The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  “Good morning, Father,” said Koznicki, a touch of old-world reverence in his voice.

  “Oh… uh… yes, yes, of course…” Peterson was too happy to focus on even this giant of a man.

  “Hi, Ron,” said Koesler, smiling. “Got yourself a plum, eh?”

  “Oh… uh… yes… Bob, isn’t it? But… but…” Peterson’s incoherence was at least partially due to the fact that the archbishop, as was usual in pastoral assignments, had impressed him with the necessity of keeping the move a secret until the official announcement. And Koesler appeared to know already.

  “…but how did you know?”

  “The Detroit Catholic sees all, knows all, tells all.”

  Peterson, more flustered by the moment, fumbled his raincoat several times before stumbling into the elevator that had stopped half an inch above floor level.

  “An improved assignment?” asked Koznicki, eyeing Koesler with renewed interest. “But how did you know?”

  “Lucky guess. Peterson follows the party line exclusively. It would be extremely unlikely he’d ever be called on the carpet. He’s usually a dour man. Fits well into Ferndale, in fact. The only thing the archbishop could do to make him that happy would be to send him off to some place like Rochester where the rich people live. But, as you see, the bluff worked. Now, he’s afraid if the news gets out before the archbishop releases it, the archbishop will take the parish away from him. The anxiety will be good for Peterson… keep him balanced.”

  A tremor of amusement played at Koznicki’s lips. “Did you ever consider police work?”

  “Frequently. But it’s too late. Now, I just read whodunits.”

  On that note, a door opened, and Archbishop Mark Boyle came around the corner of the reception room and walked briskly toward the two men. He was slightly taller than Koesler, yet not nearly as tall or large as Koznicki. A shade portly, he carried his weight well, the combined result of good food and a penchant for walking at least a mile every day. His face was heavily lined, but handsome; his eyes intensely blue. Though his thinning hair was gray, his bushy eyebrows were still sooty black, a combination typical of the aging Celt. The only visible trappings of office that distinguished his black-suited appearance were a patch of vivid red beneath the front of his Roman collar, and a single strand of the silver chain that held his pectoral cross.

  He smiled perfunctorily at the priest and greeted him simply. “Father Koesler.”

  “Lieutenant Koznicki… it’s good to meet you at long last.”

  “Excellency.” Koznicki fell to his right knee, grasped Boyle’s extended hand, and kissed the archbishop’s ring.

  The gesture startled both Koesler and the archbishop. No one kissed a bishop’s ring anymore. At least not the Archbishop of Detroit’s ring. Boyle had conducted a quiet campaign against the medieval practice since shortly after his arrival in Detroit. In the beginning, as people would start to genuflect, the archbishop would raise his hand slightly, indicating that a simple handshake was a sufficient gesture. That led to many aborted genuflections that resembled half-curtsies. Gradually, nearly everyone had gotten the word that ring-kissing was not de rigueur in Detroit. Obviously, Lieutenant Koznicki was not among those who had gotten that word. And there was no way Boyle could prevent Koznicki’s enormous bulk from completing his reverential act.

  “Won’t you come in?” Boyle led the small procession around the corner of the reception area and into his office.

  Koznicki swept the room with a glance. The wall shelves were filled with books, mostly reference works. To the left was a large, neatly kept desk with a large padded chair behind it, and two straight-back chairs in front. Just inside the office door were four comfortable-looking swivel chairs, placed around a large circular coffee table. Three large windows revealed a once elegant but now increasingly tacky Washington Boulevard.

  Koznicki surmised the desk area was Boyle’s work space and for clergymen who were in some sort of trouble with the institution, while the coffee table was for less formal visiting. He was correct, as Koesler could testify, having occupied each of the areas at different times.

  At Boyle’s direction, they seated themselves at the coffee table. Koznicki sat at the edge of his chair. It was as if a condor had perched on the small swing of a birdcage.

  “It was kind of you to give us this time, Your Excellency,” Koznicki opened.

  “Not at all.” Boyle’s rectangular face was solemn; his eyes pierced Koznicki’s. “I assume you wish to speak about the series of murders of our priests and nuns.”

  “Precisely,” said Koznicki. “I’m sure you know that, according to our best information, the killer will strike again and, we believe, for the final time this coming Friday.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “My purpose in coming here, Excellency, is to discover to what extent the archdiocese is willing and able to cooperate with our local law enforcement agencies to prevent any further fatalities.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant, we will do everything in our power to cooperate with you.”

  “We have good reason to expect the next murder—or murders—to be committed within the corporate limits of the city of Detroit, as have the previous eight. One of the things that has worked in the killer’s favor and against our being able to stop him is the incredible vulnerability of priests and nuns. There is no other group as available to the public. This vulnerability will be especially intensified, I fear, for priests on Good Friday.” Boyle nodded his understanding. “So, Excellency, I must begin by asking how willing you are to curtail public services within the city this Friday?”

  “Cancel Good Friday?” Koesler made no attempt to disguise his amazement.

  Boyle glanced at Koesler, a trace of slight amusement passing over his face. Still somewhat amused, the archbishop returned his attention to Koznicki.

  “Oh, no, my dear Lieutenant. There can be no question but that we will conduct the full services and sacraments of Holy Week, including Good Friday, just as we do each year. I could not ask any less of the priests, nor would they give any less.

  “While we are addressing this point, Lieutenant, it might be helpful if I pointed out—and this is not in any way meant to disparage any other priests—that the priests who minister within the city are among the most dedicated of all. Their voluntary commitment to the city—and this is, indeed, what it is, a commitment—is a sign of their dedication. I am certain that to suggest that any of them respond with abject fear to this threat is not realistic.”

  “I was sure that would be your reaction, Excellency. However, it was an alternative that had to be explored.”

  “Is there any other way we can cooperate with you, Lieutenant?”

  “There is one other way. According to the killer’s method of operation, he must be close to his victim when he strikes. As you know, a rosary has been left at the scene of each murder. The rosaries are left in such a way that the killer must be literally at his victim’s side.” Koesler reflected that this fact was another in the long line of secrets he had to keep. “We have no reason to believe this most determined murderer will change his method of operation even now, when, I believe, we are so close to apprehending him. And his determination to be close to his victims when he strikes can be of advantage to us in helping us protect the intended victim.

  “We attempted to protect the priests and nuns of this city last Friday. That we failed is largely due to a lack of total cooperation on the part of the clergy and religious. Not just in the cases of the two who were killed—almost all our officers reported a rather cavalier attitude from those they were assigned to protect.

  “Excellency, bravery is one thing, foolishness is another. Of all the cases of premeditated murder in my experience, this killer stands alone in his preparation and planning. His next victim could be any nun or priest in this city, including, with all due respect, yourself, Excellency. However, I am certain that if every priest and every nun follows our orders and observes the precautions
suggested by the police, not only will there possibly be no next victim, but we stand a very good chance of apprehending the killer.

  “We will provide protection to all the clergy and religious in the archdiocese but especially in the city of Detroit. They must cooperate with us—blindly, if I may be so blunt.”

  Koznicki sat back in his chair. Koesler was motionless. The archbishop toyed with his ring. For several moments there was silence. Finally, Boyle spoke:

  “There is something you must understand, Lieutenant; something I perceive you have already observed. Priests and nuns today, particularly those who minister in the core city, are not prone to blind obedience, as they once were.”

  Koesler reflected on the number of times Boyle had patiently explained that he wished the Detroit Catholic to be free of controversy. In a pre-Vatican II era, that wish would have had the force of law. However, considerable controversy was a matter of simple reality. Koesler felt that any newspaper, if it were an honest media effort, should reflect reality. It was, Koesler believed, Boyle’s greatest virtue that the prelate was able to tolerate opposition, that he did not demand a blind obedience whose time had passed. The priest hoped, for everyone’s sake, that Koznicki would understand and believe what the archbishop was saying. For it was true.

  “Nevertheless, Excellency,” Koznicki remonstrated, “I think it is vital, literally, for you, in your capacity as Archbishop of Detroit, to issue as strongly worded a statement as possible, urging, if not commanding, that all the clergy and religious of the archdiocese cooperate fully with the police assigned to protect them.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Koesler interjected, “but may I pose a hypothetical situation?” Ringing in his ears, as it had so many times in the past few days, was the shrieked asseveration of the tormented man who had occupied the other side of the confessional—the man protected by the seal of that confessional—the seal that made a mute of Koesler: “I’m NOT DONE YET!”

  Koznicki and the archbishop were looking at Koesler attentively. The priest spoke. “Even if our cooperation were complete, do you think you’d be able to stop hi—to stop the killer?” He forced himself to think of the man impersonally, objectively, as he would any other faceless penitent.

  “Well, Father, it is possible that news of this blanket protection might deter him from acting. He would have to realize that his chance of success would be minimal with this massive police presence. But, frankly, I believe he would try to act anyway.”

  “…NOT DONE YET!”

  “His plans have been carefully, though not rigidly made. He has demonstrated that there are very few elements of his method of operation that he is not willing to change.

  “Finally, killers such as this are almost always extremely determined people.”

  “…YET!”

  “And I have never experienced any murderer more determined than this one. No matter what we do, I anticipate he will try to strike. If we are well prepared, and if we have total cooperation, I believe we will stop him and perhaps even apprehend him.”

  Koznicki was aware he was repeating himself; yet he felt he had to impress the archbishop with the rightness of his cause.

  He had.

  “Very well, Lieutenant,” said Boyle. “The cooperation you need will begin with me. What would you suggest?”

  “A press release and a press conference. We want maximum coverage. Not only do we want to inform the clergy and religious, I want to make sure the killer hears about this.”

  “I’ll compose a statement now,” said Boyle, as he turned to the priest. “Father Koesler, would you be able to contact the proper news people? You can notify my appointments secretary as to the time of the conference.”

  “Certainly, Archbishop.”

  Boyle stood, as did his visitors.

  Koznicki took the archbishop’s extended hand, genuflected, and kissed the ring. There was no point in trying to stop him.

  “Thank you, Excellency, for your time and cooperation,” said Koznicki, “my people will take it from here.”

  As Koznicki and Koesler left the elevator, the priest said, “You know, Lieutenant, Lefty Gomez once attributed his pitching success to good morning prayers and a fast outfield.”

  “Oh?” noted Koznicki, not breaking stride.

  “I was just thinking. What we’ve got going for us is good police work and a bunch of potential victims who pray a lot.”

  “I doubt we could succeed without both.”

  “Protect me, Lieutenant.”

  “Pray for me, Father.”

  They parted at the Washington Boulevard entrance.

  Mayor Maynard Cobb sat behind his oversized executive desk, his mouth twitching in conflicting emotions of amusement and annoyance. “Why is it, Frank, that every time I ask to see Lieutenant Koznicki, I get you?”

  Police Commissioner Frank Tany stood in front of the mayor’s desk. He had not attempted to be seated, nor had he been invited to sit.

  “It works out better this way, Mr. Mayor. This is the way we’ve been handling relations between the executive branch and the department these three years of your term.” Tany shifted his pear-shaped bulk to the right. “It would blast the chain of command all to hell if we were to get individual officers in here to see you. Besides, Lieutenant Koznicki is doing everything possible to conclude this case. It wouldn’t do any good. In fact, it would be disastrous to try to replace him.”

  Cobb smiled disarmingly. “Frank, don’t jump to conclusions. I got no notion to bump Koznicki. What do we have left? Less than a week? If what I read in the papers is correct.” He emphasized his last few words, clearly intimating that there had, at least in his view, been less than an open line of communication between the police and the mayor’s office. Neither the intimation nor the attempted intimidation escaped Tany’s attention.

  “Mr. Mayor, the department is aware that the welfare of the entire city is your responsibility. I try to keep you informed of major developments in this case. But we know you can’t be as obsessed with this one case as we are.”

  “One case! One case!” Maynard Cobb’s fist struck the desk top. “My entire political career may hinge on this ‘one case’! The election campaign is getting closer by the week. I just might be back on the line at Ford’s because some goddam nut is out there killing priests and nuns. This is the third week we’ve been on the front page of every paper from New York to L.A., and we’ve already been on the covers of Time and Newsweek. This is considerably more than ‘one case’! This is my career we’re talkin’ about.”

  Tany hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully. “What can I tell you, Mr. Mayor, that we haven’t already gone over? Not every murder is solved. Not every series of murders is solved. Short of some very lucky breaks, we’ve got to follow routine procedures.”

  “Lucky breaks!” Cobb stood up behind his desk. Rare for him. “What do you call the info that the man hits on Fridays? Or the guy who gave you the eyewitness description of the killer? To me, those seem like pretty damn lucky breaks!”

  Tany had never encountered the mayor in such a distraught state. But then, Tany had never been present at one of the many times when Cobb had fought with his back to the wall against overwhelming odds.

  “Those may prove to be lucky breaks.” Tany again shifted weight. “We may not know except in hindsight—if we ever get hindsight. This Friday business is no more than a theory. It looks good now. But how will it look if he strikes tomorrow, or if he never strikes again?

  “And as far as the eyewitness, there is a strong probability the man he saw is the killer. Evidence is actually no more than circumstantial. As to the composite drawing the police artist made, composite drawings are notoriously poor at eliciting a positive identification.”

  Cobb experienced a feeling of helplessness welling within him. His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. “So, where does that leave us?” he asked more quietly, as he slumped back into his chair.

  “As I started
to explain earlier, Mr. Mayor, we’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle if Lieutenant Koznicki had staked everything on those showy breaks that the news media love so much. But he hasn’t. Not that he’s overlooked them. But he’s continued and even increased the routine investigation. Like just about everything else in life, Mr. Mayor, that’s the way things get done. Not by waiting for and depending on a lucky break.”

  Cobb’s politically sensitive mind began to uncover another silver lining.

  “Actually,” Tany continued, “the task force is doing rather well with its routine investigation. For instance, they’re certain that old nun who was stabbed knew the killer and partially identified him by scrawling the letters ‘R-O-B’ before she died. By the hour, they’re narrowing the list of people she knew who could qualify in any way with those letters.

  “And this is only one of many routine investigations that are continuing. Whatever the outcome of this investigation, Mr. Mayor, you can be sure of this. No police department in the country could be doing more.”

  By the time Tany had finished, Cobb had determined his course of action during the campaign for reelection. If the killer was apprehended, and at this point, Cobb virtually discounted this possibility, he would claim it was the result of superior police work in close cooperation with his administration, which, in turn, had worked hand-in-glove with the police.

  In the more likely outcome that the killer would not be caught; that, indeed, he would successfully kill again, this, too, would be in spite of superior police work. What was the phrase Tany had used? Cobb had liked it. Yes: No police department in the country could have done more. Throw it out there as a gauntlet. He was sure no other department would challenge the statement, partly from esprit de corps and partly because it probably would be true.

  By the time he returned his gaze to Tany, Cobb had regained his composure. He smoothed his trim mustache, removed a cigar from the box on his desk, and began elaborate preparations to light it.

  “O.K., Frank,” he said, as he snapped off the tapered end of the cigar, “I just wanted to be sure we were doing everything we could.” Cobb pivoted his swivel chair to the wall, dismissing Tany. “And, Frank, tell that lieutenant—Koznicki—that I wish him luck—sincerely.”