Marked for Murder

by William Kienzle

  Koesler shook his head. He was not in the habit of denying smokers their opportunities. He certainly would not deny this beleaguered priest one of his few remaining pleasures.

  “She told me about the conversation the two of you had last Sunday night.” Kramer inhaled deeply; his words were punctuated by wisps of smoke.

  “She’s a very persuasive lady.”

  “I know. She’s been able to get me to do just about everything she wanted me to do. Except, maybe, to give up these.” Kramer held up the smoldering cigarette.

  Koesler nodded. A former smoker, he had a firsthand appreciation of the addiction.

  “Anyway,” Kramer said, “I want to thank you.”

  “Just yet there’s no particular reason to; I haven’t done anything.”

  “You were at the arraignment. You’re here. You’re with me. I appreciate it. I really do. Besides, I agree with Therese: Your contacts in the police department may prove helpful. I don’t exactly know how. But I’m willing to believe. One thing is for certain: I have to get out of here.”

  Koesler looked concerned. “It must be pretty bad.”

  “Very bad.”

  “Good God, has there been any . . . abuse?”

  “Oh, you mean from the other guys, the other . . . prisoners. Oh, no; nothing like that. Actually, they’ve treated me rather well. But I’ve got to get back to the parish. The longer I’m gone, the more likely it’s going to be that the chancery will take it away from me.”

  Koesler thought it inappropriate to suggest that it was extremely unlikely that the chancery would remove Kramer as pastor of Mother of Sorrows. Nobody was standing in line waiting for the parish. Nobody else wanted it.

  But Koesler was relieved that Kramer had suffered no abuse from the other prisoners. One could never be sure of what might happen within a prison.

  “I really don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about as far as the chancery is concerned. I’m pretty sure Cardinal Boyle would not let that happen. But, as for getting out: How about bail?”

  “Not yet. Our next chance is Thursday when I have my preliminary examination.”

  “Not till then? Isn’t there a chance they will simply drop the charges?”

  “I don’t think so. Not now. One of their witnesses identified me in the line-up this morning.”

  “No!” Koesler was deeply shocked. “How could that be!”

  “I don’t know.” Kramer lit a fresh cigarette from the one he was discarding. “I just don’t know. My attorney tells me it happens. The cops have to warn witnesses that the person they’re looking for may not be in the line-up. And the cops did that this morning, my lawyer said. But then he said most of the time the warning doesn’t do any good. The witnesses are psyched-up to pick out somebody. Mistakes happen. But for the guy they single out, it is one pretty damn big mistake.”

  “Good grief! I can’t believe it! Somebody actually picked you out of a line-up. Incredible!”

  “I really doubt my lawyer would kid about a thing like that.”

  “Well, if I’m going to try to help, I’d better know what’s going on. Have they got anything else?”

  “My knife.”

  “Your knife. You mean the big one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’ve had that for years. God, all the way back to the seminary. I could testify—any of the guys could testify—you’ve had that thing for ages. We used to sit around and watch you carve things. There’s nothing wrong about that knife.”

  “They found some blood on it.”

  “Blood!”

  “Mine. About a week ago, I cut myself. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it bled pretty good. I thought I cleaned it up. I must’ve missed a drop or two up near the shaft.”

  “But it would be your blood type.”

  “It is. It’s also the blood type of one of the victims.”

  “No! This is truly incredible.”

  “And my cut was so minor, my wound is all healed. So they won’t believe the blood came from me.”

  “It’s like some fiendish conspiracy. Obviously someone set you up last Sunday to be found by the police. Is it possible the same guy concocted all the rest of this so-called evidence?”

  “I haven’t got it figured out. I don’t even know whether I can figure it out. I keep trying to put it together, but it doesn’t go together for me. It’s like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with several missing pieces.”

  “Let’s try to put it together. I guess if I’m good at any of this, it’s assembling things in some sort of logical order. Game?”

  Kramer nodded and coughed rackingly several times, eventually bringing up sputum. Koesler recalled his own years of addiction; each morning had begun with coughing up his insides.

  Everything was better without tobacco. But everyone had to discover that for oneself.

  Koesler waited for Kramer to finish clearing the blocked passages, then said, “Okay, let’s start with two days ago . . . Sunday.” With more than thirty years as a priest, and relating to another priest only a few years younger than himself, Koesler could visualize a typical Sunday as if it were happening to himself. “You finish with morning Masses. How many do you have?”

  “Two. Ten and twelve noon.”

  “Right. So you’re tired and unwinding. Then the phone rings. What time was that?”

  “About 2:30, 3:00. I wouldn’t have fixed the time so easily except that I’ve gone over it with my lawyer.”

  “Sorry to go over the same material. But maybe I can understand and appreciate it even better than your attorney.”

  Kramer knew that was true.

  “Was anyone with you when the call came?”

  “No one.”

  Koesler tilted his head to one side. “Too bad. It would have been a tremendous help if someone had been there to corroborate the call. It’s also too bad that so few people will appreciate how small the odds are that there would have been anyone else around, especially on a Sunday afternoon. That’s about the only time a priest has to himself, whether he wants to be alone or not.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So the call comes. A sick call?”

  “Yeah. The guy who called—”

  “It was a man? You’re sure?”

  “He didn’t seem to be disguising his voice at all.”

  “You recognized the voice?”

  “No.”

  “Then?”

  “He said there was this lady who was real sick and needed a priest. And he gave the address.”

  “Which was way out of your parish. But it didn’t matter because it was pretty close to downtown and there wouldn’t be many priests around that area, especially on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Exactly.” Kramer was buoyed by the simple fact that Koesler seemed to understand so much more readily than the attorney. Both Johnson and Koesler were on his side. But Koesler understood completely and immediately.

  “Then?”

  “The rest of it is part of the record. I got there expecting to find a woman on her deathbed. I figured I’d have to call a doctor for her. I tried to get the guy who called to do that, but he hung up before I could do it. And I thought I had better at least take a look before I did it. So I went.

  “When I knocked on the door I was surprised that she could invite me in with such a strong voice ... I mean for a dying woman. Then when I entered the apartment, she let out a scream and pulled this huge knife. I didn’t know what the hell was happening but I didn’t want to get all carved up for my trouble. So I got my knife out . . . to sort of establish a Mexican standoff, you know.

  “There was a lot of yelling. We were both yelling at each other. Then the cops busted in . . . actually it would have been sort of comical if it hadn’t turned out to be so tragic.”

  Koesler, who had been nodding his understanding and agreement throughout Kramer’s narration, said, “Okay, you were set up for this. There’s no doubt about that. But how?”

  “I don’t kno
w. I just don’t know.” Kramer chain-lit another cigarette and coughed.

  “Whoever did it knew, or guessed, that the police had certain areas of the city under surveillance. Or maybe he actually saw the police patrolling that area. Somebody who had it in for you. Anybody come to mind?”

  Kramer gave the question only a moment’s thought. “No . . . nobody . . . not anybody vindictive enough to go to all the trouble.”

  “A good point. That was a lot of trouble to go to. Anybody who felt he had some score to settle with you could have found a helluva lot of easier ways to do it.”

  Koesler paused and rubbed his chin. “But then why didn’t the police buy your story? It seems perfectly logical to me.”

  “They kept saying it was too impossible to be a coincidence.”

  “What was?”

  “That I was dressed as a priest. And, as we know from the papers, so was the killer.”

  “So? Priests are not supposed to wear their uniform because some criminal decides to dress like us?”

  “No, it was more than that. I drive a black Ford Escort. So did the killer.”

  Koesler was about to interject a thought, but Kramer continued. “Then, there was my knife. Again, the papers said that the prostitutes had been stabbed.”

  “But a knife! Lots of people carry—”

  “They were most persistent about the size of the knife. I’m not sure why. Then there was something about my belt . . . its size, its width. I don’t know what that was all about. I asked them. But they seemed determined to wait until I tell them. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to tell them.”

  “Isn’t there any way of finding out?”

  “Tomorrow, I think. My lawyer spends tomorrow, or part of it, with the prosecutor. He described the legal process. I think it’s called discovery. He gets to find out what they think they have against me. We have a right to that information before the preliminary examination on Thursday.”

  “This is all happening so fast.”

  “Maybe. Or not so fast. There’s no way I can get out of here too soon.”

  Kramer reached for another cigarette, then thought better of it and tapped it back into the package. Koesler visualized Kramer’s lungs begging for mercy.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Koesler wished he had a pad. Evaluating a situation like this seemed to work better when one could write out the possibilities. “It’s obvious somebody framed you. That you were set up last Sunday is patent. It didn’t take too much imagination to figure that you would respond to that sick call. Or that you would be wearing your clericals. Maybe one of the younger priests would show up in a turtleneck and jeans. But our vintage would come in roman collar.

  “The guy—whoever it is—knows you drive a black Escort. He knows you ordinarily carry a knife—but then, you always have. He knows something about your belt, which, for some reason that we are likely to discover tomorrow, is important to the police.

  “Okay, all of that information is not all that hard to come by. It’s easily available to anyone who knows you even in the slightest way.

  “Who would do this to you? It’s got to be obvious: the real killer. For two consecutive Sundays he went about killing defenseless women and setting you up at the same time.

  “All this guy had to do was know just a little bit about you—things he could find out merely by observing you. Then he could dress like a priest, drive a black Escort, carry a knife—with which he could kill—and do whatever he did with a belt like yours. It wasn’t all that hard.” Koesler felt the exhilaration of having solved the puzzle. Or at least part of the puzzle.

  “That’s got to be it. That’s really got to be it.” Kramer, in that distracted automatic manner of a smoker, selected another cigarette and lit it, using the second and final match the guard had provided.

  “That leaves the big question ...” Koesler seemed deep in thought. “Who is it? Who did it? And, now that I think of it, how did he know that a witness—and he always took the chance of being seen by somebody—how could he know that a witness would confuse the two of you? How could he guess that a witness might identify you as the one who did it? Luck? That seems improbable. Coincidence? I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t all he’d have to know,” Kramer suggested, “is what my lawyer told me: that witnesses are likely to go into a line-up already programmed to identify somebody? They had all of us—there were seven—dress totally in black. Right away that makes us look an awful lot alike. And the woman who identified me seemed to spend a God-awful amount of time doing it . . . or at least it seemed that an awful lot of time elapsed. Maybe the killer was counting on the witnesses acting or reacting like witnesses usually do. Or maybe it was blind luck . . . or just a coincidence. After all, how could the killer know there would be witnesses?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. That’s the only piece that doesn’t seem to fit with the puzzle. Did he know, did he have any reason to guess, that this might happen? That someone would mistake you for him? I don’t know. It bothers me.”

  “Well, anyhow, I feel better. Just going through this with you has lifted a weight off my shoulders, Bob. You know, I know—we both know—I couldn’t have done it.”

  “Yes. But realistically, Dick, that may not be enough. I know in our form of law in this country, an accused person is innocent until proven guilty. But in our case, we may have to find the guilty party before—” Koesler stopped in midsentence and looked intently at Kramer. “What did you just say?”

  Kramer seemed confused. He could not remember. Few people pay close enough attention to remarks they make to have a verbatim recollection. “I don’t know . . . something about our both knowing that I didn’t do it.”

  “No; you didn’t say you didn’t do it; you said you couldn’t have done it.”

  “Same thing.” Kramer drew nervously on his cigarette.

  “Not exactly. If I were considering you and your being accused of a crime, I’d think of you as a priest—and a good one. And I would find it inconceivable that you could have committed the crime. And I’d say of you that you couldn’t have done it. If I were speaking for myself accused of a crime, I’d say I didn’t do it.”

  Kramer stubbed out the cigarette without lighting another. “So?”

  “So, what were you doing the two Sunday afternoons before this past one?”

  “What I was doing day before yesterday: nothing.”

  “No one phoned? No one stopped in for a copy of a record—marriage, baptism, confirmation, death—nothing? Two consecutive Sundays and the phone didn’t ring even once? I know you’re in a quiet parish, Dick. But I’ve been in quiet parishes too. And as restful as you would like Sunday afternoons and evenings to be, it would be something to write home about if nothing at all happened for that length of time.”

  “I told the cops I was at the rectory alone and nothing happened.”

  “I don’t know whether they believe you. But I’m a priest, and I find it very difficult to believe. Nothing? Nothing at all happened? Come on, Dick: Are you trying to protect someone? If you are, let me assure you: It isn’t worth it.”

  Kramer selected another cigarette and tapped it against the table, compressing the tobacco. He remembered he had no more matches and replaced it in the pack. Koesler wished he would hurry along. Their allotted time had almost expired.

  “If anything had happened, I wouldn’t have known about it,” Kramer finally said softly.

  “You wouldn’t have known about it? You weren’t there?”

  “I was there, all right. Unconscious. Dead drunk.”

  “Drunk!” The statement had taken Koesler by surprise.

  “Every Sunday. Every Sunday for months. More than a year. It’s the only time they let me alone.”

  “They? The parishioners?”

  “They. Everybody. Everything. The pressures. The drive. The concern. There’s nothing I can do about keeping the school open, paying the bills, teaching classes, givin
g convert instructions, fighting off the chancery. Sundays—the only day I can find any peace. Two Masses, homilies, liturgies. You know that, Bob. Wiped out.”

  Koesler nodded. He knew it well. The laity probably couldn’t guess how much it took out of their priest to offer multiple Masses and really try to deliver an interesting and meaningful homily two, perhaps three times a day. It was draining—emotionally and physically.

  “So,” Kramer continued, “by early to midafternoon, I am exhausted and faced with the one and only time in the week when no one is likely to bug me. And I won’t bug myself.”

  “So you drink?” Koesler easily perceived how difficult this admission was for Kramer.

  “It started well over a year ago. Just something to help unwind. A light scotch, maybe. Then, more . . . into oblivion. After months of this, it took more and more to reach oblivion.”

  “You were building a tolerance.”

  “I didn’t admit it at first. But then it became inescapable. And then, after a while, I wasn’t getting any real rest in the way of sleep. But it didn’t matter. I needed that escape. And no one was being hurt by it. Except possibly me. And I didn’t touch a drop the rest of the week. Just Sundays.”

  Kramer was an alcoholic. Koesler knew enough about the disease to recognize that. But why drop that concept on the poor man? Kramer had enough trouble as it was. Time enough to get treatment for him after extricating him from this mess.

  “Well, then, if you were completely out of it on those Sunday afternoons, you couldn’t have committed those murders.”

  Kramer shrugged. “Bob, what difference does it make to the police? I have no one to testify that I spent the time inside my rectory, drunk or sober. What they demand—and I need—is someone to say, ‘He couldn’t have done it. He was home. I was with him.’ And there isn’t any such person.

  “So you see, as far as this problem is concerned, it doesn’t matter whether I was drunk or sober. I have no witness one way or the other.

  “But I guess that’s what I meant when I said I couldn’t have done it. That was rather clever of you to pick up on that.”

  “Clever or not, we’re back on square one.” Koesler grimaced. “It would help a lot if we could find the one who did it.”