Chameleon fk-13

by William X. Kienzle

  The soldiers with him in those trenches were so young, and more frightened even than he. He at least had a more untroubled attitude toward death. Not that he wanted to die. He wanted to live as much as anyone, but, as a priest, he had prepared himself for inevitable death any number of times in the past, an ingredient of spiritual retreats and missions. These poor kids, most of them had never seriously thought their young bodies could cease functioning. Not until now. All they wanted to do now was to go home and work in the family gas station. More urgently, they wanted to get out of their frozen clothing, get those boots off, and see if they could wiggle their toes-or if they still had toes. They wanted the noises of war to stop-the shrieking shells, the triphammer machine guns, the screams of wounded buddies.

  Then there was the single sound Bash would never forget. It was the shell he instinctively knew was zeroing right in on his platoon. Then there was the explosion that cost him an eye.

  Then there was the explosion on Washington Boulevard.

  Cletus Bash pitched forward and fell to the pavement.

  He was above the scene looking down at it. It didn’t hurt. He could see people looking out their windows onto Washington Boulevard where his body lay stretched out on the pavement. None of the onlookers could see the figure running down the alley, tucking the gun into his coat pocket. The man who had been following Bash at a discreet distance since he’d left the restaurant. The man who had waited until Bash reached the alley. The man who, moving up quickly, had fired a single shot into Bash’s head, turned, and dashed down the alley.

  Bash, now drifting farther from his body sprawled on the ground, could see it all. He even recognized his killer. Somehow, now it didn’t make any difference. He continued to drift away and became less and less interested in what was going on on earth.

  Gradually, as people concluded that the gunshot was a solitary, not-to-be-immediately-repeated event, some cautiously emerged, but not before donning hat and coat. One helpful soul, when he realized Bash’s condition, hurried back to call the police, which, oddly, no one else had thought to do, even after hearing the gunshot and seeing the prone figure. The others stood about, observing that it wasn’t safe to walk around in Detroit, even downtown, even in broad daylight.

  It was but seconds until a blue-and-white arrived. Once the uniformed police saw the head wound and that the victim was a priest, one of them called and alerted Zoo Tully.

  28

  It was early evening, but no one was counting.

  At police headquarters, the Homicide Division was almost deserted. Some officers were investigating cases that demanded immediate attention. But most were out kicking the bushes on the Church-related serial murders. With the killing of Father Cletus Bash earlier in the day, all burners were on high. Shift times were disregarded, as, in many cases, were dinners. It didn’t need to be said but the mayor said it anyway: This string of murders must be ended, and the perpetrator brought to justice.

  Homicide didn’t have to be specially motivated. The officers who worked this division were experienced and good at their job and they knew it. Beyond every other consideration, they were personally embarrassed by three-in effect, four-murders of members of the Catholic archdiocese.

  In one of the squad rooms, Lieutenant Tully and Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore sat with Father Koesler around a couple of pushed-together desks. The silences-there were many-were awkward.

  The common denominator of this group was Tully, who had invited Koesler to sit in at this meeting. Of course Tully also was Mangiapane and Moore’s commanding officer. Neither of the sergeants knew precisely where the priest fit in, particularly at this stage of the investigation when it was expedient that things run most smoothly and efficiently. As far as the sergeants could see, this was a time for the highest degree of police procedure. Not a time for bringing in a layman-in police terms-and an amateur at best.

  But Tully, in inviting Koesler to attend, was following the same hunch he’d had throughout this investigation: That the priest could provide a Catholic insight that might elude the police areaof expertise.

  “Are we sure of the bullet?” Moore asked.

  Tully nodded. “I just got the report from ballistics a little while ago. Just before you got here. A head wound; same gun.”

  “Wow!” Mangiapane exclaimed. “Record time.”

  “That’s what we haven’t got-time,” Tully commented. “Father Koesler, is there any chance this Father Bash could have had a vital interest in the possible closing of Church schools or parishes?”

  Koesler pondered the question briefly. The pause was largely pro forma; he was quite certain of the answer. He slowly shook his head. “Not to the best of my knowledge, Lieutenant. Oh, he undoubtedly had an opinion on the question, although I have no idea what that opinion might have been.

  “But he would not be intimately affected in either event-whedier the institutions were closed or allowed to remain open. He was not in the parochial ministry. By that I mean he wasn’t attached to any parish. At most, he probably helped out at some parish on weekends. Again, if he did, I don’t know where. His prime concern would have been in relaying the decision to the news media. In effect, I guess you could say he probably didn’t care what decision was made as long as he had that decision in hand in enough time to dish it out to the media.

  “As far as I can see, Lieutenant, that thread we had going to link the murders broke when Father Bash became a victim. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Tully said. “It was my theory. You told me what you knew of the first three and I came up with the idea. The problem is it puts us back on square one. And an added problem is that the perp seems to have changed his M.O.”

  “His M.O.?” Moore said. “How’s that?”

  “The first three killings,” Tully explained. “They all took place at night … with Donovan, early in the morning, actually. Both Hoffer and Foley were killed near eleven at night as each one was walking his dog before retiring. In each case the killer picked his time carefully. Of all the times and places he could have picked for Donovan, he struck late at night, ’cause she had a habit of doing a lot of her work in the evening and she frequently got home very late. Plus, at that hour, not only could he depend on her coming home alone but there likely would not be anyone around to witness the killing.

  “He was right about everything but the victim. No way he could guess that one particular night would be the one and only time the nun loaned an outfit to her sister. So he got the wrong one. But it was a one-in-a-million chance. The important thing is that the perp had himself pretty well protected.

  “The same in the next two killings. Both men had a steady, dependable habit of ending the day about eleven by walking their dogs. In both cases, that’s exactly what both did. In both cases it was late at night on a pretty predictably empty street.

  “In every case-in all three killings-his careful preparation paid off: All three were killed at his convenience. The victims were faithful to their schedules. It was most unlikely anyone would be around to witness the killings. If by chance he had spotted anyone coming home or passing by unexpectedly, he could just have walked away and done it some other night. None of the habits these people had were going to change. If anything prevented him from killing them when he originally intended, all he needed to do was come back another night.”

  “I see where you’re headed, Zoo,” said Moore. “The Bash killing doesn’t have any of those elements.”

  “Not one,” Tully continued. “How could the perp know what Bash was going to do today? According to his assistant … what’s his name …?”

  “Meyer. Robert Meyer,” Mangiapane supplied.

  “Meyer. According to him, Bash suggested the Pontch Wine Cellars right out of the blue. Bash ate there frequently but by no means so regularly that it could be predicted. But the killer either followed him or waited for him in that alley. The more likely probability is that the guy was either in the restaurant or waiting outside. By the
way, while I’m thinking of it, get some of our people to do as complete a make as possible on who was in the Pontch this afternoon. Joe Beyer knows his clientele pretty well. See if he recalls Carson or Stapleton-or if anybody can identify either of them as being there.”

  Both Mangiapane and Moore noted the instructions.

  “To get back,” Tully resumed, “the perp, as I figure it, followed Bash up Washington Boulevard. When he got to that alley, the perp checked out the area and when he didn’t see anyone, he shot Bash and escaped down the alley.

  “But just look at the difference: It’s not at night; it’s in broad daylight. The perp hasn’t done his usual thorough surveillance; he’s winging it for the first time. And he’s taking a huge chance that someone-maybe looking out one of the windows-could be. a witness, possibly even recognize or identify him. Now what does all this mean for us?”

  A slight smile played at Moore’s lips. “He’s getting desperate. He’s not being cautious. He’s in a hurry.”

  Tully nodded. “Something like that. For whatever reason, he went against his M.O. And that’s something we’ve got to figure out: Why? He improvised and still got away with it. We got to make sure if he improvises again, we’re there to make sure he isn’t lucky again. Or …” One of Tully’s worst fears in this case seemed to be coming true. At this point the only thing that made sense was that more than one killer was out there; that two-or more-crazies were operating, using the same gun, but, obviously, if one wanted to consider this latest killing, not the same M.O.

  There was no help for it; they’d have to proceed on the basis that they didn’t know which basis to proceed on: Was there one killer with two M.O.’s, or two or more killers with God knows how many M.O.’s?

  Tully looked at the others, the three who had already invested so much time, effort, and brain work in this puzzle. He threw this latest ingredient into the pot. Koesler looked first startled, then thoughtful. Oddly, neither Moore nor Mangiapane changed expression. At first, Tully thought their lack of response was due to the newness of the hypothesis, but Mangiapane’s low-keyed, “Great minds run in the same channels,” followed by Moore’s smile of accord, gave him to realize that, in the words of countless comedians, the feeling was mutual, and that his two chief assistants had indeed been operating on the same channels.

  “Well,” Tully concluded, “whichever, or whatever, or whoever is carrying out these killings, I repeat: We’ve got to make sure the perp isn’t lucky again. And, speaking of luck, have our guyshad any?”

  “Some,” Moore.said. “Talking to some of the friends and associates of Carson and Stapleton, it seems that both those guys have something going for them. We haven’t found anybody yet who can be specific, but several acquaintances have said that Carson has been bragging about something he’s been doing diat will shake things up in the local Church. And, oddly, Stapleton has been doing somewhat the same. Only he doesn’t seem to be braggings-maybe threatening is a better word. And whatever it is that Stapleton’s doing he claims is going to affect the whole damn Church-worldwide.”

  “It’s not possible, is it,” Koesler asked, “it’s not possible those two could be working together?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Tully observed.

  “Do they have alibis for this afternoon?” Mangiapane asked.

  “They seem to have come up short again,” Moore said. “Carson is on suspension from the post office. He claims he was home at the time of the shooting. Stapleton was driving to a meeting downtown, alone. There’s no way to substantiate either claim. It’s just their word. But, so far, that’s it.”

  “Okay…” Tully slapped the desk top, then stood. “Let’s get back on the street. Make sure everybody’s got the word about how the perp’s M.O. has changed. The planning from here on in … if there are any more hits planned-and I feel there will be-from now on he’s liable to be sloppy. Or, if we’re dealing with two or more nuts, the M.O.’s liable to change totally. We’ve got to hope for some kind of a break. Meantime, double up the protection for the nun. And get on the possibility that somebody at the Pontch Wine Cellars might identify either Carson or Stapleton.

  “Let’s hit the bricks,”

  The three rose and prepared to leave, though Koesler surely was not going to “hit the bricks,”

  “Oh,” Tully said in afterthought, “and Father Koesler: If you think of anything, call-doesn’t matter when. Call here, They’ll know where to find me.”

  Tully was still banking on Koesler’s coming up with some sort of Churchy insight that might break this puzzle open. In this, Tully was much more optimistic than was the priest himself.

  The walk home, from police headquarters to St. Joseph’s, was not a great distance, but it was bitterly cold. Gratiot Avenue was not that far removed from the Detroit River and its icy breezes, and there was that unprotected overpass across the Chrysler Freeway.

  As he walked, Father Koesler thought of Clete Bash, and how, earlier this very day, he too had walked a downtown street. He had had no way of knowing he was heading toward his final moment on earth. When it came right down to it, no Detroit priest or nun-or anyone employed by the archdiocese-had any clue as to whether they-any of them-were on this madman’s list.

  There were no lights on in the ancient rectory when Koesler let himself in. He went directly to the kitchen. It was the warmest room in the old building. There he found a note from Mary O’Connor telling him his dinner was in the oven and giving specific instructions on how to heat it. He thought the instructions a bit much, but then he remembered a time he had put a frozen dinner including the cardboard box containing it into the oven to heat. Over the years, Mary had come to know him better than he knew himself.

  He followed her instructions to the letter.

  He felt frozen to the bone. So he mixed himself a Scotch and water. The first sip sent a welcome wave of warmth through his still-shivering body. He glanced at the afternoon paper’s front page. No mention of Father Bash’s murder. It must have happened too late for their deadline. The story surely would be the top headline in both morning and afternoon papers tomorrow.

  To be followed by … whom? Sister Joan? Would the killer, now in seeming haste, double back and pick off the one target he seemed to have missed? Would all the present police protection scare him off? Could anything frighten off a person that determined on a plan of destruction?

  Sister Joan … something rattling around in his memory.

  Sister Joan was the first intended victim … or so the theory went. But her executioner failed, and so he moved on to the second, then the third, then the fourth victims, never returning to the first failed effort.

  Hadn’t Koesler been thinking of something similar recently? Something in the liturgy?

  Of course; it was the feast of St. John the Apostle and Evangelist.

  Koesler dug out his copy of The Oxford Dictionary of Saints. John suffered “(according to ecclesiastical tradition) under Domitian’s persecution, from which, however, he escaped alive and ended his days at an advanced age at Ephesus.”

  But legend had it that all the apostles died martyrs. Even though John did not actually die for his faith, the Emperor Domitian did his level best to try to make John a martyr. And despite his escape, the Church considers him a martyr.

  Like St. John, Sister Joan escaped her executioner. Somebody who was well instructed in Christianity would be familiar with the St. John legend. And whoever was responsible for this series of murders very likely would fit that profile. So Sister Joan, if Koesler were correct, would no longer be a murder victim candidate. She hadn’t been murdered any more than St. John had. But both had been handed “the palm of martyrdom”-honoris causa, as it were.

  His first impulse was to call Lieutenant Tully and inform him of this new line of reasoning. Instead, he paused. He felt that he was on some sort of deductive roll. Now that he had a clear impression of how this still-living nun fit into the picture, he might be on the verge of identifying tha
t elusive thread that tied this string of murders together.

  Something … something … something. It was something someone had said. The clue was so close at hand, lurking just on the edge of his mind. He was sure that if he could just relax and let his mind take its own tour in a stream of consciousness, it would surface. He took another sip of his drink. He was relaxing and his mind seemed right on target.

  Meanwhile, his dinner was not only badly overdone, it was on the verge of catching fire.

  Sure enough, the front pages of both the Detroit News and the Free Press were full of Father Cletus Bash’s murder at midday on Washington Boulevard. That was the lead story and it was amplified both on page one and on the jump pages by sidebars covering the brief history of these serial murders and reports on the progress and lack of same of the police investigation.

  Buried somewhere in the midst of these stories was the announcement by Robert Meyer, acting spokesman for the archdiocese of Detroit, to the effect that, immediately following Father Bash’s funeral, Cardinal Boyle would leave on a combined spiritual retreat and vacation. The Cardinal’s doctor was quoted as saying there was no emergency, but that the prelate was in need of some rest and solitude. Recent events and the tragic attacks on Church leaders had taken their toll. As his doctor put it, the archbishop needed to recharge his batteries.

  No specific destination or duration was mentioned, only that he would be sojourning in a warmer clime for as long as it took to get those batteries recharged.

  29

  Cardinal Mark Boyle lived in what was by just about anyone’s standards a mansion. It was located in Palmer Woods, a square mile enclave just inside Detroit’s northern limits. Mansions are plentiful in this luxurious section, but the former residence of Bishop Michael Gallagher and Cardinal Edward Mooney and present residence of Cardinal Boyle well overshadowed its surrounding homes.