of five Our Fathers and fifty Hail Marys. That takes a lot of time… what is this, anyway, a catechesis?”
Cox said nothing.
“Aren’t you going to zip yourself up?”
Cox did nothing.
“Joe! Joe! Kane wants to see you, remember? Joe!… oh, what the hell!”
Lennon left the immobile Cox, who was utterly lost in thought.
After waiting almost fifteen minutes for the return of Cox and Lennon to the city room, Kane considered a revisit to the scene of the assignation. At that moment, Lennon, her face flushed by what Kane considered appropriate shame, slid as unobtrusively as possible into her chair. Another fifteen minutes passed without a sign of Cox. Kane’s impatience was near choleric. Then, he noticed the reporter approaching in a very distracted manner through the maze of desks.
“Cox.” Kane spat out the words through tight lips, just loudly enough for his reporter to hear. “That was the most unprofessional behavior I’ve ever seen at a newspaper. The Free Press is not paying you for your ability to screw!”
Kane hesitated as he noticed that Cox, his right hand toying with his mustache, was lost in his own thoughts.
“What the hell is going on?” raged Kane. “You’re in trouble up to your ass, and you’re not even paying attention to me!”
“Nellie…” Kane was aware of a trace of singular excitement in Cox’s voice. “…what do you know about the rosary?”
“Whaddo I know about the rosary? What is this, a Bible quiz?”
“Did you know that priests sometimes made people say the rosary when they went to confession?”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“And did you know they call that ‘a penance’?”
“Yeah, yeah… so?” Kane was almost snarling.
“Nellie, that’s it. I just went back in the morgue and reread a piece I did before Lent. It said that Catholics used to have to fast and abstain every day during Lent. But for the past few years, they’re supposed to do penance just on Ash Wednesday and all the Fridays of Lent. That’s got to be it. The Rosary Murderer has killed a priest and/or a nun on Ash Wednesday and on the last four Fridays. He leaves a rosary with each victim to connect what he’s doing with the special days of penance during Lent.”
Kane pondered for several moments, his mind exploring the possibilities. “O.K.; supposing this makes sense… whatsit mean?”
“Nellie… if I’m right, the killer’s going to hit tomorrow and again next Friday—Good Friday, the last Friday of Lent. And then he’ll be done.”
“Holy hell,” Kane breathed, now sharing Cox’s barely bridled intensity. “I think you may just have something. We can protect our rears if we attribute the theory to ‘an informed source’ and write in some disclaimers. We’ve got plenty of time to get this into the first edition this evening. If we write that the killer strikes tomorrow, and he does, we’re prophets. If we run it, and he doesn’t hit—maybe because we’ve scared him off—we’ve got to have disclaimer language to cover us. So be careful how you write it.”
Cox, now thoroughly enthused, was halfway to his desk when Kane called him back. “Listen, get an interview with the cops. Get a reaction to your story. God! I’d hate to be in their shoes!”
Cox shrugged and left, reflecting on the fickle finger of fate. Just a few minutes ago, he’d found his own figurative shoes unpleasantly tight.
Lennon, who had been surreptitiously observing the animated exchange between Kane and her irrepressible lover, was puzzled. She had expected Kane to deliver an uninterrupted monologue. Instead, she could see that Cox had done most of the talking. She’d expected Cox to slump back to his desk, evidencing some sort of punishment. Instead, he was furiously dialing on the phone, obviously hot on a story. Evidently, Dame Fortune was working overtime in Cox’s corner. As far as Pat was concerned at that moment, Cox could move in with the dame.
The scene in Lieutenant Walter Koznicki’s office resembled a tableau. Sergeant Fred Ross stood stiffly near the door. Detective Sergeant Dan Fallon stood near the window, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Detective Sergeant Ned Harris sat at one side of the large desk. Behind the desk, Koznicki leaned back in his chair, hands linked as usual across his stomach. Across from him sat Joe Cox. No one moved. No one said anything.
Cox had just explained his theory, connecting the rosaries left behind by the Rosary Murderer with the days of special penance for Catholics during Lent. For several moments, the police officers had been absorbing the tale.
“The Free Press intends to print this story?” Koznicki broke the silence.
“In tomorrow’s issue,” Cox answered, “the first edition of which will be on the streets tonight.”
“Do you anticipate the local TV and radio stations will pick up the story?” Koznicki asked.
“Absolutely!” said Cox. “We’ll make sure their news departments get an early copy. It’s copyrighted, so they’ll have to mention the source. Sells papers.”
After a slight pause, Koznicki looked from one to another of his men, then said, “Mr. Cox, I assume you want some reaction from us to this theory of yours?”
“Yes,” said Cox. “The story’s incomplete as it stands. It doesn’t make either you or us look very competent without a police reaction. It doesn’t make much sense to tell our readers we have reason to believe the Rosary Murderer is going to kill some priest or nun tomorrow, without telling them what the police intend doing to stop him.”
“Very well, Mr. Cox.” Koznicki rose and gestured toward the door. “We’d like a little time to think about this. Would you wait in the outer office? We won’t be long.”
The reporter nodded. Ross opened and closed the door at Cox’s departure.
Koznicki resumed his chair. “Well, men, what do you think?”
“Makes sense to me,” said Fallon. Unconsciously following a police pecking order, he seated himself in the chair vacated by Cox, while Ross moved to the window position where Fallon had been standing.
“I see a hole in this theory,” said Harris, who was looking at a small, plastic calendar he had taken from his wallet. “Cox claims these special penance days are Ash Wednesday and all the Fridays of Lent. Then what about February twenty-fifth, the first Friday in Lent? No priest or nun murdered that day.”
“Hell, Ned,” said Fallon, “it doesn’t have to hang together like a goddam novel.”
Koznicki leaned forward. “There may be an explanation for that open date. We’ve already theorized that the killer has been operating at two levels. On the one hand, he has a carefully made plan that he intends to complete. On the other, he wants to be stopped. Obviously, he’d rather kill than be stopped—otherwise, he’d stop himself. So, he’s afraid to give us too much help.
“For instance, in his first four murders, he used different weapons. He also made at least a slight effort to make his first two killings appear to be accidental deaths. No reason for this except to confuse us
and make it more difficult for us to establish his M.O. He felt he needed breathing room, especially in the beginning. If he had killed his second victim on February twenty-fifth, it would’ve been just two days after his first murder and would have gotten us on his trail a good ten days earlier than we began to connect this case.
“And yet, gentlemen, there can be little doubt that he’s been carefully leaving these rosaries, identically placed on his victims, as clues to something. At the moment, I can see no better explanation than Cox’s. And, after all, even with this interpretation, the killer is not telling us very much—only the days of his crimes.”
“He’s telling us something else, Lieutenant,” said Fallon. “If we don’t get him before tomorrow, one, maybe two more people will be hit. And if we don’t get him before next week—Good Friday—we may never get him.”
“So, O.K.” Harris scratched his head. “How do we respond?”
“Is surveillance possible?” asked Fallon. “How many priests and nuns do we have to protect?”
“I’ve got some figures on that,” said Ross, paging through his notebook, “but I’ve learned they don’t tend to be too accurate. If you’re talking about the whole Archdiocese of Detroit, you’re talking 868 priests and 3,550 nuns—333 parishes in six counties.”
Harris gave a long low whistle.
“If you’re talking metropolitan Detroit, there’s 132 Catholic parishes, 292 priests, and God knows how many nuns.”
Koznicki shook his head. “You said something about those figures being inaccurate, Fred?”
“Well,” said Ross, “you’d think an organization like a diocese would keep better records, but I was surprised. There’s a good deal of moving about. Priests and nuns leave, and they’re not recorded immediately. The biggest problem is the residences. Some priests don’t live in the rectories, and lots of nuns don’t live in convents. Sometimes they’ve got more than one residence, and a good part of the time the diocese doesn’t know where they are.”
“How can we try and protect people if we can’t find them?” asked Fallon.
“We can’t,” acknowledged Koznicki, “but we’ve got to do our best for the ones we can locate. I wouldn’t even suggest this if we weren’t dealing with just one day, but tomorrow we’re going to put our best efforts into protecting a lot of innocent citizens and the possible apprehension of a murderer.
“Dan, get some help and contact the law enforcement departments in all the communities that are within the diocese’s boundaries but outside metropolitan Detroit—including the county sheriffs. Tell them what we’ve learned and how we’re reacting, and urge them to provide as much protection as possible tomorrow.
“Fred, get all our people in Control. They’re to leave whatever they’re working on and get on this. Get a list of all the rectories, convents, and known residences of priests and nuns. Call every one of them, warn them about tomorrow, and tell them we intend to provide protection. I want a police officer—just as far as we can do it—to be with every priest and nun in Detroit all day tomorrow. Let me know, as soon as you can, how many additional personnel you’ll need, and I’ll get them.
“Ned, give a statement on the plan to Cox.
“If any of you need me and I’m not here, I’ll be with the commissioner. Let’s go!”
Flashing on the screens of the majority of Detroit-area TV sets was the serious, concerned face of Bill Bonds, anchorperson of WXYZ-TV’s 11 P.M. news.
“Good evening. At the top of tonight’s news: Detroit-area priests and nuns warned to look out for the Rosary Murderer tomorrow.”
There were a few other teaser headlines, as well as a word on sports and tomorrow’s weather. Then the station cut away for commercial messages. When the news returned, it was Bonds again, with the lead item.
“A copyrighted story in tomorrow’s Detroit Free Press says that there’s been a break in the mystery that has shrouded the infamous Rosary Murders. The paper, quoting an ‘anonymous reliable source,’ claims there is a connection between the rosaries left at the scene of each of the murders and the days of special penance observed by Catholics during Lent. The Rosary Murderer has struck on Ash Wednesday and four of the five Fridays in Lent, days of required penance for Catholics. The Rosary is frequently used as a prayer of penance. If this theory is correct, the Rosary Murderer should strike again tomorrow, and finally, next week, on Good Friday.
“Commenting on police reaction to this theory is Detective Sergeant Ned Harris of the Detroit Police Department’s special task force investigating the Rosary Murders.”
Appearing on the screen was a head-and-shoulders shot of the black officer, in a taped interview.
“We have enlisted the aid of all law enforcement agencies in the six counties that make up the Archdiocese of Detroit. Along with these agencies, the Detroit Police and Wayne County Sheriff’s deputies intend to provide maximum protection for the priests and nuns of this area tomorrow. We urge all of them to exercise special caution in their activities tomorrow, and to notify the police if they become aware of the slightest occurrence that is out of the ordinary.”
The policeman’s image was replaced on the screen by Bonds. “In other news on the local scene…”
All the local TV and radio stations carried the story.
Among the sets that were not turned on for the eleven o’clock news was the Panasonic owned by a man who had retired earlier, after carefully checking his .38-caliber pistol.
The alarm clock sounded at seven o’clock. After a few seconds of strident ringing, it was turned off by Father Harold Steele. He raised his head from the pillow, running his hand through his heavy beard and his thick, graying head of hair. He peered through the window, testing the day. The pastor of St. Enda’s parish, he was also sole occupant of its rambling rectory that had once housed as many as four priests, and a housekeeper, with room to spare.
St. Enda’s, on Rosa Parks Boulevard near West Grand, was just a block east of the blind pig where the 1967 riots had begun. The neighborhood was a prototype of black ghettos, where drug abuse mingled with a pervasive atmosphere of hopelessness.
With it all, Steele’s style of ministry had been fairly effective. Far more effective, indeed, than had he attempted to offer his black community the official Church’s moral interpretations now being rejected by even white Catholics. Long before Pope Paul had divided the Church with his encyclical on birth control, Steele’s determined silence on the matter had solved the problem for St. Enda’s parishioners.
Similarly, he respected his parishioners’ conscience decisions on marriage validity. He was determined to keep it simple and deliver the message of love as it had come from Jesus Christ without a top-heavy layer of man-made laws.
The lack of interest in his parish on the part of anyone who had clerical power or influence ensured his continued success in his life of ecclesiastical “crime.” So, Steele was content to stay where he was, and no one at the chancery had any intention of asking him to move.
Steele showered, dressed, took his small, gold-plated pyx from a drawer and went to the church through the hallway that connected church and rectory. He would begin the day by bringing communion to some of the shut-ins of the parish, as he did each Friday.
He removed four consecrated hosts from the tabernacle, placed them in the pyx, and left to get his car.
He was slightly surprised to find a Detroit Police Department patrol car parked in front of the rectory, its uniformed driver standing leaning against the front fender.
“Mornin’, Father.” The tall, slender young black officer smiled engagingly at the priest.
“Mornin’, officer. Anything I can do for you?”
“Just the opposite, Father. I’m doin’ for you today.”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t hear the news? They’re expecting some trouble from that Rosary Murderer today. I’m going to be with you as much as possible all day. Just for safety’s sake. Name’s Ray Mills.”
“Oh, yes; I got a phone call yesterday. Guess I forgot all about it… good to know you, Ray.” They shook hands. “Mine’s Harold Steele.”
“I know, Father. Where you headed?”
“Communion calls to some shut-ins. I was just going to get my car.”
“Get in, Father.” Mills opened the passenger door of the black-and-white. “I’ll take you. Just give me the addresses.”
They settled in the car, as Steele reflected on this unusual procedure. “Is everybody getting this kind of protection today?”
“Just about. There’s at least one officer assigned to every rectory and convent. Since you’re alone, you got a personal bodyguard for the day.”
Steele was confused. The Rosary Murders had, of course, been very much on his mind. But he had never seriously considered himself a possible target.
It took only a few moments to reach the first home on the list. Both the officer and the priest approached the front steps of the house. Steele turned to Mills. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go in with me. I’m going to be hearing confessions.”
“Wait a minute, Father. I’ve got orders to be with you today like a shadow.”
“Those may be your orders. But my orders are to protect the secrecy of confession. And in the small flat these people live in, there’s no way to get you out of earshot.”
Still undecided, Mills protested, “Well, let me at least go in ahead of you and check things out.”
“Officer, I appreciate your concern, but my shut-ins are just poor old people. We try to make sure they never get a visitor without being informed ahead of time that someone’s coming. They’re expecting me. If someone in uniform like you came in, you’d only scare them.
“Oh, come, Ray… they’re just old, ill people. They’re not going to hurt me.”
Mills hesitated. Finally, he nodded. “O.K., Father. But I’ll be right here.”
Mrs. Jessie Smith opened the door for Steele. She and her husband were in their seventies and seldom left their deteriorating home. Members of St. Enda’s Christian Service Commission called on them from time to time and shopped for them, as well as for other shut-ins in the parish.
The Rosary Murders Page 20