“But not hopeless… you’ve done everything you can.”
“We’ve done everything we can, and we’ve lost four priests and four nuns. What if we lose one or more on Friday? What if we never apprehend the killer?”
“Walt…” She put her knitting in its hag. “…it’s not like you to be this way. Your record is excellent; you’re admired by your peers. But you haven’t solved every case you’ve ever handled. Everyone understands that not every murder is solved.”
“This one has been different, though, from the beginning. You know I’ve felt all along that the killer has been trying to communicate—with me, personally—and I haven’t been able to break his code, to understand the clues he’s deliberately leaving.
“Or… is there really a code… or do I just want to believe there is, to make myself believe that there is some message being sent?
“And even if there is, who knows what might be making sense to a deranged mind?—The clue could be something—anything—that would never occur to the ordinary normal person, even…” He grimaced. “…even to those of us who are not unused to dealing with what some call weirdos.
“When—if—we do catch this guy, the whole thing… well, none of it might make any sense to us even then.”
It was natural that Wanda would share his feeling of helplessness, as they had shared nearly everything in the course of their long marriage.
“How about that latest composite?” she asked, trying to introduce something positive. “Has that brought in any new leads?”
“More than we can handle all at once. Our people are checking them around the clock. But, so far, our investigation hasn’t produced enough solid leads or evidence for us to be able to take much initiative. We’re still on the defensive, still reacting to this guy’s moves, rather than attacking him.
“We know he’s a male Caucasian, about five-feet-nine or ten…” He was reciting the clues for the umpteenth time just to give himself a feeling of something’s having been accomplished. “Probably in his late thirties or early forties. We have a fairly good idea of his facial features, but those, of course, can be disguised easily enough. We have good reason to suspect that, for some reason, he has selected days designated for special penance for Catholics to kill a series of priests and nuns. And we know he’s been wounded, probably causing a definite limp.
“Not much, considering the length of time we’ve been on this,” he concluded.
“But, Walt, you’re going to provide protection for all the priests and nuns on Friday. If you’re right about Friday, and I just feel in my bones you are, that should either frighten him off, or you should get him.”
“Dear, the easiest thing to do these days is to kill somebody. No one in the world is given better protection than the President of the United States. Not only was Kennedy assassinated, but had someone not involved in security not intervened, Ford would have been shot in San Francisco.
“Our best hope is that the killer doesn’t abandon his need to be close enough to his victim to leave the rosary. But, no matter what they say about the vocation shortage, there are so many priests and nuns in Detroit, it’s nearly impossible to provide quality security for all of them. We’re spread pretty thin. Actually, short of learning the killer’s identity, if there were only some way of knowing who his intended victim is, it would strengthen our chances immeasurably.”
The phone rang. Wanda answered it.
“It’s for you, dear.”
He placed the newspaper on the coffee table, crossed the room, and took the phone. “This is Lieutenant Koznicki,” he said.
“Sorry to bother you so late in the evening, Lieutenant,” the voice said. “This is Father Koesler.”
“No bother, Father; I told you you could call me here at any time.”
“Lieutenant, I find this hard to believe, myself. And maybe I’m wrong… but I don’t think so.”
“What is it, Father?”
“I think I can tell you who the remaining intended victims of the Rosary Murderer are.”
Koznicki’s adrenalin began pumping.
“Where are you, Father?”
“In my room, at St. Ursula’s.”
“Don’t move. Stay where you are. We’ll be right over.”
He hung up and turned to Wanda. “If I were positive what a deux ex machina is, I would say I’d just experienced one.”
The three men were seated in Koesler’s room on the rectory’s second floor.
Koesler was as excited as a schoolboy who knows an answer and is about to thrill his teacher with it.
Ned Harris was skeptical that anything helpful to police work could come from a rectory.
Walt Koznicki was hoping against hope that the priest had come up with what he’d claimed to have discovered.
Koesler lit a cigarette. The two detectives silently noted that the priest’s hands were trembling. Whatever he’d found clearly had shaken him.
“I think,” Koesler began, “I’d better tell you this, not in the chronological order in which it came to me, but in a way that may make more sense.”
The two officers nodded tersely. Each was determined not to interrupt but to hear the priest out.
“First,” Koesler began, “let’s consider the theory, pretty well established, I take it, that the Rosary Murderer has selected days of special penance, at least as far as Catholics are concerned, on which to commit his murders. I think it’s fairly generally known that Catholics used to be bound, by Church law, not to eat meat on all Fridays of the year, and also to fast, or eat less than usual, every day but Sundays during Lent.”
Koznicki knew these laws well, having grown up with them. Harris was vaguely aware of them.
“After the Second Vatican Council,” Koesler resumed what he believed was a necessary ground-preparing catechesis, “only Ash Wednesday and the Fridays of Lent remained as days of special penance for Catholics.
“But we must keep in mind that penance can mean other things besides dietary observance. Penance also refers to the Sacrament of Penance, or, as it’s more popularly known, confession. Not only do we have the Sacrament of Penance, but the task that is assigned to the penitent by the priest after confession, usually the recitation of certain prayers, is also called a penance. Now, gentlemen, I ask you, what is the most traditionally common penance ever assigned?”
“Check,” said Harris, who had never been to confession, let alone been assigned a penance.
Koznicki thought carefully over his years of going regularly to confession. “I’d say a certain number of Our Fathers and Hail Marys.”
“Exactly,” said Koesler, triumphantly. “Since the confessor doesn’t know who the penitent is, and since all Catholics are presumed to know at least the Our Father—the Lord’s Prayer—and the Hail Mary, these prayers have become, by far, the most common form of assigned penance.
“Now…” Koesler looked at Koznicki, “…would you hazard a guess at how many Our Fathers and Hail Marys make up the average penance?”
Again Koznicki thought of the hundreds of times, since boyhood, he’d knelt after confession and counted off those familiar prayers on his fingers. “I’m no expert,” he allowed, “but I’d say five each.”
“Precisely.” Koesler was nearly beside himself. His reasoning was being ratified. “As one who has not only been reciting penances, but assigning them for most of my life, I can testify that not only are Catholics most familiar with a penance of five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys, but most Catholics would count off the prayers on the fingers of one hand, alternating them… one Our Father and one Hail Mary per finger.”
Koznicki nodded and smiled at the memory.
“Now,” Koesler continued, “I think it safe to assume that if our man has selected days of penance on which to kill priests and nuns, it is also safe to assume that he is not only familiar with this all-too-common prayer penance but that he intends a connection to be inferred.”
Silence. The “I knew it!” bu
tton clicked in Koznicki’s mind. His feelings, his assumptions—his ESP—had been right all along!
After a few moments, Harris whistled softly. “Five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys said alternately. Five priests and five nuns. A priest and a nun and a priest and a nun—”
“That’s it!” said Koesler. “Four priests and four nuns so far. That means that on Good Friday, he intends to murder one more priest, then one more nun, and the time and the task he has set for himself will be completed.”
“But… why?” Harris asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” said Koesler, all too aware of the irony of that statement but fully satisfied that he had been able to reach his conclusions and solve the riddle without using any of the knowledge gained in the confessional.
“Remarkable,” commented Koznicki. “But, on the phone, Father, you said you could name the intended next victims.”
“That’s right,” said Koesler. “And this, oddly, is where I began. Once this came to me, what I’ve already explained simply fell into place.
“Remember,” he asked, looking at Koznicki, “how you once told me that the reason this killer was leaving clues was that he was almost as hopeful of being stopped as he was determined to kill? You told me the secret to understanding all these clues was something like breaking a code. Once you break the code, you understand what the message is.”
“I remember,” Koznicki replied quietly.
“Well,” Koesler said, “I think I’ve broken the code. Would you gentlemen mind coming over here to my desk?”
Koesler was quite certain he had, indeed, broken the code, but he was eager to have his theory verified by these two experts. He turned his chair to the desk. Koznicki stood at his right, Harris at his left.
“Now,” Koesler said, “Please note that I have written the full names of the eight victims in the order in which they were killed.”
The list was more than familiar to the two officers.
“Now, note the names I have underlined,” Koesler directed.
The two silently read: “Lord-Vania-Dailey-Honora-Killian-Magdala-Steele-Martyrs.”
There was a prolonged silence. Obviously, the names did nothing for them.
“I couldn’t find any connection between these names, myself,” said Koesler, “until I sat here this evening, looking at them over and over again. Then, reciting them repeatedly, a connection began to form among just a few of them. There was a familiar ring to those few. Specifically, ‘Lord, Honora, Killian and Steele.’ They reminded me of words from…” He paused. “…the Ten Commandments.”
“The Ten Commandments!” said an astonished Harris. Koznicki, an odd look on his face, kept silent.
“Yes,” Koesler continued. “Bear with me. Take the first name, Lord, and the first commandment: ‘I am the Lord, thy God; thou shalt not have strange Gods before me.’ Now, the fourth name, Honora, and the fourth commandment: ‘Honor thy Father and thy Mother.’ The fifth name, Killian, and the fifth commandment: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ The seventh name—” The intensity in his voice was evident as the tempo of his speech accelerated, “Steele, and the seventh commandment: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’”
“Damn!” Harris said fervently. Then, “Oh, excuse me, Father. But…” The excitement in his voice overrode the pro forma apology. “What about the others?”
“They don’t fit as perfectly as the four I’ve just mentioned. But IF the killer’s code is the Ten Commandments, and IF he has isolated just Detroit priests and nuns whose names suggest commandments, the others fit admirably.
“Let’s take them one by one. The second name, Vania, the second commandment: ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy God, in vain.’ The third name, Dailey, the third commandment: ‘Remember, keep Holy the Sabbath day.’ The sixth name, Magdala, the sixth commandment: ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ Here, I think he met his greatest challenge: no one is named ‘adultery,’ but Mary Magdalene was known as the adulteress.
“Finally, the eighth name, Martyrs, the eighth commandment: ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness.’ Again a problem. But nicely handled, because ‘martyr,’ in Greek and as used in the Church means witness.”
Koesler leaned back. He was suddenly close to exhaustion.
There was an extended silence. The other two resumed their chairs.
“I don’t know what to say,” Koznicki finally said, “but I do believe you have it, Father.”
Harris wore a puzzled look. “There’s something wrong here,” he said, finally, “and I don’t know quite what it is. But, adultery— a subject I’ve always found interesting—isn’t that the seventh, not the sixth commandment?”
“Ah,” Koesler answered, “a point well taken. For reasons not germane to this issue, there is a different numerology for Protestants and Catholics. But, trust me, Catholics understand adultery as the sixth.
“No, the numerology the killer has used is Catholic, as is his understanding of penance and his predilection for priests and nuns.”
“All right, then, the final clue, the rosary?” asked Harris.
“I hadn’t thought about that until now,” Koesler replied. “But now that I do think about it, it fits perfectly. Again, at least in the recent past, assuming that most Catholics not only knew the rosary, but usually carried one, priests regularly assigned the saying of the rosary as a penance after confession. Especially…” He glanced at Harris, “…to mortal sinners like adulterers.
“It’s also, now that I think of that, a symbol of death, since most Catholics have a rosary intertwined in their fingers when their bodies he in state after death.”
“And,” picked up Koznicki, “it was handy as the one visible clue that linked the series of murders together.” He turned back to Koesler, “But, Father, the next victim?”
“Yes,” Koesler said, almost tiredly. “After figuring all this out, I consulted our archdiocesan directory, knowing at least what I was looking for.
“The ninth commandment: ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.’ The ninth victim: Father Ted Neighbors.
“Ted is a classmate of mine. He’s pastor of St. William of Thierry, the next parish over.
“For the tenth victim, we have considerably more of a problem. The tenth commandment, Catholic version,” he said, inclining his head in Harris’ direction, “is, “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods.’
“Before calling you, Lieutenant, I called the vicar for religious. The key word, I believe is ‘goods,’ and there are many variations of the word among Detroit nuns. For instance, there are several Sister Bonaventures—the ‘Bona,’ of course, being Latin for ‘good.’ However, the vicar had one even more likely listing—a Sister Roberta Goode.”
“All right,” Koznicki said, “we can check into that. But if we can stop the killer before he reaches this Father Neighbors, we’ve got him. Would you call this Father Neighbors right now… don’t tell him what it’s about, but ask him to see us first thing tomorrow morning? No use depriving him of sleep tonight.”
Koznicki stood up.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Father. We needed a miracle, and you’ve handed it to me.”
“That’s all right,” Koesler said. “I told you the killer was picking on people who prayed a lot.”
Ted Neighbors would sleep well that night. Bob Koesler would not. His euphoric high had drained him, but the overexhaustion it left in its wake was not conducive to sleep.
Especially when, like the moans of Marley’s ghost, the sobs of an obsessed killer gave his confessor no peace.
Father Robert Koesler gazed abstractedly through the car window as Lieutenant Walter Koznicki drove the few blocks of Gratiot that separated St. Ursula’s from St. William of Thierry parish. The familiar sights of Mt. Olivet cemetery, the Detroit City Airport, and Connor Street Police Station flicked by as Koesler tried to think of a gentle way of breaking the news to Ted Neighbors.
In the past, Koesler had had to bre
ak the news of their impending death to a variety of people. Even though each was terminally ill, it was never easy to be the bearer of that news. And now, how on earth, he wondered, do you tell a healthy man in the prime of his life, and a friend, at that, that he might be killed the following day?
He had not resolved the question when they U-turned the island on Outer Drive and parked in front of St. William’s rectory.
As he and Koznicki began the long walk toward the rectory, the lieutenant said, “Father, do you see that man sitting in the car that’s parked just ahead of mine… and the one parked on the side street?”
Koesler turned and noted both cars. “Yes.”
“Police. There’s another at the rear of the rectory. They’ve been here since shortly after we spoke with you last night.”
Koesler shook his head. “You don’t take any chances, do you?”
“Not when we’re this close.” Koznicki rang the doorbell. “At this moment, Sergeant Harris and Lieutenant Washington are with your vicar for religious, checking the list of Detroit nuns whose names have any relationship to the word ‘good.’”
At that, the door opened. Father Ted Neighbors was dressed in a red-and-white sport shirt, black trousers, and red-and-white tennis shoes. “Bob,” he said, extending his hand to Koesler, “good to see you, but what brings you here at this hour?”
“Hi, Ted.” Koesler took Neighbors’ hand and nodded toward his companion. “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Koznicki. He’s with the Detroit Police Department.”
“Hello, Lieutenant.” Neighbors searched his mind vainly for a memory of some crime he’d committed and forgotten.
“Pleased to meet you, Father. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
As Neighbors led them into his office at the corner of the building, Koznicki made a snap appraisal of the priest. Bald on top, with a fringe of gray set off by muttonchop sideburns; strong rectangular face with aquiline nose and firm chin; bifocals with gold metal frames; about five-feet-eight or nine, medium build; loose-fitting trousers made him look as if he’d recently lost weight.
The Rosary Murders Page 26