The Rosary Murders

by William X. Kienzle

  Neighbors grinned broadly. “Hey, buddy,” he said with a touch of bravado, “I’m the guy he’s after, not you.”

  Koesler returned his grin and made a saluting gesture with his fork.

  Mrs. Bovey came into the dining room. “It’s for you, Father,” she said to Neighbors. “I told him you were eating, but he insisted.”

  Neighbors looked at the telephone’s flashing white light indicating someone was on “hold.” He looked at Ross seated near one of the extension phones. Ross nodded. Each of them picked up a receiver simultaneously, a routine they’d been following all day.

  “This day you will die…” said a sepulchral voice. The message was followed by a few moments of silence, then a click.

  Neighbors stood with the dead phone at his ear, his face rapidly losing color.

  “What is it, Ted?” Koesler asked, rising from his chair. “What happened?”

  Ross had Lieutenant Koznicki on his walkie-talkie, reporting.

  “What did the caller say?” Koznicki asked.

  Ross consulted his notes and read in a monotone that did no justice to the original dramatic communication.

  “It’s all right, Fred. Some nut has been making calls to rectories and convents all day, always using those identical words.”

  Ross approached the rigid Neighbors. “It’s all right, Father,” he said, in a comforting tone, “some kook’s been making that same call to rectories all over the city all day. It was just a coincidence he called you. Nothing to worry about.”

  Neighbors dropped the receiver and retreated quickly to the toilet where he lost the Truite au Bleu.

  The black Plymouth stopped at the corner of Gratiot and Rosemary. Sergeant Harris, who had been standing on the corner, slid in the passenger side. Lieutenant Koznicki made a right turn onto Rosemary and drove slowly down the side street.

  “Anything?” Harris asked.

  “Nothing. Just that incident at St. Thomas’.” Koznicki checked the parking lot at the rear of St. William’s. It was empty. A further glance showed that his surveillance team was in place. He drove on.

  “It’s getting late,” Harris said. There was no reply. The two continued on the quiet residential street. “Think we scared him off?”

  “It’s possible. I didn’t think we would. I didn’t think he’d be deterred even if he discovered our presence. But, the later it gets, the less likely he’ll try something. What time do you have?” Koznicki turned right at Dickerson.

  “Seven-thirty. Three of the murders were committed later in the day than this, but he’s got to allow time for a second victim, too… or so the theory goes.”

  Koznicki smiled. “Giving up on the theory already, huh?” He turned right again onto Outer Drive.

  “I guess my problem is our source. I mean—a priest who reads murder mysteries? I mean, those credentials are not exactly those of somebody who graduated at the top of his class in law enforcement.” Harris rolled up the window. The evening was turning chill.

  “I know it’s an odd source, but it’s a sound theory. And even if we scare this guy off today, we’ll get him. I feel it in my bones. We’ve got enough info to complete our investigation. We just ran out of time for now. If he doesn’t act tonight, there’s no impetus for him to kill again. He’ll have blown his game. To paraphrase Shakespeare—” Harris raised an eyebrow, half-quizzically, half-mockingly. “—his time will be out of joint. And we’ll have bought ourselves all the time we need to finish following up our leads.”

  After a brief silence, Harris said, “Then there’s the other big, unanswered question: why? Man, I’d sure like to know why he did it—almost more than who he is.”

  “We may just learn all the answers if we can take him alive.”

  They were passing St. William’s rectory. At the Gunston side, they could see light coming from the living room. The front offices were dark. A very peaceful scene.

  Ted Neighbors had recovered from his earlier fright, though the blue trout was irretrievable. He and Bob Koesler had agreed that TV would not be an adequate distraction from the tension they both felt. So they had decided to solve all the problems of the Church. That pastime was even more popular among priests than the exchange of clerical gossip.

  Koesler feared Neighbors was borrowing much of his courage from the wine he had sipped slowly but incessantly since dinner. It was, Neighbors had explained graciously, with just a hint of affable condescension, a Spanish red, Rioja, from the Bodegas Bilbainos winery. Spanish red or white, Koesler would have preferred they both have clear heads, at least during these last few critical hours. He started and stuck with Coke.

  Between Koesler’s cigarettes and Neighbors’ cigars, the living room area had been converted into the proverbial smoke-filled room. Sergeant Ross, seated in the shadows at the far corner of the dining room, did not appreciate the smoke. Not only was it offensive to his lungs, but it created a layer of obscurity to a scene he wanted to see clearly. However, he said nothing. He understood the tension the two priests were under and forgave them their trespasses.

  “Bishops and popes just aren’t that important anymore,” Neighbors said, puffing his cigar into new life. “Change is coming from the trenches.”

  Continuing change in the Church was a phenomenon not many had anticipated. The Second Vatican Council in the early ’sixties had been meant to effect all the change that would be necessary for several centuries. In reality, no one had been able to close the windows Pope John XXIII had opened.

  “I couldn’t agree with you less, Teddy. You’re going by the theory that the Church is…” Koesler made a broad gesture, “… the People of God. I consider that Church propaganda at best. It’s a matter of visibility.”

  “Visibility?” Neighbors’ eyes were not as clear as they might have been.

  “Visibility,” insisted Koesler. The pope still makes headlines and network TV whether he’s saying something significant at the UN or something silly like, women can’t be priests because priests have to look like Jesus. That, in fact, is the point. The pope and most bishops, at least most U.S. bishops, seldom say anything important. Yet, they are forever getting publicity.

  “For a mere priest to become important to the media, he’s got to go on the record about something wildly unexpected, like—oh, like he’s in favor of unrestricted abortion.

  “As for the people out in the pews, forget it.”

  “Your problem, Robert,” Neighbors slowly wagged his cigar at Koesler, “is that you think everything happens in newspapers and magazines and on TV and radio. You think if it doesn’t happen in the media, it doesn’t happen. But I tell you, more things happen that don’t appear in the media than this world knows of.”

  Neighbors checked his wristwatch. It was five minutes before eleven—five minutes later than the last time he’d consulted his timepiece. He rejoiced over each passing minute, since the later it got, the less likely there would be any danger to him.

  “Take marriage, for instance,” Neighbors continued, as he poured himself more Spanish red. He offered the bottle in the direction of Koesler, who simply shook his head, and raised his glass still half-filled with Coke and ice. “There they are, the experts all over the world, trying to reform canon law. And when they reform it, it’ll be out of date. Meanwhile,” Neighbors became animated, “we in the trenches are effecting our own reform, using, for instance, the ‘pastoral solution’ to canonically impossible marriages. If somebody’s involved in a second or third or whatever marriage and you wouldn’t dare send them through the Church Tribunal process because they couldn’t get a declaration of nullity in canon law—if they’re satisfied that their present marriage is solid and lasting, we encourage them to begin receiving the sacraments again.” Neighbors was downright triumphant.

  Koesler lit another cigarette and rubbed his eyes. The smoke was getting a bit thick, even for him. “I know all about the ‘pastorai solution.’ I was present at the vicars’ meeting when Al Thomas argued for canon l
aw and Leo Clark argued for freedom. Clark explained that the ‘pastoral’ procedure was a moral response to marriage cases that were beyond the scope of present canon law. Thomas said you couldn’t do that, because it was against canon law, and Clark said, yes, that’s what he’d just said.

  “But it gets down to this, Teddy…” Koesler glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Even though they were operating on a theory that was his invention, Koesler was just as happy to see it go down the drain. And the later it got, the more likely was his theory to prove false. “It gets down to this,” he repeated, freshening his drink with more Coke, “all that we, in the trenches, if you will, can do with individual people, little by little, could be accomplished worldwide, overnight, if the pope signed the right document.

  “Or, look at it this way: What would happen if one Catholic bishop ordained a woman?”

  “She’d be a priest, I guess. Sort of a Ms. Father.” Neighbors’ natural ebullience was returning.

  “Exactly,” Koesler said. “And you don’t think the official Church would have to deal with that?”

  Ross’ walkie-talkie emitted a crackling sound. He exchanged a few mumbled words with whomever was at the other end, then entered the living room.

  “Fathers,” he said, “the doorbell will ring in a few moments. It should be a police officer, but we’ll observe our routine deployment.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Koesler was glad they’d been warned. An unannounced noise might’ve given him—and certainly Ted Neighbors—the screaming meemies.

  Koesler waited while Neighbors, and Ross, revolver drawn, exited through the door separating the living room from the office area. Just past Neighbors’ office, they turned left and came to the front door. Ross peered through the small, round, one-way peephole and identified Sergeant Harris. Ross holstered his revolver, admitted Harris, and the three men joined Koesler in the living room.

  “Gentlemen,” Harris announced, waving smoke away from his eyes, “it’s eleven-thirty. It’s now geographically impossible for the killer to complete his plan of attacking two victims before midnight. We’ve pretty much determined that if he could not attack both, he would attack neither.

  “Lieutenant Koznicki is aware of the pressure you’ve been under, Father Neighbors. Obviously, our theory was erroneous; it was all a mistake. We’re calling off the surveillance, and we want to apologize for having put you through all this.”

  Koesler noticed a look of surprise pass briefly across Ross’ face. The priest shrugged mentally. It was his theory that was going down the drain, and he hoped the baby wasn’t being thrown out with the bathwater. Nevertheless, he felt a wave of relief. He was almost grateful his theory had been proven inaccurate, even though he was unable to understand where he’d gone wrong.

  Harris continued, speaking directly to Neighbors. “The captain didn’t want you to be troubled any longer than absolutely necessary. And he wants me, on behalf of the entire department, to thank you for your cooperation.”

  He turned to Ross. “Let’s go, Fred.”

  A quiet Sergeant Ross retrieved his topcoat from the hall closet and followed Harris out of the rectory, the door latch clicking behind them.

  Neighbors looked at his classmate in disbelief. “This is weird,” he said, finally. “It’s as if I’ve been living with a cop all my life. First they tell me I’m gonna be murdered, now they tell me it was all a mistake. My life would’ve been a helluva lot less complicated if they hadn’t told me anything.”

  For the better part of twenty-four hours, he’d felt like a hunted animal. However, the enormous amount of wine he’d consumed that evening helped Father Neighbors accept unquestioningly the surprising news that all was now well.

  He shook his head. “Listen, why don’t you stay the night? God knows we’ve got enough room. Besides, it’s time you go off that Coke and had a few belts. This has been almost as bad for you as it has for me.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Koesler finished his Coke in one long draught and set his taste buds for stronger stuff.

  “Here—” Neighbors held out a small key on a string. “This opens the wine cellar in the basement. Why don’t you go get us something very special, while I get a couple of our Waterford goblets. This deserves a celebration.”

  With that, they parted to reunite for a party. It was eleven-thirty-five.

  A late-model black Chevy had been circling the neighborhood for the past half hour. The driver had noticed an unusual number of occupied cars parked near St. William’s rectory. He also noticed pedestrians, at times two men, at times a man and a woman, who seemed to be slowly patrolling the area bordered by Gratiot, Outer Drive, Gunston, and Rosemary. He began to feel frustration and the beginnings of panic.

  He rolled down the car window. Although the night air had a tinge of cold, he was sweating profusely. And each time he had to move his right foot from the accelerator to the brake, he winced with pain.

  This is like a fortress, he thought. How could he breach their defenses? Evidently, the police had finally solved the puzzle. They couldn’t possibly have provided this much protection for very many priests or nuns today. Well, it was a game with fatal consequences upon which he’d embarked when he first made his plans for revenge many months ago.

  Apparently, he had lost the game. Yet he was determined to continue playing to the very end. What is it they say? The game’s not over until the final out.

  So far, he’d been able to carry out his plans under pretty adverse circumstances, particularly last week when the police had seemed extraordinarily prepared for him. His success had indeed bordered on the miraculous, which seemed odd, since he was killing priests and nuns. Perhaps, he thought, God favored his act of revenge even more than the lives of His priests and nuns.

  As he turned once again onto Outer Drive from Gratiot, he was able to see his watch by the glow of the streetlight. Eleven-thirty-four. He had all but given up hope.

  Then, as he neared the street in front of St. William’s rectory, he noticed unexpected activity. He slid his car to the curb several yards past Gunston, and watched through his sideview mirror. He scarcely believed what he saw. It appeared that the police were leaving. The manned cars that had been parked in front and at the side of the rectory pulled away. The suspicious-looking pedestrians were getting into cars and driving away.

  His spirits soared. Thank God, he prayed. He had his chance.

  He waited several minutes. He could discern no further activity in the vicinity of the rectory. All seemed natural, calm, and as deserted as this hour of the night would call for. Slowly, he eased his car from the curb. He U-turned the nearest island on Outer Drive and headed for the rectory.

  He parked in front. All was still. He left his car, pulled the collar of his topcoat up about his neck, shoved his right hand into the deep pocket of his coat, and firmly gripped the cold metal.

  He started up the long walk toward the rectory. At first, all was well. Then he tripped on a pebble on the sidewalk and stumbled, limping badly for several steps. He hesitated and looked from side to side. He could see nothing but the shifting shadows cast by the thick bushes along the front of the rectory, shadows that danced in the pale glow of the street light swinging gently in the light breeze.

  He gritted his teeth, but it was too late to recover his physical composure. The lonely figure limped on toward the rectory, his shadow distorted by the street light’s uneven beam.

  Father Neighbors, his mental processes slowed by Spanish red, had fumbled about in the closet at the end of the office hallway. He examined one type of glassware after another until he finally selected the proper pair.

  Two lovely Waterford goblets in hand and a benign smile on his face, he retraced his steps toward the living room. He was just passing the front door when the doorbell rang. Instinctively, he took both glasses in his left hand and turned the knob with the other. The door was open before he recalled the routine he’d been going through all day long with Ser
geant Ross.

  Neighbors experienced a moment of fear that came close to terror. But, then, he remembered that the all-clear had been given and he had nothing to fear.

  He didn’t recognize the caller. That was strange; he knew most of his parishioners quite well. He felt slightìy embarrassed that he was out of cassock and in casual attire.

  “May I help you?” he asked, feeling a little vague and wishing he had not imbibed so much wine. “I’m Father Neighbors.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you this late at night, Father,” said the man. “But my mother just died. She’s one of your parishioners. I saw the light in the rectory and thought I could make funeral arrangements. Save me a trip tomorrow.”

  “Oh… oh, sure ... of course. Just step into my office, and we can make the arrangements.”

  Neighbors led the way to his office, bumping against the door as he turned the corner. As he entered the room, he felt a chill. He noticed that the windows were ajar, and guessed he’d opened them earlier when it had been warmer outside. He’d have to remember to check all the windows later.

  He sat heavily at his desk, pulled out the long, narrow funeral pad and looked up at his still-standing caller. “Now, what was your mother’s—”

  That was as much of the question as he completed. Afterward, he remembered two things very clearly. A pair of narrow, determined eyes looking intently at him and the open end of a revolver barrel magnified by a silencer that seemed many times larger than life.

  In that instant, two voices barked simultaneously through the open windows. “Drop it!”

  The man hesitated a split second that was a split second too long. A massive blast destroyed the night’s silence as Schommer and Brainard fired their AR-15s.

  The stranger’s body slammed against the wall and ricocheted to the floor.

  Blood was everywhere.