Marked for Murder

by William Kienzle

  “There’s more, isn’t there, Zoo?”

  “The branding iron. That goddam branding iron.”

  “You didn’t find it, eh?”

  As far as Tully was concerned, Alice was the only one—outside of the authorities—who knew about the branding or exactly how the bodies had been mutilated.

  “No,” Tully said. “We went over the car. Nothing. We went over the path he had to take to get into the apartment. Nothing.” He sipped the drink, which had barely cooled enough. “And that’s the smoking gun. If we could find that, Clarence Darrow himself wouldn’t be able to get him off

  “Well, the car’s impounded. Our technicians are going to take it apart bolt by bolt if necessary. The damn thing could be hidden anywhere. It’s just two real thin pieces of metal and maybe a small wooden handle. It could easily be in three separate pieces. They could be attached—magnetically, maybe—to the engine, the wheels, the carburetor, the tank, anywhere. I only wish to hell he’d had the goddam thing sitting on the front seat.” He shook his head. “Life isn’t like that.” He snorted. “Not my life, anyway.”

  “They’ll find it.”

  “Yeah, they’ll find it.” He didn’t sound all that sure.

  “Zoo, the news is back on. Come sit down. There’s Gerald Harrington. Isn’t that the lobby of Headquarters?”

  “Yeah, that’s what it is, all right. Sunday evenings it’s the quietest place in the building.”

  22

  A very serious Gerald Harrington stood before the camera and sungun. Tall, very black, with a short Afro, handsome features and a deep resonant voice, he was one of the TV reporters Detroiters tended to give credence to.

  “Detroit police,” Harrington said, “believe the vicious and sadistic attacks on prostitutes over the past couple of weeks are over now, with the arrest of a suspect in the case. Hard, honest, painstaking police work seems to have paid off after this area of the core city was put under surveillance this afternoon.”

  The camera, in a scene taped earlier, panned through the neighborhood that had been patrolled by Tully and Mangiapane.

  “Not the prettiest part of our city, it was, nonetheless, the area police figured would attract the man who, for the past two Sundays, has been preying on defenseless women. And their hunch seems to have struck pay dirt.”

  The screen now showed the actual apartment house where the arrest had taken place. Areas surrounding the front entrance were cordoned off by distinctive protective tape. Uniformed officers were keeping gawkers, drivers, and pedestrians moving. In the background, technicians were carefully examining the terrain.

  Harrington glanced at his notes. “Lieutenant Alonzo Tully and Officer Anthony Mangiapane were the ones who apprehended the suspect as, they allege, he was about to strike again. Here to tell us about it is Officer Mangiapane, one of the two who made the arrest.”

  Mangiapane blinked as the lights were turned full on him. It was not difficult to tell that he was enjoying his day in the sungun. This was fairly new to him. It was very much old hat to Tully, who did not relish talking to reporters in any case. He had given Mangiapane this assignment.

  Harrington stepped close to Mangiapane. The two were about the same size, although Mangiapane’s girth was slightly the larger—the effect of daily hearty doses of plentiful pasta.

  “Officer Mangiapane,” Harrington began, “I understand you were the one who actually made the arrest.”

  Technically, this was true, since he, not Tully, had Mirandaized and booked the priest. Mangiapane nodded modestly.

  “Can you tell us,” Harrington continued, “how you happened to be in what proved to be the right place at the right time?”

  “Okay. See, it was our lieutenant—Lieutenant Tully—who got the idea. The idea was that the perp—the killer—was setting up a pattern, like multiple killers, serial killers, do. He took out his first victim two Sundays ago in the afternoon, and his second last Sunday in the afternoon—both older prostitutes. So this afternoon our squad staked out likely areas. And that was it.”

  “I see. So it wasn’t a matter of luck, but rather good police work.”

  “Well . . .” Mangiapane dissolved in proud humility.

  “The surprise is in the person you apprehended.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that person . . .?”

  Mangiapane appeared genuinely embarrassed. “It’s a priest.”

  “And his name is . . .?”

  “Father Richard Kramer.”

  “I understand Father Kramer is pastor of Mother of Sorrows parish on Detroit’s far west side.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve known for a week now that the killer was seen dressed as a clergyman. But were you thinking that you would arrest an actual clergyman?”

  “No. I still can’t get over it.”

  True. Since the arrest, Mangiapane had felt somehow unclean. It was if he should go to confession to tell a priest that he had arrested a priest and had subjected him to all the indignities of processing.

  “I see. And what’s the status of the accused as of now?”

  “He has been processed and he’ll be in a holding cell until his arraignment.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I see. So Father Kramer is not being given any preferential treatment?”

  “No.” Although if it had been left to Mangiapane, Kramer certainly would have been accorded every possible privilege up to and possibly including the freedom to return to his rectory.

  The camera moved back to Harrington in a tight close-up that eliminated Mangiapane. “So that’s it from Police Headquarters.” Harrington wrapped it up. “The two-week search for the person terrorizing, mutilating, killing prostitutes would seem to be over, with the alleged killer in custody at Police Headquarters.

  “By far the most bizarre aspect of this bizarre case is that police are holding a Roman Catholic priest as the alleged killer.

  “We’re going to leave Headquarters now. But you can bet we’ll be back. From what I’ve been told by some of the officers here, this case is far from over.

  “Gerald Harrington, Channel 4 News, reporting. Back to you, Bob.”

  23

  Sister Mary Therese Hercher sat in the only upholstered chair in her efficiency apartment. Her mouth hung open.

  This news story had become the closest she had ever had to an addiction. Quite unaware, she had turned on the six o’clock news, mostly to get the local weather forecast. The news that the prostitute killer had been caught—even though the newspeople guardedly kept using the usual disclaimer words such as alleged and accused—grabbed her attention instantly. Then the word “priest” had been dropped, and she was riveted to the TV set. Finally, almost reluctantly, the reporter had given this shadowy priest a name, and Therese had used up one of her lives. She doubted her ears. It couldn’t have been Father Kramer! Not her Father Kramer!

  But how many Father Kramers could there be?

  For one brief moment, she thought of finding the P.J. Kenedy Official Catholic Directory and discovering for herself just how many Father Kramers there were. But that and similar thoughts were the product of panic. There was only one Father Richard Kramer in Detroit. And it was, indeed, her Father Kramer.

  Then the phone calls began. Friends torn between real concern for her emotional and physical welfare and a morbid fascination with this sordid story and the desire to be a part of it, if only vicariously. Eventually, she removed the phone from its plug-in outlet. She would take no more calls.

  But the story went on. She followed it at every opportunity, mostly on radio, since TV would not have another newscast until eleven o’clock.

  Some of the radio newscasts were more tentative than others, and she would take hope. Then a commentator would sound particularly sure of himself when he announced the charges against Father Kramer, and she would despair anew.

  Mostly, it was the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. She
felt compelled to help her friend. But for the life of her she couldn’t think of a single thing to do.

  Briefly, she considered going down to Police Headquarters. She phoned, only to find that there was no possible way she would be allowed to see him. No one could. Not until after his arraignment tomorrow—afternoon, sometime. The officer did not know the exact time and he was far too busy to find out.

  So she was reduced to following one news bulletin after another. Once Gerald Harrington signed off, she realized that would be the final substantive news of the night. Anything that followed would be a synopsis of what she already knew.

  She was disconsolate, beside herself, and alone. There was no question of even an attempt at sleep. Not while Dick Kramer was probably pacing a dank cell in fear, humiliation, and solitariness.

  Desperate, she turned to prayer. Not the sort of unfamiliar prayer the irreligious fall back on in moments of stress. Rather, hers was the confident prayer of one accustomed to regular conversation with God. Even in this trying time, prayer came easily. She sought God’s consolation for Father Kramer, now abandoned by everyone but God. She sought light and inspiration—some practical way to help Dick Kramer.

  Then, through the turmoil of her thoughts, an image began to form. It was a memory enhanced by special attributes that could be, perhaps literally, a godsend to Father Kramer. It was an awareness of the one person who was qualified in a unique way to solve this problem, if anyone could.

  Father Robert Koesler.

  Wasn’t he a friend to Dick Kramer? Hadn’t he just the other day dropped in to visit Father Kramer? It was she herself who had given Father Koesler directions on how to bypass all the locked doors in the basement of Mother of Sorrows church. Father Kramer had few friends, as far as Therese knew, at least among fellow priests. But who more than a fellow priest could better understand the predicament faced by Kramer? Priests understand priests.

  Then there was the very special relationship Father Koesler had built up with Detroit’s police department over the years. Some were prone to forget Koesler’s many interventions. But Therese had not forgotten.

  So there he was—a confrere of Dick Kramer’s with friends in the police department. And now that she was considering it, she could not recall a single incident she had heard about when Koesler’s involvement with investigations had not been with the Homicide Division. Perfect! Dick Kramer was accused of homicide. Certainly Father Koesler would know his way around that department.

  Hope rebounded. She freely attributed her newfound solution to the power of prayer. As quickly as she found the listing of Koesler’s parish in the Detroit Catholic Directory, she dialed the number.

  24

  The phone rang just as Jerry Hodak was concluding his Channel 7 weather forecast. Father Koesler had just absorbed the informed opinion that tomorrow would be unseasonably warm. His head jerked at the first ring. Experience had taught him that usually anyone calling a rectory at this hour had trouble and it most likely was an emergency. He felt a little queasy as he answered the phone. “St Anselm’s.”

  “Father Koesler?”

  “Yes.” He almost placed the voice.

  “Sister Therese—at Mother of Sorrows.”

  “Oh, yes.” That had not been his guess. “I’m sorry about Father Kramer. I just heard about it on the news. But I’m sure that . . .”

  “That’s what I’m calling about.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to see you.”

  “Oh. Well, I have some time in the morning.”

  “Now.”

  “Now! Do you know what time it is?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to see you.”

  “Are you sure we can’t do this in the morning?”

  “Father, if we don’t talk tonight, you will be able to see me tomorrow in the psycho ward at Lafayette Clinic.”

  “Uh, well . . . can we do it on the phone?”

  “I’ve got to see you!”

  He glanced at his watch—11:32. The recap of the day’s ABC network news was on. In Koesler’s plan, this was to be the final conscious event of the day, to be followed by sleep. But . . . there didn’t appear to be any way out. “Oh, very well. How long will it take you to get here?”

  “I’m on my way. About fifteen, twenty minutes . . . and . . . thanks.”

  Koesler looked at his watch again. It would be almost midnight by the time she got here. Good grief.

  Robert Koesler had lived almost sixty years. And, having paid attention, he knew himself pretty well. He was a creature of habit, even more of routine. Years before, he’d read one of those articles that purported to describe the differences between men and women. The example he best recalled had to do with housecleaning. Women, the article held, tend to go about cleaning a room with no particular order in mind, simply moving from one piece of furniture to the next.

  Men, on the other hand, tend to make a plan before beginning, which was fine unless something interfered with or voided the plan. For example, on second thought it made more sense to clean the fireplace before cleaning the floor. At which point, the plan would be destroyed and the man would have to sit down and make up a new plan. Koesler knew he was that man.

  And so it went on Sundays.

  The compulsory routines on Sundays tended to drain most priests. Offering two, possibly three, Masses was not a major problem. It was the preaching. If they invested in a serious attempt to hold the congregation’s attention while communicating the Gospel message, few priests had much physical or emotional stamina left by Sunday afternoon.

  From afternoon on, each priest was pretty much on his own. Occasionally, there might be baptisms to perform. But usually the remainder of the day was free.

  Koesler, after the morning Masses, liked to relax. Perhaps a concert or a movie or a visit with friends. Sunday evenings were for reading, listening to records, or extending the friendly visits.

  As with most evenings, things wound down for Koesler about eleven o’clock at night. The routine was the news at eleven o’clock, with a mild highball or glass of wine. After local news, another fourteen minutes, perhaps, of sports or the network news, and then to bed.

  Thus he could not help grousing about this upset in routine. Attired in pajamas and robe, he’d gotten almost through the news program, had taken a few sips of scotch and water, and was drifting toward sleep when the damn phone rang.

  He would not have minded so much if it had been a sick call. One can’t help what time one gets sick—or dies. Though, God knows, most sick people in need of spiritual ministration of a priest were in a hospital.

  It wasn’t that he did not sympathize with Sister Therese. He knew she was close to Dick Kramer. And there was no doubt that what had happened to the poor man was a tragedy. But did she really have to do this tonight?

  His routine!

  Well, there was nothing for it but to get ready. He went to the bedroom, where he slipped trousers and shirt over the pajamas. Then the clerical collar and cassock over that, muttering all the while. Thus proving that grousing can be audible even if there is no one else around to hear it.

  25

  The thought had crossed Father Koesler’s mind many times before. And it occurred again as he helped Sister Therese take off her overcoat.

  She was wearing a trim suit that nicely accentuated her trim figure. The only bow made to the fact that she was a religious was a small silver cross on the lapel of her jacket. The color of her suit also was a clue, but only to the practiced eye. Among the few contemporary Catholics who were able to distinguish it, the color was called IHM blue. The reference was to the distinctive dark blue that was the traditional habit of the Sisters Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary—the IHMs, headquartered in Monroe, Michigan, whose other claim to fame was that it had once been home to General George Armstrong Custer.

  Sister Therese was a member of the IHMs. Not too many years earlier, she had worn the full traditional habit of her religious order
. For most of her years as a religious, all people saw of her was a face and hands. The rest was covered by either starched linen or the IHM blue wool. Now she wore modest lay clothing, albeit usually IHM blue, and a small cross. And here he was in cassock and roman collar, a uniform that was old when America was discovered.

  The first time a similar thought occurred was shortly after he’d been ordained some thirty years previous. During summer in a suburban parish, it had dawned on him, as he walked around perspiring freely under a black cassock, that he was somewhat overdressed compared with the common garb of shorts and halter worn by most of the neighborhood women.

  It seemed to him that everything in the concept was reversed. It was common knowledge that, since Adam, men were stimulated by the sight of women. The more they see, the greater the stimulation. Whereas Eve and her daughters were stirred by deeper and more subtle qualities.

  However.

  It would not do to invite Sister Therese into one of the offices, although the thought occurred to him. She was, all things considered, a colleague. So he ushered her into the living room.

  No, she would not have a drink. And yes, she was nervous and upset.

  About halfway through their earlier telephone conversation, Koesler had felt he knew exactly how this meeting would develop. He would listen—which he did quite well—while she trotted out all her fears, anger, perhaps despair. After all this, she would feel better for having talked it out. And he would be able to improvise, which he despised, back into some sort of routine.

  Thus he was totally unprepared when she said, “That’s right, I want you to help him.”

  “Help him!”

  “Look . . .” She leaned forward in her chair. “. . . you and I are about the only friends he’s got. And I’ve spent hours trying to think of some way I could help him. About the only thing I’ve come up with is prayer.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with prayer.”

  “Of course there’s nothing wrong with prayer. I can supply the ora but somebody else is going to have to contribute the labora.”