Marked for Murder

by William Kienzle

  “And it hasn’t changed since ordination. None of us ever sees him. Why, when I visited him this latest time, he was busy in his workshop. And if he hadn’t been there, he would have been out in his parish ringing doorbells or in the school or repairing the church or something like that.

  “The problem, Monsignor, is that the real killer knows him and I don’t. That’s why I feel as if I’m limping. If I’m going to be able to find out where the killer made his mistake, the one that will trip him up and expose him, I’ve got to know Dick at least as well as the killer does.” He shook his head. “But I don’t.”

  The two were silent for several moments.

  “I see,” said Meehan finally. “Well, I suppose I was about as close to Dick Kramer as anyone in the archdiocese. What is it you need to know? Maybe I could be of some help.”

  “Maybe you could.” Koesler brightened. “Maybe you could.

  “Well, then, the obvious question is: What makes Dick Kramer run? His most overriding characteristic is that he’s a workaholic, and has been for as long as I’ve known him. Which goes back to our earliest days in the seminary. From the very beginning, he’s been wrapped up in busy-ness. Why? Any ideas?”

  Meehan hesitated as if he knew the answer but was unsure whether to reveal the information.

  “I think I can shed some light on that question,” he said at length. “It’s not for certain. But I’ve had a pet theory for a long, long time. Maybe I’m dabblin’ in pop psychology without a license, but I’m pretty sure it all fits together.”

  “Anything is better than what I’ve got, which is no clue at all. What have you got on it, Monsignor?”

  “Well, see, Bobby, it all began when Dick Kramer applied for entrance to Sacred Heart Seminary in the ninth grade. He applied and took the entrance exam, just as all of you did, in July, a couple of months before school began in September. That was in ’44 or ’45, I forget which. The thing of it is, he was turned down.”

  “Oh, no. I’m afraid you’re mistaken there, Monsignor. Dick was admitted. I remember him as a freshman. He was admitted.”

  “So everyone thinks. But they’re not quite correct. Oh, he passed the entrance exam okay. A bright lad. But there was a complication.”

  Meehan’s hesitation suggested he might not continue.

  “A complication?” Koesler prompted.

  “He . . . Dick was illegitimate.”

  “He was!”

  “Oh, not in civil law. His parents were married. But by a judge, not by a priest. His father had been married previously. One of those cases canon law couldn’t touch. His father, a Catholic, had married a Catholic—before a priest, two witnesses, the whole thing. There weren’t any impediments to the marriage. It just didn’t work out. So they were divorced in civil law.

  “Later Dick’s father met the girl who would become Dick’s mother. They fell in love, deeply in love.” He looked at Koesler almost challengingly. “By God, they lived together very happily for some thirty years. But because of that previous marriage, they couldn’t get married in the Church. So when Dick was born, as far as Church law was concerned, he was illegitimate.

  “There was only one way that this technicality would have any effect at all on Dick and that was if he were to try to become a priest. Church law prohibited illegitimates from the priesthood. As you know, that particular law was not common knowledge as far as the laity in general was concerned. Ordinarily, they learned about it only if they bumped into it headfirst.”

  “Not only was it not popularly known,” Koesler interjected, “It was not universally enforced. You could get a dispensation from it.”

  “I’m coming to that,” Meehan said. “You may remember, back in those days, that along with taking an entrance exam, you also had to bring copies of your baptismal and confirmation certificates as well as a copy of your parents’ marriage certificate.

  “Well, Richard came with the whole package and presented it to the rector of the seminary. Of course the marriage certificate was of the civil ceremony, since they hadn’t had a religious ceremony. And on the copy of his baptismal certificate was the notation, filius illegitimus, signifying that he was, indeed, as far as the Church was concerned, illegitimate. So the rector then had to explain to him why he could not be admitted to the seminary.

  “It was the first that Richard had ever known about his technical status in the Church. He didn’t even know what illegitimacy meant.

  “It was a fantastic shock to Richard. All he wanted in life was to be a priest. Now he was given to believe he would never have a chance. Not through anything he had done or was responsible for, but because of something his parents had done.

  “Well, it just tore him to shreds. All of a sudden, he understood why, although his parents went to Mass with him every week without fail, they never went to Communion. At first, he had been too embarrassed to ask them why they didn’t receive Communion. Then when he got nerve enough to ask, their answer was very vague. So he hadn’t asked again. And he tried to stop wondering.

  “Then, all at once, when he was just thirteen, at what should have been one of the happiest moments of his life—being accepted as a student for the priesthood—he learns the whole truth. Can you imagine what that did to him?”

  “I sure can.” Koesler found himself emotionally wounded right along with the young Richard Kramer. “But what happened? Something must have happened. I can remember Dick as a freshman in the seminary. Mostly I can remember how damn hard he worked.”

  “Intervention, that’s what happened. His pastor went to bat for him. Old Father Lotito.”

  “I remember him.”

  “Well, he was Dick’s pastor. And he knew what a grand priest Dick would make. So Father Lotito, as soon as he heard what they’d done to Dick, got right over to the seminary. Raised holy hell with them.” He smiled. “You could do that in those days only if you were quite fearless. And Father Lotito was certainly that.

  “So they made an exception for Dick and accepted him. That’s why your recollection of Dick’s being in the freshman class at Sacred Heart is correct. But it was also flawed. They let him into the seminary but, I fear the damage was done.”

  “The poor guy. The poor kid! What a thing to happen to a young boy. Sometimes, I swear, the Church can have a heart as cold as stone.”

  “Anyway, that’s my theory of why Dick Kramer works so exceptionally hard. Once I had occasion to talk to his parents—they’re both gone now, you know. They said that he was never like that when he was growing up. He used to play and even, every once in a while, get into minor scrapes—nothing serious—just like any other youngster. But he changed at exactly the time he entered the seminary. And Father Lotito said the same.

  “What happened, I think, is that being turned down by the seminary made him feel like a second-class student. So he set about to prove that he was not only as good as anybody else, but that he was better than he needed to be.

  “So, his life, since the day he discovered his illegitimacy and was admitted to the seminary only by way of exception, has been filled with competitiveness. Mostly he’s been competing with himself to prove that he was good enough to be a seminarian. Good enough to be a priest.

  “And that’s the way it went, Bobby. When Dick got to the end of his studies in theology and was about to be ordained, the seminary authorities had to petition Rome for the necessary dispensation. It was the final indignity for Richard.

  “That’s why, you see, so much depends on getting him free and clear of this ridiculous charge against him. His self-concept isn’t all that strong to begin with. Can you imagine what this is doing to him as he finds himself locked up in a jail with criminals? Treated like a criminal himself?

  “That’s why we’ve got to do everything we can to clear his name and get him out of there just as soon as possible. That’s why we’re counting on you to help . . . from the inside, as it were.”

  As Monsignor Meehan concluded his story, Koesler felt an in
creased and intensified sense of urgency. Up to this moment, he had been devoting practically 100 percent of every possible moment to clearing Kramer of the charges against him. But what was it they said in sports: From now on, he would give 110 percent.

  During his drive home, Koesler reflected that for the first time in memory, he and Meehan had visited without telling each other a single anecdote. That seemed to emphasize the gravity of Kramer’s plight.

  When, finally, he returned to his rectory, he looked it up. Sure enough, in the current Code of Canon Law, A.D. 1983, there was no mention of illegitimacy as an impediment to ordination. But in the old Code, A.D. 1917, there it was: Canon 984 noted that among the “irregularities” prohibiting ordination was illegitimacy, unless one were subsequently legitimized.

  There was no doubt about it: Sometimes the Church had a heart of stone.

  32

  It had been a very good day. Sundays, particularly Sundays that he didn’t have to work, were Tully’s favorites.

  This day had begun with the relatively recent routine with which he was becoming very comfortable. He had wakened, retrieved the papers, started coffee and breakfast. Later, Alice joined him, rubbing sleep from her eyes and shuffling around the kitchen in soft, warm slippers.

  They ate a leisurely breakfast, wading through the papers, reading aloud items from stories or columns that particularly interested them, conversing about implications.

  Afterward, Tully lit the fireplace in the living room where, to a background of Ed Ames and Sinatra records, they made love.

  It was well after noon before they began the process of considering what to do with the rest of the day. It was a testament to Alice’s persuasive powers that she talked him into going down to the ice-skating rink in Hart Plaza adjacent to the Renaissance Center. It was an outdoor rink and Tully liked neither the out-of-doors during winter nor ice-skating. Alice, on the other hand, was an excellent skater and loved the brisk beauty of a rigorous winter.

  Skating—or in Tully’s case, slipping, sliding, and falling—was followed by a relaxed dinner at Carl’s Chop House, one of downtown’s few quality restaurants open on Sundays.

  Now they were on their way home. Tully decided to skip life in the fast lane of the freeway in favor of laid-back Livernois—once far more appealing than it had become.

  “You’re a good sport, Zoo.” Alice had abandoned the passenger seat to cuddle against Tully, her head resting firmly on his shoulder.

  “If I was such a good sport, I wouldn’t have been cleaning off the ice all afternoon.”

  “So you’re not one of the Red Wings. You try.”

  “Actually, it’s easier with both ankles flat on the ice . . . more like roller skating that way.”

  She chuckled. “I meant you are a good sport for humoring me in the first place. I know you’re not nuts about the cold. And there’s no place in town colder than where the wind whips right off the river.”

  “Don’t remind me. This afternoon you almost saw a black guy turn into a white guy . . . come to think of it, that way I might be more acceptable to your Nordic parents.”

  “Stop worrying about my Nordic parents. I am no longer subject to their approval. This isn’t Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Besides, if we ever find ourselves in Minnesota, my father and mother will be nice to you. Right after I tell them that you pack a rod.”

  “Al, you’ve been watching too many Edward G. Robinson movies. It’s a gun. It’s okay to call it a gun. And I don’t pack it; I wear it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Feelin’ pretty high, aren’tcha?”

  She smiled and snuggled closer. “Yeah.”

  “And with good reason. You saved that kid just about single-handed. What was his name again?”

  “M’Zulu.”

  “I don’t know how you keep those African names straight.” It was Tully’s turn to smile.

  His sally sailed right over her head. “Actually, I didn’t come to his rescue; Kronk Recreation did.”

  “You know about Kronk Recreation? Until now, I figured you thought Everlast was an eternal reward in the hereafter!”

  “Actually, somebody told me about Kronk and I took the kid there. It was kind of an accident. But it made sense, don’t you think? I mean, the kid was fighting all the time anyway—sort of nonprofessionally. The trouble was, he was winning all the time. Police very seldom run in the losers.”

  “They’ve suffered enough.”

  “Anyway, Mr. Steward thinks he has a great future.”

  “Another Tommy Hearns?”

  “Who’s Tommy Hearns?”

  “You may be right, Al. Maybe M’Zulu’s getting tied up with Kronk was a bit of an accident.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Uh-huh. What weight’s he gonna fight at?”

  “What what?”

  “It was an accident. Is he gonna be a flyweight, middleweight, welterweight? What?”

  “Oh, that. Mr. Steward says with some decent food and dedicated conditioning he can become a very good heavyweight.”

  Tully whistled. “Another Joe Louis!” Pause. “You do know who Joe Louis was?”

  “Of course, silly. He’s the guy they built the monument to—the fist—on Jefferson.”

  “That’s it—the Brown Bomber. Well, Al, if Steward is right—and he usually is—in a few years M’Zulu will be able to buy and sell us.”

  “Really! There’s that much money in it?”

  “If a guy really makes it, more than basketball.”

  “Wow.”

  “Indeed! It’s times like this I kind of envy you, Al.”

  “How so?”

  “You really work at rehabilitating people. We can joke about it but M’Zulu was on a direct approach toward my department. He’s already got an impressive record: assault, battery, B&E, car theft. He was one step from getting in over his head in drugs. And after that it was almost sure that he would either kill or be killed.

  “But you reached him, got him into Kronk. Now if Steward stays on his case, the kid’ll stay clean. That’s not bad for a day’s work, Al.”

  “That’s nice, Zoo . . . good words. But you shouldn’t put yourself down. Take M’Zulu, for instance. Supposing he hadn’t gotten into Kronk. Supposing his life had gone the way you just outlined it. Once he got a gun and maybe killed somebody, where would he stop? He’d be a killer and one more threat to innocent lives in this city. You’d be the one to stop him. You’d solve one of your ‘puzzles,’ as you like to call them, and get him off the streets.”

  “Yeah, get ’im off the streets.” They passed the University of Detroit campus—almost home. “Get ’im off the streets. Like I got Kramer off the streets.”

  “That was different, Zoo. You haven’t closed that case yet ... I mean, in your own mind you haven’t closed it.”

  “Sure I have. He’s locked up. We got our man. That’s all she wrote.”

  Alice hesitated. “You mentioned him in your sleep the other night.”

  “Huh?”

  “You said his name while you were sleeping.”

  Tully grinned. “Alice, do you realize I wouldn’t know that I talk in my sleep if it weren’t for you.”

  “You don’t.”

  “But you just said—”

  “That’s why it was so out of the ordinary: You don’t talk in your sleep. At least I’ve never heard you. Until the other night when you said his name.”

  “What else did I say?”

  “Nothing . . . just his name.”

  “I’ll be damned!”

  “You told me that once the puzzle was solved you didn’t think about the case anymore. It made sense to me. The thing about how the courts can screw everything up so you don’t put any faith in that system . . . that your interest stops when you solve the puzzle.”

  Tully seemed lost in thought. “You’re right on both counts, Al. Ordinarily, I leave the case on the prosecutor’s doorstep and never think about it again. If I te
stify in court, so be it. But I don’t give a damn.” He frowned. “For some reason, this one’s different.”

  “Is it because the first woman was your snitch and you thought there was a link? That that might be the reason she was killed?”

  “Partly, I guess. That’s definitely what got me into this thing on a personal basis. Yeah, I guess that’s part of it.

  “But then the fact that this guy was either a preacher or pretending to be one really reached me. It’s like when you find a bad cop. Who you gonna turn to when it’s a cop who’s muggin’ or rapin’ you? A preacher or a priest is the same thing. Your instinct is to trust a preacher man. The ladies who went with Kramer were confident—in a line of work where there can be little confidence, where there is plenty of danger. He tricked them. He lulled them. Then he killed them. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he gutted them and branded them like cows.

  “He really reached me. I’m gonna follow him right through circuit court, right up to the goddam Supreme Court, if it goes that far. I want to nail that guy.”

  Alice sensed the cold chill of Tully’s anger.

  “Will it hurt . . . I mean, will it weaken the case that the branding iron hasn’t been found?”

  “Who knows? No telling what a judge or jury will do. We got enough evidence without the damn iron. But once it gets to court . . . who knows?”

  “Still looking for it?”

  “Promise you won’t tell?

  “What?”

  “If Walt knew how many people I got lookin’ for that iron, he’d piss kielbasa. Fortunately, in the past few days we’ve had a bunch of platter cases . . . just paperwork, no puzzles. So we’ve been able to fudge a bit and keep lookin’ for the iron. Took the car to pieces and put it back together again. And the hell of it is, it might still be in there. There are so many places to hide a couple of real thin metallic rods in a car. The guys combed it, but—nothin’.”

  “Maybe it just isn’t in there.”

  “Always a possibility. That’s why I got every spare on the squad goin’ through the rectory and the church. But you know, in the church basement Kramer’s got a workroom with everything you’d need to make an iron like that. Oh, it’s somewhere, all right. But where? I’d sure as hell like to turn it up before the trial. Like I said, we don’t need it. But it sure would help to have it. The final nail in the coffin.”