These thoughts ran through Tully’s mind as he sat across the desk from Koznicki, who was studying reports of yesterday’s new cases. He had been spending considerable time on the file of Nancy Freel.
“So,” Koznicki looked up, “we were wrong about Louise Bonner.”
“I was wrong,” Tully countered.
“It was, indeed, your theory—in which I concurred completely. But, no mind; now we are on the right track.”
“Yeah. One week late, but we’re on the road.”
“I presume you want to stay on this case even though we no longer assume that there was an association because the deceased was one of your sources.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, Walt, I want this guy. He’s the same guy I was lookin’ for last week. If anything, I want him more now than I did then.”
“All right; the case is yours. Within reason, use as many in your squad as you need. This matter is now being treated as a media event. With all the attention focused on what we now know are serial murders, we had better conclude this as quickly as possible.” Koznicki paused. Concern was evident in his expression as he returned his attention to the Freel report. “I think I do not have to tell you, it troubles me deeply that the killer is masquerading as a priest.”
Tully was taken aback. But only his eyes betrayed his surprise.
Masquerade? Who said anything about a masquerade? Possible of course, but certainly not a lead-pipe cinch. Why would Walt Koznicki assume that the killer was masquerading as a clergyman? Especially a seasoned officer like the inspector? He’d been around more than long enough to know that anything is possible, even a priest killer. Yeah, even a priest who mutilates as well as kills.
It became immediately apparent to Tully that this might very well become a serious obstacle in the investigation. There might very well be a reluctance on the part of investigating officers to admit the possibility that the killer could be a clergyman. And wherever that bias existed, the investigation would be crippled: Any such investigator would have excluded, without good cause, one distinctly possible solution to the crimes.
Tully resolved that once he formed his task force his first order of business would be to insist that everyone was going into this with eyes wide open, and no closed minds. They must follow the case wherever it might lead—to skid row or to a rectory. Puzzles were not solved by anyone whose mind was not open to every possibility.
But he didn’t have to address Walt Koznicki’s mental block immediately. Tully, not Koznicki, would be in charge of the active investigation. If the killer turned out not to be a clergyman, then Koznicki’s assumption of a masquerade would be borne out. If the inspector’s prejudgment was incorrect and the killer was a clergyman . . . well, time enough then for him to see the light.
As quickly as he reasonably could, Tully excused himself from Koznicki’s office and commenced the brief, frigid walk to the medical examiner’s office.
Tully was convinced that, in many ways, Dr. Moellmann held a vital key in this case. It was up to the M.E.’s department to confirm—or not—the conclusion tentatively reached by the police yesterday that the two prostitutes were, indeed, killed by one and the same person. Granting that, Moellmann could determine whether the killer had changed his method of murder to any extent.
It is an often erroneous belief that people who commit a series of murders are repetitious in every detail. In reality, such killers often change their methods in gradual stages, sometimes refining a technique that may improve with practice.
But in almost all cases, there is sufficient likeness that the mark of the serial killer can be recognized. And this is so because the killer wants his work to be recognized and accurately attributed. However, the change in m.o. does not always favor the criminal. Sometimes an initial carefulness deteriorates.
That very point was now being made by Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann.
“It seems our friend here has made a couple of mistakes,” the medical examiner observed as he continued his measurements on the mutilated corpse before him.
“Freel?”
“No, the one who did this to . . . what’s her name? . . . Nancy Freel.”
“What? What mistakes?” Tully suddenly had a nervous stomach. Was it possible that Moellmann had found significant differences in the murders of the two prostitutes?
Moellmann half turned to Tully. Mildly surprised at the lieutenant’s reaction, Moellmann peered over his glasses. “I refer only to this morning’s papers. You did read them. You might almost have written them. This killer, he must have not been thinking, to let someone get so close to him. So close to him and yet live, that is.”
It had not occurred to Tully that the murderer might be expected to kill Ruby because she had seen him at close range. Tully had not thought of this possibility because not once had he considered that he might be dealing with a mass murderer, like a Mark Essex, who killed indiscriminately from the roof of a Howard Johnson motel . . . or Charles Whitman, who did the same from the University of Texas tower.
Originally, Tully had assumed he was dealing with someone from his past who was killing a snitch in reprisal. Now it seemed clear that the killer was neither a personal enemy nor a random mass killer, but a serial murderer.
Albert De Salvo, the “Boston Strangler,” preyed on defenseless women in apartments. David Berkowitz, the “Son of Sam,” stalked women in parked cars.
Tully was after someone who was killing prostitutes—but apparently not indiscriminately. He was not driving down Cass or Eight Mile or Woodward at Six Mile and mowing down hookers with a machine gun . . . though God knows there were specific times of day when that could be possible.
On the contrary, he seemed to be rather carefully selecting his prey and not only killing one after another, but, with the mutilation and branding, sending some sort of message.
No; Moellmann’s suggestion that Ruby was in proximate danger because she happened to stumble across him probably was unfounded. In any case, there was no point in discussing that facet of the case with Moellmann.
“Yeah,” Tully said simply, “that was his mistake. A major league blunder.”
“Look at this! Come see this, Lieutenant.” Moellmann, studying with a magnifying glass the bruises on the neck of the deceased, beckoned to Tully.
Tully’s head was almost touching Moellmann’s as the two inspected the markings.
“See . . .” Moellmann pointed under the magnifying glass to the ruler that he was using to measure the width of the neck bruises. “. . . just one and seven-eighths inches. Significantly wider than the average man’s belt. And exactly the width of the one used last week on what’s her name . . . Bonner.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then, see the incision . . .”
Tully never failed to wonder at the almost childlike enthusiasm Moellmann was able to derive from an autopsy. Particularly one with absolutely bizarre details such as these hooker murders.
“See?” Moellmann traced the incision with his index finger. “It is almost a perfect repetition of the one on the Bonner woman.” There was just a touch of what might pass for admiration in his voice. Somewhat like the appreciation one surgeon might have for the work of another.
All very interesting, but, “What about the brand?” Tully asked.
“Not so good.” Moellmann shook his head. It might be anyone’s guess whether his reaction was regret as to the inconclusiveness of the evidence, or disapproval of the sloppy work of an artist.
“Why ‘not so good’?”
“See . . .”Moellmann again used the magnifying glass, now in the area of the left breast. “I think he does not ever take into account the curvature of the breast.” He shook his head rather sadly. “Evidently, he applies the brand in a . . . uh . . . sequential way. See how deep the burn mark is, here on the upper portion of the breast: He applies the iron here first, it would seem. Then, probably by pronating or flexing his wrist, he impresses the vertical mark downward. He seems to want the horizontal bar t
o intersect just at the nipple. Then the vertical bar continues on down the torso.
“Where he makes his mistake is just under the nipple, where the breast curves away. That’s why we get the imprint of just the top portion of these letters. The bottom portion is just not sufficiently impressed. It’s even worse this time. Even less of the upper portion of the lettering was imprinted. We have less to go on now than we had last week.”
“Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless,” Tully said, “that’s all he wants us to know.”
“You mean he deliberately burns in only the upper portion of the letters?” Moellmann seemed more comfortable with the supposition that the carnal artist was deliberately giving them less than half a message rather than that he was committing an amateurish blunder.
The M.E. seemed to be enjoying a private joke as he returned to the lectern to make additional notes on the body chart. “Clever, clever, clever,” he murmured. Or at least Tully thought that’s what he was muttering.
It was Tully’s guess that this set of serial murders would provide a chapter in the next medico-legal treatise Moellmann would edit. The way the doctor appeared to be appreciating this killer’s work gave every indication that Moellmann was already mentally composing the article. The notion, true or false, amused Tully.
“So, then,” Moellmann said, “are you at all close to catching this guy?”
It was an odd question from the M.E., thought Tully. Usually to all appearances, Moellmann never gave much of a damn about police progress. His interest seemed to begin and end with his practice of forensic medicine. Maybe, went Tully’s reasoning, the Doc, in projecting his article on the serial murder and mutilation of prostitutes, wanted to be sure there would be a happy ending. Which, of course, would be that the crimes were solved and the killer apprehended.
“We’ve got some leads,” Tully said.
“Better, I hope, than that composite picture in the paper today.”
Moellmann’s remark elicited general laughter from the doctors and technicians in the morgue area.
“Yeah, I hope.” Tully went along with the joke. It was a given in the police and legal community that composite drawings usually did little more than scare the person whose likeness it was supposed to be.
Moellmann, basking in the response to his little joke, looked over the rims of his glasses at his assembled colleagues, a smile tugging at his lips. He was going to give the joke one more shove. “Why, according to the picture your police have come up with, I could be the killer. Or”—he looked more intently among his confreres—“maybe Dr. Rosen over there.” Then, slightly more seriously, “Or, what’s-his-name, Bush over there.” Abruptly, the laughter died. Momentarily, Moellmann looked startled. In his Germanic subculture, when der Papa cracked a joke, all the Kinder laughed—whether they had gotten it or not. Thus the present silence was a bit more than ordinarily disconcerting. Moellmann tried to mask the moment by issuing several orders to a couple of the other pathologists present.
What neither Moellmann nor Tully knew was that earlier, and mostly in jest, one of the other autopsy attendants had accused Arnold Bush of resembling the picture of the killer. At which Bush had become violent and attacked the other attendant. It had taken several men to pull him off. Bush, not a technical assistant, and thus still on probation, might have been summarily dismissed by Moellmann if anyone had told the M.E. But, intimidated as they were by his strength and his temper, no one wanted to take the chance of incurring Bush’s wrath.
Thus, too, no one had dared challenge Bush when he assumed complete custody of Nancy Freel’s body. Just as he had done with Louise Bonner’s corpse one week ago. Bush’s behavior in coveting the two bodies at best was peculiar. But then, who’s to say what is normal in a business whose most important product is an endless series of cadavers?
Tully picked up on Moellmann’s previous question. “I got a feeling, Doc, that we’re close to this guy . . . not just closer than last week. Artist’s sketch or not, we do have a witness who saw him up close. Maybe the drawing that came from her description isn’t a photo, but she saw him. And when we bring him in, she’s gonna identify him.”
“Not if?”
“No, Doc. When.”
Moellmann, again close to the body and taking more measurements, observed, “He seems to choose older women.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And white.”
“Yup.”
“And on Sunday.”
“And on Sunday afternoons,” Tully agreed. “All noted, Doc. And with the task force I’ve got, if we don’t get him by week’s end, we’re gonna have a big surprise for him if he tries to pull something next Sunday.”
“Hmmm . . .” Moellmann was so engrossed in the autopsy, he seemed not to have heard Tully’s final remark.
But someone else was listening . . . intently.
Arnold Bush hung on every word. As he had learned years ago in parochial school, words were important. So important that no matter what evil you committed, all you had to do was go to confession and say the magic words: I’m sorry. And the priest would forgive you. Anything.
15
Father Koesler was concerned. He had come again to the Burtha Fisher Home to visit Monsignor Meehan. This time, the old monsignor had decided to abandon his wheelchair and walk, though none too steadily. To complicate matters, the janitor had just washed the marble floor; signs warned of the slippery surface.
Meehan walked deliberately enough, holding onto the railing that ran the length of the corridor. Regardless, Koesler lightly grasped the monsignor’s arm. The limb felt so fragile that Koesler feared that if Meehan should fall, Koesler would be left holding an arm that had simply broken off from an equally fragile trunk.
But they survived the walk and entered the visiting parlor. It was one of those glorious January days where, after a night’s dusting of snow, the sun shone brightly, reflecting off the unbroken white surface with an intensity that was almost painful to the eye.
“So, Bobby, it happened again, didn’t it? With the murdered prostitute?” Meehan’s pleasant, slightly nasal tenor was unmistakable. His shriveled body made it difficult for some familiar with his former somewhat rotund shape to now recognize him. But the voice hadn’t changed. The voice alone put everything into perspective.
“You’ve been following the news?” Koesler never failed to be surprised anytime Meehan happened to be au courant.
The monsignor chuckled. “For your sake, I’m trying to keep up with things. And, Bobby, isn’t it lucky you didn’t have to make a pastoral decision about burying that poor girl . . . I mean the second prostitute.”
“Indeed. That’s about all I would have needed.”
“A lot of flak after the first funeral?”
“A bit. Some nasty calls. A few irate parishioners.”
“Anything from downtown?”
“Not a word. Blessedly. But you know how Cardinal Boyle is. He knows he carries a lot of clout, even with the secular news media. He wouldn’t speak out on an issue like that unless he absolutely had to. For which I am deeply grateful.”
“Oh, I didn’t really think the Cardinal would give you a hard time. I wondered about the auxiliary bishops.”
“I suppose with one or another of them it could have been possible. But I think in a situation like this, they take their cue from the boss.”
“Well, you can never tell about these auxiliaries. Some of them can be pretty ambitious.”
“That’s true. Remember our friend in Chicago—the one who was running for bishop, and made it? Remember what his mother said after he’d been named bishop?”
“Wait, wait . . .” It was on the tip of Meehan’s memory. “Yes! She was quoted as saying, ‘If we’d known that he was going to go this far, we would have had his teeth straightened.’”
“That’s right.” Koesler was gratified at Meehan’s powers of recent recollection. The Chicago incident hadn’t happened a
ll that long ago.
“Ah, mothers,” Meehan said, “they surely can put you in your place. But . . . where were we?” Meehan searched for the conversation’s drift.
“I believe you were saying something about the ambition of auxiliary bishops.”
“Oh, yes . . . that’s true, you know, Bobby. They’ve got to compete. Statistically, they’re not all going to make it.”
“Make what?”
“Ordinary—have their very own diocese to run. No, there are just so many of the poor men who will end up spending their whole episcopal lives being just mere auxiliary bishops. It’s sad.” They both knew he was being sardonic.
“Sad, I suppose . . . but still a measure of satisfaction ending up so close to the top”
“Bobby, do you remember when John Donovan and Henry Donnelly were made auxiliary bishops at the same time, here in Detroit?”
Koesler nodded. He remembered it well. The two were consecrated bishops only a few months after he had been ordained a priest in June of 1954.
Monsignor John Donovan had been Cardinal Mooney’s secretary and, as such, was a logical choice for bishop. But while recognizing his devoutness, clerical wags had been at a loss to explain the selection of Henry Donnelly.
“Remember the story that was going ’round then? About their coats of arms?”
Koesler’s expression betrayed his uncertainty. It was one of the more difficult tales to recount with accuracy. He’d have to listen carefully and hope that Meehan would recall the details correctly.
Encouraged by Koesler’s apparent puzzlement, Meehan proceeded. As long as Koesler could not remember the story clearly, it was as much fun as finding a new audience for a tried and true tale.
Marked for Murder Page 10