Marked for Murder

by William Kienzle

  “Now you know: nobody.” He removed the belt from his trousers. “Come on, now; your turn.”

  She seemed dubious. “What about your gloves?”

  “I’ve got Raynaud’s. It’s a syndrome. Hands get cold and stay cold. It’s not important. Until we get down to it, the gloves are more comfortable. I’ll take ’em off in a minute.”

  She shrugged.

  She rose and turned her back to him. Perfect.

  She unsnapped her bra and let it drop to the bed. He fitted the end of his belt through the buckle. She slipped down her panties. He noticed that the skin of her buttocks sagged, betraying her age.

  It was only a momentary impression. As she stood on one leg, slipping the other out of her panties, he acted. He let his belt, now formed into a noose, fall over her head. She started, but as it reached her throat, he yanked . . . tight. She tried to suck in air as he pushed her face down onto the bed. He knelt on her back as he pulled the belt as tight as he could. She clawed at it. There was no way she could reach him. She struggled for a few minutes. He had expected that. But he held on implacably, sweating profusely. Then it was over. She was still.

  He took a small mirror from her purse and held it before her mouth, her nose. No sign of breath.

  He took the belt from around the dead woman’s neck, reinserted it through his trouser loops and buckled it at his waist.

  He donned his hat and coat and returned to his car, checking to make sure there were no witnesses. He saw none. He expected none. On a cold Sunday in this neighborhood, one could reasonably expect empty corridors and near-deserted streets.

  He removed an object from the car, inserted it in his coat pocket, and returned to the apartment. He turned on a stove burner and placed the object on it.

  He dragged the body into the adjoining bathroom and placed it in the tub. He then returned to the stove. With tongs he took from his coat pocket, he affixed the now red-hot object to a small wooden handle, and carried it into the bathroom, where he branded the body.

  He then took a large knife from his pants pocket. With it, he opened an incision from just above her navel to her crotch.

  He turned on the water tap, rinsed the knife and cooled the branding instrument, and returned the items to one coat pocket, stuffing the folded clerical vest in the other.

  From beginning to end, he had not removed his gloves.

  He surveyed the apartment. All seemed as he wished.

  He pulled his coat collar up around his neck and exited.

  Once again, he checked the staircase and hallway, then the street. Once again, all seemed deserted. With a sense of resigned satisfaction, he left the scene.

  2

  It was about three hours later, just a little after eight o’clock that evening, that Arlene found Louise.

  Arlene had returned to Third and Willis about thirty minutes after Louise had departed on what turned out to be the final assignation of her life. Arlene sensed that she had just missed her friend. She waited with growing impatience. There were no more tricks for her and it was getting colder by the hour. After giving up the idea there might be more business that day, she adjourned to a small nearby eatery, where she kept vigil for Louise.

  At last, perturbed, she walked to the apartment Louise used.

  The door was unlocked. It should not have been. She found Louise in the tub. After vomiting, she went in search of a phone and called 911.

  In a matter of minutes, two uniformed officers arrived. Neither had a doubt about what to do. One secured the apartment and began questioning Arlene; the other called homicide.

  Since it was just after eight o’clock in the evening, only five officers were on duty: a lieutenant, a sergeant, two investigators, and a P.O. (police officer). The sergeant and one of the investigators were out, responding to a call. The lieutenant decided he’d take this one himself, along with the P.O., who was a recent addition to the division. The lieutenant didn’t want two relatively inexperienced officers making up a response team.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the apartment. After a briefing by the uniforms, the newcomers began their own investigation. They went immediately to the bathroom. Barely bigger than a closet, it was hardly large enough for the two men. P.O. Mangiapane stood in the doorway.

  Arlene had mopped up after her nausea; otherwise nothing had been touched.

  “Good God, wouldja look at that!” said Mangiapane. “Somebody tore out her guts. Looks like some sicko, eh, Zoo?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Nearly everyone called Alonzo Tully “Zoo.” Five-feet-eleven, slim, black, and reflective, Tully had twenty-one years in the department, twelve of them in homicide. He gave little thought to the prospect of retirement in four years.

  He pulled off his unshaped Irish tweed hat and stuffed it in a pocket of his overcoat. His close-cropped hair was flecked with gray.

  Mangiapane turned and gave the apartment a quick glance. “Don’t see any blood around. I guess he cut her in the tub. Considerate of him.”

  Tully bent closer to the body. “Probably dead already when he cut her.”

  “Oh?”

  “The bruises on her neck. Strangled. If she was alive when he cut her, blood’d be all over. She had to be dead at least a little while. When you’re strangled, you quit breathing, but your heart keeps pumping for a bit. Her heart was gone when she was cut.”

  Mangiapane edged next to Tully at the tub. “What’s that on her tit? Looks like a cross.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I’ve heard about being religious, but that takes the cake.”

  “No, it looks fresh. Looks like it was burned into her. Maybe between the strangulation and the gutting. Or, maybe after he cut her. But it looks fresh.”

  “You mean he branded her!”

  “Looks like it. Check it out with the M.E. when he gets here. The marks on the neck, the branding, the time frame for the gutting . . . the whole shot. Write it all down . . . everything.” Tully had been making notes from the minute he’d entered the apartment. “You’re gonna do the SIR . . . the Scene Investigation Report.”

  “Okay, Zoo.”

  “And don’t write ‘tit.’“

  “Huh?”

  “If we get to court, our report could be an exhibit. So be professional.” Tully turned to leave the bathroom. “Take a look at the rest of the place.”

  Mangiapane found Louise’s purse. He gingerly spread it open. “There’s some money here, Zoo. Can’t tell how much, but I seen a twenty and some tens.”

  “Uh-huh. But then just a thief wouldn’t have any reason to cut and brand her.”

  “Here’s her wallet. Maybe it’s got her ID.”

  “Her name’s Louise Bonner.”

  “Huh?”

  “Most called her El.”

  “You know . . . er . . . knew her?”

  “When I was in vice.”

  Mangiapane paused in his search and stood open-mouthed. “Holy hell, what a fluke! You knew her!”

  “More than that. She’s been one of my better sources over the years. That’s what I’ve been wondering about. I don’t know how far this coincidence is gonna stretch, but . . .”

  “But . . .?”

  “El’s given me some great leads. There have been times when I got to close cases just ’cause of the inside track she gave me.”

  “You think that had anything to do with this?”

  “Could be. One thing for sure: Whoever did it is telling us something.”

  “You mean like the Mafia with the dead fish for somebody they’ve drowned or the privates in the mouth for somebody who broke the omerta?”

  “Uh-huh. Whenever they catch up with a snitch they usually deal with ’em something like this. There’s no way they could know that I’d be on the response team, but it was my source they offed. I gotta find out if there’s a connection.

  “Now, what I want you to do is start the report. Draw a floor map of the whole place—just approximate dis
tances, but get everything in. Check those things with the M.E. When the techs get here, I want shots of everything. But tell ’em to pay special attention to those marks on El’s neck and the brand. Also, take some close-ups of the burners on the stove. He probably used one to heat up the cross. See if you can find the goddam thing. And make sure her hands are bagged before they take her down to the morgue.”

  Mangiapane was taking notes furiously. He had the three-page investigation form but he knew instinctively, and was learning empirically, that Tully expected much, much more than the information demanded by the form.

  “Right, Zoo. What are you going to do?”

  “I want to talk to that girl.” Tully flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “Arlene—El’s buddy. The uniforms are holding her in their car.

  “Then the two of us are gonna ring some doorbells.”

  3

  It was bright and very early the next morning when Zoo Tully settled in at his desk. At just seven o’clock, he had entered Police Headquarters at 1300 Beaubien. Everyone seemed surprised to see him check in so early. Especially astonished, though concealing it, was Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of homicide. He had no way of knowing that he was the reason for Tully’s early appearance.

  Koznicki habitually arrived well in advance of nearly everyone else in his division. In addition to his devotion to his job, there was a practical reason for his punctuality. The Scene Investigation Reports of the previous day were routinely arranged on his desk. His job was to review each report and assign the investigations to specific officers.

  Tully busied himself at his desk, reviewing cases his squad was working on. But he frequently checked his watch, waiting for the right moment to interrupt his superior.

  Now.

  Tully knocked at the open door. “Walt, got a minute?”

  “Certainly. Come in, Alonzo.” Koznicki was one of the few who did not use Tully’s nickname. But then Koznicki never used anyone’s nickname.

  “I want the Bonner investigation.”

  Koznicki was not surprised at Tully’s brusqueness. The lieutenant was a direct person and Koznicki appreciated that fact. He also appreciated, in more than one sense of that word, that Tully was one of the division’s best and most successful investigators.

  Yet Koznicki hesitated. Only someone with a lieutenant’s rank or higher could have made that request expecting that it would be granted. A P.O., investigator, or sergeant would have been forced to go through channels.

  The fear was that an officer might want to work on a case in which he had an emotional involvement. The thinking was similar to that which argued against a surgeon’s operating on a close relative. In either case, emotions or prior involvement could easily cloud an otherwise sound judgment. So, even though it was a lieutenant making the request, Koznicki was somewhat hesitant to grant it carte blanche without additional information.

  With a gesture toward a huge carton labeled “Homicide-Prostitutes,” Koznicki asked the logical question. “What is so special about the Bonner case?”

  “She was one of my snitches. In fact, one of my better sources.”

  “So you feel somewhat involved? Responsible, in a sense?”

  Tully knew the inspector was testing for an emotional tie. He also knew that though he was emotionally involved he must not let that bit of truth escape or Koznicki might deny him the case.

  “Walt, there’s a good chance whoever did this hit her because she was my snitch. It could have been retaliation for some lead she gave me.

  “And if that’s a fact—if she was executed because of some information she gave me—then there’s a connection with me. When I come across the perpetrator, I’ll know him. Or, put it another way: I know him already. He’s gotta be a case I worked on—but one that El gave me a lead on. So, among other leads, I can check my files and my memory for the guy who connected El with me.”

  This was true enough and it skirted his emotional involvement.

  “You are basing this on the modus operandi?”

  “Uh-huh. It looks like a mob hit. Somebody kills a prostitute, he kills a prostitute. He doesn’t gut and brand her. There’s some kind of message in that. But it’s different from anything I’ve ever seen.” He pointed at the carton at the foot of Koznicki’s desk. “I’ll bet in all the cases you’ve got in that box, there’s not one like this one.”

  Koznicki shook his head. “Not to my knowledge.

  “All right, Alonzo, the case is yours. What have you got so far?”

  “Besides hunches, not much. El had a buddy. She was too street smart not to. Arlene’s the name. But she wasn’t much help. She wasn’t around when El was picked up. Which means either that our perp was lucky or he knew enough to survey the area until El was alone.”

  “Had Bonner told her buddy about any especially weird characters she had been with? Any threats?”

  “Not really. Hookers service some pretty odd characters as a matter of course. But Arlene wasn’t aware of anyone who might be anywhere nearly as violent as our perp. And no threats. Just a day-to-day working schedule.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Mangiapane and I went door to door in the building last night after the crime scene—by the way, I’m taking Mangiapane with me on this one—anyway Mangiapane came up with one woman, lives in the apartment directly below El’s. She thinks she heard the comings and goings. She says they came in about five o’clock in the afternoon. She heard them go up the stairs. But mostly, she heard them go into the room above hers.

  “Apparently, the lady spends her time counting El’s tricks. There were five yesterday afternoon—one of El’s slow days, she said.

  “What was interesting was that she can tell when there’s action going on upstairs. She can hear the springs squeak. El’s final trick— the one who killed her—the springs didn’t squeak.”

  “He had no other purpose than to kill her.”

  “Uh-huh. And the M.E. is undoubtedly gonna find semen in her. But, if the lady is right, it ain’t gonna be the perp’s. So we’re not gonna get a blood type.”

  “Prints?”

  “All over the room. But maybe none from the perp. He must have touched the tub, but the only prints we could find in or on the tub were El’s.”

  “None other?”

  “No. And the perp must have handled the stove to heat whatever it was that he branded her with. Again, just her prints.”

  “You think he wore gloves?”

  “Must have. But how’d he get away with it? How come El didn’t insist he take them off? Or how come she didn’t tumble to something haywire going on?”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s not all. The lady downstairs, after she heard the couple go up to El’s room, heard someone come down later all alone. Then she heard someone go up into the room, and then someone came down and went out.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It had to be the perp. With a trick up there, why would El come downstairs, go out, then come back up? No, I think the perp went out—probably to his car, where he got the instrument he used for branding.

  “So,” Tully summed up, “what we’ve got so far: They got to the apartment about five o’clock. They went up. They didn’t get anything on. Instead, he killed her. And somehow, she let him get away with leaving his gloves on. And why not? Hookers are used to quirky customers—to Johns having all sorts of fetishes.

  “But he couldn’t bring the branding iron in with him. So, after he strangles her, he goes out to his car, gets the iron, goes back upstairs, drags her to the tub while the iron is heating, guts her, brands her, and gets out. And nobody we’ve talked to yet saw him.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I’m going to the autopsy. Then Mangiapane and I will canvass the neighborhood.”

  Koznicki nodded. He knew he did not need to tell Tully that time was of the essence. In an investigation, hours were important, days critical. The longer it took to run down a case, the less likely i
t was to ever be closed.

  “One more thing, Walt: I want to arrange for her funeral.”

  Koznicki raised an eyebrow, as if to ask what Louise Bonner’s funeral had to do with him.

  Tully correctly interpreted the body language. “I’m nothin’—oh, maybe a Baptist once, a long time ago. But El was a Catholic. She used to talk about it every so often. Only she wasn’t very active in it . . . not lately, anyway. She’d just go to church once in a while, almost like when no one was looking. So she didn’t have any church or—what do you call it?—parish. I’m not so sure the average parish would have her funeral.”

  Again the raised eyebrow, not quite so elevated this time.

  “You’re a Catholic, Walt. I thought you could help me.”

  Koznicki spread his hands on the desk. “Alonzo, I am certain any number of downtown churches would accommodate your wish. All you need to do is explain the situation and the pastor would—”

  “How about St. Aloysius?”

  Koznicki controlled an apologetic smile. “Be fair, Alonzo. St. Aloysius is on Washington Boulevard serving a basically transient group. People go in and out all day. A funeral of any sort there can become a three-ring circus—especially one like the Bonner woman’s is bound to be.

  “You might try Old St. Mary’s or St. Joseph, or, even better, Sts. Peter and Paul.”

  “The point is, Walt, I haven’t got the time to shop around for a church for El.”

  “Then—?”

  “How about your friend?”

  “My friend?”

  “Father . . . what’s his name . . . Koesler?”

  “Father Koesler! But his parish is way out in Dearborn Heights!”

  “I know. But he’s your friend. He’d do it if you asked him. It would save me a helluva lot of time and it would please El. As a favor, Walt?”

  “I will phone him.”

  “I’ll check back with you later. . . . I’m obliged, Walt.”

  Tully permitted himself a slight smile as he walked the few blocks to the Wayne County Morgue.

  It had been late last night as he riffled through his files when the problem of El’s funeral had occurred to him. Ordinarily, he felt no responsibility for the final disposition of the bodies in cases he worked on. If he had, with Detroit’s homicide rate, most of his waking hours would be spent arranging funerals.