“But, ‘friend’? I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as his friend. And I’m sure Dick probably feels the same way.” Getting involved in this case was the furthest thought from his mind. The prospect of such an involvement was so overwhelming that he was reduced to fending off each and every reason she could present for his committing himself to this project.
“Father Koesler.” She seemed to revert to the schoolteacher she once had been. “You know very well that Dick Kramer is a workaholic, completely dedicated to his parish. He’s never had the time, or the inclination, for that matter, to pal around with his fellow priests. He has few clerical friends. No, I guess it would be fair to say he hasn’t any. But you came to see him the other day.”
“Yes, but—”
“You came of your own accord . . . and I can tell you he was grateful for your interest. He may not have made it evident. He isn’t a very demonstrative person. But I sensed it. After you left, he came back to the rectory and he was like a new man. He was more open than I can remember seeing him in ages. He started telling me little, gossipy things. He was more relaxed than he’d been in a long, long time. And you did that for him . . . isn’t that one description of what a friend is?”
“Sister, you should know that I didn’t come spontaneously. I had visited Monsignor Meehan. He suggested that I visit Dick.”
“Yes, after you left that afternoon, Dick mentioned Monsignor Meehan. Telling me funny stories about their days together in Inkster at . . . what parish?”
“St. Norbert’s. But don’t you see, if Dick has a real friend, it’s Monsignor Meehan. If it weren’t for him and his request, I wouldn’t have visited Dick and you probably wouldn’t be here now.”
“From all Dick told me, I know that Monsignor is a dear man. But I also know that Monsignor is a very ancient man, in a nursing home. I surely hope that he will pray for Dick. But we need somebody who can get around and do something practical for him.
“Besides, Monsignor couldn’t do any more than ask you to see Dick. You didn’t have to do it. All right, so somebody else suggested that you visit Dick. The fact is: You did it. And that stands for something.”
“But what can I do? Dick is in jail. What he needs now is a good lawyer.”
“And we’ll see that he gets one.”
“I’m sure that’s true. That brings us back to praying, which is what the rest of us could best do for him.”
“Most of the rest of us. But not you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are just about the only priest in this archdiocese who has an easy entree with the police.”
“That’s not so. That’s just not so. For one thing, there’s the police chaplain.”
“I know there’s a police chaplain. But he mingles with the police on a professional basis. Counseling, visiting them, conducting services for them.”
“Well? So?”
“So, he has not worked with them on murder cases.” Her body language emphasized that this was the heart of the matter, the point she most wanted to make.
It took Koesler a moment to absorb her implication. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “You’ve got this all out of proportion.”
“Have I.” It was more a statement than a question.
“Indeed. I assume you’re alluding to the fact that I happen to be a friend of Inspector Koznicki, who happens to head the Homicide Department. Well, that’s no secret.”
“It’s also no secret that you’ve been in on a few investigations too.”
“It’s a fairly good secret. But, even knowing about that, it’s obvious that you don’t know how I got involved in those cases. And since it seems relevant, let me explain.
“You seem to think that I’m some sort of latter-day Father Brown, dreamed up by G.K. Chesterton. I’m no detective, Sister. Granted, over the past several years I have gotten involved in a few investigations because I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But whichever way you care to look at it, I’ve never volunteered to assist in an investigation. That would be presumptuous, to say the least. I have no training in police work . . . not even an inclination to be a detective. It’s just that every once in a while a crime takes place and I seem to be in the middle of things.
“But that’s certainly not the case here. This time, crimes have been committed—a couple of extremely heinous murders—and I am not involved in any way. For a change, I’m peacefully minding my own business in my—for the moment, anyway—peaceful little parish.”
“But you—”
“If you’ll let me finish, Sister, I think I may speak to the question I think you have in mind.
“There is nothing particularly ‘religious,’ let alone Catholic, in the murder and mutilation of prostitutes. It’s true that your friend and my brother priest has been arrested as a suspect in the case. And that is tragic. We all ought to pray and do whatever we can to help Dick. But I am no more equipped to intervene in this case—even if the police would tolerate such an intrusion—than any other priest. Monsignor Meehan, for instance.
“In the past, don’t you see, I have been drawn into some homicide cases by some accident, some quirk of fate, through no voluntary act on my part. But that’s not true here. I’m not involved in this in any way. So your appeal to things that have happened to me in the past doesn’t apply here. It’s apples and oranges. I’m sorry.”
Koesler fervently hoped she would not cry. He never quite knew what to do when women cried. Often he felt drawn to offer a shoulder. But he never could get beyond his position as a priest to do anything even that innocently physical. At this moment, Sister Therese did seem so perilously close to tears that he felt like putting her on his lap and just holding her. But he could not.
Fortunately, the tears did not appear. She merely grew reflective, gazing at her hands folded in her lap. When she finally spoke, it was without looking up. “I can’t argue with anything you’ve said. And I know it’s getting late.”
It is late, he thought.
“I just want to say one more thing, and then I’ll go,” she stated. “Father Kramer has no one really close to him.”
That’s not exactly true, thought Koesler. This lady is as close as anyone will ever get to Dick Kramer. Probably she loves him. In all likelihood, he will never know. For all of that, she will never admit it, even to herself.
For some reason, Koesler suddenly thought this to be overwhelmingly sad. Once again, given the present status of celibacy and chastity, to which at least all three of them subscribed, there was nothing to be done about it.
“And Dick needs somebody now,” she went on. “He desperately needs someone. For what reason I cannot possibly imagine, this good man has been accused of . . . of murder.” She shook her head. “I still can’t get myself to put the two together in the same sentence—Dick Kramer and murder. But the police have somehow put them together. And as long as this charge hangs over him—whether he is in jail or we are able to get him out on bond—he will be helpless in the face of this shame and embarrassment. I know him well enough to know this is true.
“That’s why, Father Koesler, he needs someone. Not just anybody, but someone who can be an alter ego for him. Dick Kramer will be powerless to come to his own defense in the sense of proving himself innocent. He needs someone to do just that; someone who will take on this accusation as if it were leveled against himself.
“It’s as if Dick will be locked up inside himself whether he’s locked inside a cell or not. He needs someone who will care enough to exert the same amount of concern and total dedication to proving him innocent that Dick would do for himself if he were able.
“Father Koesler, I don’t know where he’s going to find such a person—other than you. You are about the closest person—the only person—he has to be such a friend. You at least know your way around in a situation like this. But I suppose it is silly of me to put those two qualifications together and come up with someone who would work as har
d to clear Dick’s name as Dick himself would, were he able.”
It was, Koesler thought, an eloquent plea. In its face, all he could do was to try to reassure her that he would do all he could, and that, with all the prayers that would be said, God surely would not let any permanent harm come to Dick Kramer. Maybe, Koesler told Therese, as he bade goodbye, this would prove to be a beneficial experience for Dick and for all of them.
The words were lame. Koesler knew it and he was aware that Therese knew it. One of those things, he thought. What could anyone do at a time like this?
Removing cassock and collar, he was once again in pajamas, over which he drew his robe.
His routine had been destroyed, utterly destroyed. He checked his ever-present watch. After 1:00 A.M. He wasn’t the least bit sleepy now—but it would be one more time when the faithful few who attended daily morning Mass would have to excuse an overly tired priest without even knowing why they were excusing him.
At this hour, he dared not return to his highball. He made a cup of instant decaffeinated coffee. As he sipped the steaming brew, which seemed perfectly fine to him, he wondered why it was that no one else seemed to appreciate his coffee.
As he sat in the silent living room, trying to slow everything down toward sleep, he could not help but reflect on his conversation with Sister Therese.
He realized that his rejection of her final argument was totally a reflex action. He was not in any way involved in this matter. For a change, he would have the luxury of sitting on the sidelines and rooting for the good guys. All that he had told her about the difference between this situation and the cases he had been connected with in the past—it was all true.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
He felt compelled, for some reason, to consider her words absent his automatic dismissal.
He imagined himself imprisoned for a crime, a capital crime. In this invention, he had been condemned to death. He had a month to live, at the end of which he would be hanged.
This was not, by any means, getting him closer to sleep. Nevertheless, having begun, he had to press on to whatever end might follow.
Of course he was innocent of the crime for which he had been condemned. But what could he do? He was locked away with but one short month of life remaining. There was no possible way he could clear himself. Of course if he had been able to leave his jail cell, he would devote his every moment to proving his innocence. He would not eat or sleep, except as absolutely required for life and strength. If he were to lose this battle to clear himself, he would lose life itself. Nothing that had ever happened to him or would ever happen to him was as crucial as this quest.
But, in this daydream, he could not leave his cell.
The scenario had become so real to Koesler that he actually began to feel the confinement of prison as well as the helplessness of his situation.
His one chance, his only chance, was to find someone on the outside who would act for him. This person, whoever it might be, would have to become as totally and thoroughly involved as Koesler, the jailed man, himself. This alter ego would have to at very least take a leave of absence from work—from family and everything else, for that matter—and devote every hour of every day for that final month as if his own life depended on it.
That was it! That was what would distinguish this alter ego from every other conceivable friend. This person, alone among everyone the accused knew, would be the only one who would work to prove innocence as if his own life depended on it.
Koesler, in all his many flights of fancy, had never before invented a conundrum like this. He became fascinated with the prospect. If he himself were to actually be in a situation such as this, whom could he call on? Who could be depended upon to abandon all else and work on this case as if his very own life depended on it?
One by one, he considered all those who came to mind, beginning with all his priest friends. One by one, quite reluctantly, but quite realistically, he dismissed one after another. Oh, they would be distressed, no doubt about that. They would offer prayers. They would express genuine concern. But, he realized, each would beg off—just as he had done only a few minutes ago when Sister Therese had pleaded with him for help.
Devote your time, energies, concentration, persona to the cause as if your own life depended on it. . . . Was there anyone?
Finally, Koesler focused on the one person who might do it. A friend he had made many years earlier. A married man with three children now grown and on their own. A man who had worked up from the assembly line to a white-collar position at Ford Motor Company. Yes, Chuck would do it. The one and only friend of all the many people Koesler had known who would give all.
If this man was so outstanding, why, Koesler wondered, had he not thought of him sooner? He had not come to mind earlier, Koesler concluded, because they were not really that close. Then why could Koesler suppose Chuck might do it? Why could he be depended upon to work as if his very own life depended on it?
It wasn’t the friendship that turned the scale, Koesler decided; it was, indeed, the man himself. A Christian—that rare individual who actually put the Gospel teachings into practice in his life. A Christian. Would only a Christian do it? No. Certainly not. How parochial! But it would have to be someone correspondingly selfless. In his context, in his work, such a person would probably be a Christian. And one of the very highest order.
Koesler felt shame. What sort of Christian was he? What sort of Christian was he trying to be? Sister Therese had handed him a challenge to his Christianity—an opportunity—and he had handed it back to her with appropriate bureaucratic gobbledygook. He was not involved. Of course he would pray. But he could not get involved. He had never before been involved in quite that way.
He knew what he must do. He looked up Sister Therese’s phone number and dialed. “Sister, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Father Koesler?” Her tone revealed surprise. “No . . . no; sleep is not high on my agenda.”
“I just wanted to apologize. And to tell you that I’m going to get into this thing. I don’t know exactly how I’m going to get into it or what I’m going to do after I’m in. But I’m going to do everything I can to clear Dick Kramer.”
“You mean it?” In a split second she went from one of the low points of her life to an exhilarating high. “You’ve made me so happy. Thank you. Oh, thank you!”
“No thank you. In your own quiet way, you taught me a very important lesson about being a Christian. I hope to God I never get too old to learn. Thanks for teaching.”
“I didn’t . . .”
“You did. Good night.”
He was sure she would sleep well now.
His coffee? Only a small lukewarm amount remained. He didn’t need it. He was ready for sleep There was something very satisfying as well as relaxing in having settled on a course of action. He felt very good.
He was all wrapped up in the abstract. He was going to get into the case of the State of Michigan vs. Father Richard Kramer. And Koesler would exonerate his brother priest.
Fortunately, he could drift into a peaceful sleep without for a moment considering the concrete, real questions: How was he going to clear Kramer? What obstacles might he have to face? How strong was the case against Kramer?
If these questions had occurred to Koesler, he would have had to confess that he hadn’t the slightest clue as to their answers. Not only did he not know the answers, fortunately he was not even aware of the questions. Neither was Sister Therese. So, in their separate bungalows, each had a very good night’s sleep.
26
Some Detroiters were fond of complaining that Michigan did not know how to have a winter. During an average season, the elements came at Detroit from every imaginable direction.
Ordinarily, future weather marched in a stately line from west to east—at least most people supposed that was nature’s plan. So one was accustomed to watch high and lower pressure systems enter the continent in Washington and Oregon, and procee
d through the Dakotas and Minnesota, on to Chicago and into Detroit.
Frequently frustrating this orderly progression, however, was the jet stream that plummeted Arctic air in from Canada or pumped unseasonably warm weather from the south. Most puzzling were the occasional winds from the east that threatened the impressive homes along Lakes St. Clair and Erie with flooding.
So, while unexpected for a Monday late in January, a springlike day was a welcome change. Commuting Detroiters, in elephantine procession toward downtown via the Lodge or Ford Freeway or one of the main thoroughfares, generally were more patient with near gridlock conditions. Natives understood this was a lull, and that snow, ice, and bitter winds would return. But this was nice.
Lieutenant Zoo Tully did not need special help from the weather to feel ebullient.
He had solved a puzzle, a particularly personal puzzle. He always felt good after having solved a case, but this was exceptional. Even though he was not as personally involved with the killer of Louise Bonner as he had initially assumed, the connection never quite faded from his mind nor did his approach to the case alter. For no sheerly rational reason, from the beginning he had considered this his private preserve.
As he turned the corner on the fifth floor leading to homicide, he was a tad late. For him, par for the course. Plus, on this day, it was a small personal reward.
Walking down the corridor, he encountered several other homicide detectives. They knew, of course, about yesterday’s arrest. To a person, they congratulated him. Yet some seemed somewhat reserved. Or was it his imagination? Much more of this hedging, and it just might take the edge off his day.
There was only one officer, Mangiapane, in his squad room. The rest would be occupied with interviews, other cases, old and new.
Mangiapane was bent low over his desk, laboriously suffering through paperwork. Tully correctly assumed that Mangiapane was preparing the complaint against Father Kramer. Reports, records—anything to do with paperwork—was not Mangiapane’s forte. Which had little to do with being a cop—Sherlock Holmes didn’t have to fill out complaints to the satisfaction of some prosecutor or judge. While he may not have been a Holmes—who was?—Mangiapane was a good cop. And he would get better.
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