Marked for Murder

by William Kienzle

  Such, obviously, was the case here. Ms. Blondell seemed determined that Father Koesler effect some sort of reformation. Mr. Bush did not appear to share her conviction of the need for reform. Thus, if anything was going to happen here—and Koesler had no clue as to what Agnes intended to happen—it would depend entirely on Bush’s undergoing a massive change in attitude.

  Whatever might ensue, this was the antithesis of Koesler’s method of operation. And he deeply resented the woman’s forcing this situation on him. “Ms. . . .” Koesler had forgotten her name.

  “Blondell.”

  “Ms. Blondell, would you mind very much leaving me alone with Mr. . . .”

  “Bush.”

  “. . . with Mr. Bush here?”

  Her expression said she was not all that eager to leave, but if the priest insisted . . . “Well, all right. I suppose you need privacy to do whatever it is you Catholics do.” She left and joined some of the female onlookers waiting to learn the outcome of this scene. Conspiratorially, they left together to conjecture on Bush’s fate now that he’d been turned over to his priest.

  Bush and Koesler regarded each other silently for a few moments. Finally, Bush tossed his head in the direction of the departed Agnes Blondell. “She’s a bitch.”

  Koesler could not debate the point.

  On reflection, Bush concluded that this priest had nothing to do with the present humiliation. It was entirely Blondell’s fault. No use blaming the priest. “I don’t know your name.”

  “Koesler. Father Koesler.”

  “Is that K-E-S-S-L-E-R?”

  “No; K-O-E-S-L-E-R.”

  “German?”

  “Yes.” Though he was half Irish, Koesler rarely acknowledged that fact. To a casual acquaintance, the explanation was not worth the time it took.

  “I’m sorry you got mixed up in this. It’s none of your affair. But then, it’s none of her business either.”

  “Granted.”

  Bush looked at his watch. “We got a break now. You want to go to lunch? We could get a salad in one of the Greek places.”

  Koesler briefly considered the invitation. “Okay.” He felt too sorry for Bush to refuse him.

  As usual around midday in Greektown, auto traffic was perilously close to gridlock and the sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians. Partly because he wanted to get this engagement over with as quickly as possible and partly because it was so cold, Koesler walked rapidly. With his longer stride, the much taller Koesler unconsciously forced Bush to almost run just to keep up. When they reached the Laikon Café, Koesler felt invigorated. Bush was panting.

  “Do you always walk this fast?” Bush gasped.

  “Only when it’s cold,” Koesler answered as he looked over the early luncheon crowd, found a space, and headed for a table for two not far from a window.

  They each ordered salad. The coffee was poured immediately.

  Their conversation had barely begun when Koesler sensed lunch would be destroyed if Bush were allowed to explain his work. Without doubt someone had to assist in autopsies, but Koesler knew he would be happier if he never heard a graphic description of the work. So he steered the talk in this and that direction until they chanced on Bush’s avocation of handiwork and his fascination with machines, both human and constructed.

  So pleased was Koesler to have stumbled on this neutral subject, it did not occur to him that Arnold Bush and Father Kramer had identical hobbies.

  By the time their salads were delivered, the subject of Bush’s pastime was pretty well exhausted. Through the salad course and more coffee, Koesler coaxed Bush into giving an account, albeit abbreviated, of his life. It was a knack Koesler had, springing from his genuine interest in people, that caused others, oftentimes even strangers like Bush, to open up.

  Bush, however, was not about to reveal all. He had been wounded too often to bare himself completely. His carefully edited personal narrative skipped over such items as the time he had spent living in a bordello. But, testing the waters, he did throw in a few controversial facts such as his on-again/off-again practice of Catholicism.

  When Koesler rejected the bait, neither greeting the news with widened eyes nor berating him for his backsliding, Bush found himself warming to the priest somewhat. He was indeed sorry to have the lunch end. But the priest, though gracious enough, appeared to be in a hurry. So, too soon for Bush, the luncheon was over. And, wonder of wonders, the priest picked up the tab. If Bush needed another reason to trust this priest, the fact that he would pay for lunch was it. For one used to having the flow of money go from the laity to the clergy, this was a unique experience.

  Koesler left the restaurant and leaned into the cold damp gale that gusted in from the Detroit River and twisted through the canyons of downtown. Fortunately, his car was parked only a few blocks away. He hurried into the vehicle, shivering, but grateful to be protected from the biting wind-chill.

  Before starting the car, he cleaned the mist from his glasses and thought about this unexpectedly busy, if not as productive as he had wished, morning.

  He had been disheartened by Inspector Koznicki’s loss of faith in Father Kramer. And yet, it had not been a complete surprise. A police officer such as the inspector had to rely on his vast experience, together with all available evidence. In the end, no one could understand a priest like another priest could. In this case, Koesler was willing to wager his knowledge and experience in the priesthood against even the vastly superior experience in criminal behavior and homicide of his friend, Inspector Koznicki.

  Then there was Dr. Moellmann, a most provocative man. Due to his patient explanation, Koesler now knew exactly what had happened to those poor women. The necessary restraint of the news media couldn’t do justice to the violence of those deaths. The word “mutilation” was inadequate to describe the obscenity of that horrible evisceration, not to mention the branding. And what could those marks mean?

  What irritated Koesler most was that those branding marks did mean something to him. But what? There was some clue buried just outside his conscious mind that promised to open a door to this mystery. But he couldn’t find the key. And there was the further discouragement stemming from Dr. Moellmann’s implicit confidence in the certitude of Lieutenant Tully. Koesler had to admit that any disinterested third party would consider it foolhardy for him to continue to stand in opposition to the combined expertise of Koznicki and Tully. But there Koesler stood. With his faith in Father Kramer, he could do no less.

  Finally, this morning, there was Arnold Bush.

  In retrospect, their meeting had been sheerly ludicrous. Koesler knew that he would forevermore smile at the memory of Agnes Blondell’s leading him around the mortuary. And yet, there was something vaguely unsettling about Arnold Bush and . . . Koesler could not quite put his finger on it. Something Bush had said. What was it? At the time, it had slipped by Koesler and it was still evading him.

  Then there was the disquieting thought that somewhere, somehow he and Bush had met previously. There was just something familiar about the man. But Koesler had been assigned to so many parishes over the years, been on so many committees, done business with so many people, that it was not uncommon for him to meet someone for the first time who would remind him of someone else he knew.

  Koesler was tempted to dismiss the entire Bush episode. But something prevented him. After this business of clearing the good name of Father Kramer was over and finished, Arnold Bush merited another look.

  But, for the moment, Koesler was running late. And two witnesses who had identified Father Kramer as the killer were waiting for an interview that had been set up by Inspector Koznicki.

  God bless Inspector Koznicki.

  36

  Father Koesler was somewhat shocked and slightly surprised at the appearance of Sister Therese Hercher.

  She was not disheveled. Her IHM blue suit was as clean and neatly pressed as ever. No, the difference was in her face, especially her eyes. If eyes were indeed the mirror o
f the soul, then her soul was hurt and in deep pain.

  “Are you getting enough sleep Sister?”

  “Yes. No. Not really. This thing has been a living nightmare. And it’s getting worse. It seems that everytime I get close to sleep I think of Dick locked up like a common criminal and I can’t make it. I can’t relax enough to sleep, at least not often.”

  Koesler had offered her coffee, which she refused. Was it that she did not want to put any block in the way of sleep? Or was it his coffee?

  It was a little after ten o’clock Monday night. Earlier in the evening, Sister had phoned Koesler, who, detecting the mental turmoil in her voice, invited her to visit him at St. Anselm’s rectory.

  “Maybe you should see a doctor, Sister. Maybe he could give you something to relax you . . . help you get to sleep”

  She waved away the suggestion. “I want to experience what he must be going through. That way I won’t let up in trying to get him out of there.”

  She looked intently at Koesler. She was squinting. He attributed that to her underlying need for rest. “How did it go with you today? Any progress?”

  He bowed his head looking at the floor between them. “Not much. All in all, it was pretty discouraging. According to three rather well informed people, we—you and I—are about the only ones still convinced that Father Kramer is innocent.”

  “Oh?” Her tone was combative. “Who?”

  “Inspector Koznicki, Lieutenant Tully, and Dr. Moellmann, the medical examiner.”

  “We’re not the only ones.” She seemed to take resolution from the one-sided odds. “All his parishioners are praying for him. It’s even greater than that. I get a sense from the whole community, the city, the archdiocese, that the people—the vast majority—don’t believe for an instant that he’s guilty.”

  Koesler suspected she was right, though his grounds likely were different from hers. Those who actually knew Dick Kramer knew that he could not have committed these crimes. As for the others in that “vast majority” cited by Sister, Koesler guessed that even without knowing Kramer most people simply found it impossible to believe that a priest could be capable of such depravity.

  “Though I’ve got to admit,” she reflected, “that you’re right: The police seem convinced that he is guilty. And they’re working overtime to stack up evidence against him. Do you know what they did today? They searched the rectory, and even the church!”

  “You were there?”

  “They served the search warrant on me!”

  While normally Koesler’s prime sympathies lay with the police and the legal system protected by the Constitution, this, he thought, was going a bit far. Not only had they arrested a priest and charged him with unspeakable crimes, now they were serving search warrants on nuns. What next?

  “Do you know what they were looking for?” Koesler was quite sure they were after the branding iron. But since he had been informed of the details of these murders in confidentiality, he was not about to reveal what he knew.

  “Specifically? I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose they were on— what do they call it?—a fishing expedition. Anything that might implicate Dick.”

  “Did they appear to find anything? I mean, anything that you noticed?”

  “I couldn’t be everywhere. One bunch was searching the rectory, the other went to the church. I went with the ones in the church. They never would have found their way around that place without a guide.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. They paid the most attention to Dick’s workshop. That’s the place they asked specifically to see. They went over it with a fine-toothed comb. I tried to listen to what they were saying. But obviously they didn’t want me to learn anything. At one point I know they were looking for some sort of knife. I don’t know why; they’ve got Dick’s knife. They took it from him last week when they arrested him the first time. And they’re holding it as evidence now, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right. But there’s a knife missing. The one that was used yesterday on that poor woman . . . Mae Dixon. Naturally, if they think Dick Kramer committed the crime, then he had to have the knife that cut her open. It’s true they have his knife. But as far as they’re concerned there’s no reason he couldn’t have another one. Or he could have replaced it. Of course we know they’ll never find another knife because he didn’t do it. But it won’t stop them from looking.

  “But that was it—the knife? They weren’t looking for anything else?”

  “I couldn’t say. They weren’t exactly confiding in me. I did hear mention of some kind of brand. I took it to mean the kind or brand of knife they were looking for.”

  “But they didn’t find anything.”

  “Not that I could tell. They looked pretty glum when they left.

  “But how about you? Didn’t you tell me you were going to have a chance to talk to those women who identified Dick as the killer?”

  Koesler nodded. “I talked with both of them.”

  “And?”

  “They’re nice people. At least they were very open with me. I think that was because Lieutenant Tully asked them to cooperate with me.”

  “But you couldn’t shake them—their stories?”

  “One of them—the one called Adelle—is not too certain. She’s the one who was standing in a doorway several yards from the car that picked up her friend. She ‘Fathered’ me to death. I think because I’m a priest she was doing her best to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  Therese was thoughtful. “Just as she will have to do on the stand . . . when she’s under oath.”

  “Exactly. So I would think that a sharp attorney like Mr. Bill Johnson shouldn’t have a difficult time discrediting her testimony.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Ruby. Not so good. She was only a few feet from the man. Of course she saw him for only a few seconds. He was moving, reentering the apartment building. He looked in her direction and seemed startled to see anybody up that close. Seemingly, he had looked around very carefully before going to his car, and then when he was sure no one was around—that no one could see him—had dashed out to the car.”

  “Then why didn’t he see her if she was so close?”

  “It was bitter cold. She was moving from one sheltered spot to another . . . sort of going from one doorway to another.”

  “So she was moving toward the building just as he returned to it.”

  “Right. As he hurried up the steps, he glanced in her direction. He was surprised to see her and he paused only a second or two and then hurried in.”

  “That’s it? That was all there was to it? A couple of seconds?”

  “That’s it. But she seems so positive. So very, very positive.”

  “She’s wrong!”

  “Yes, she’s wrong. But she’s also lucky.”

  “Lucky!”

  “A detective named Mangiapane told me all about the show-up He said that among the men they had joining Dick was a detective who was almost his clone.” Koesler hesitated. Something was trying to get through to his conscious mind. But it wouldn’t come. “Anyway, both Adelle and Ruby had a lot of trouble sorting out the detective from Dick. Ruby definitively did it—she didn’t have any doubts.”

  “So she’s not apt to break on the stand.”

  “I don’t think so. Though I’m sure Mr. Johnson will lean heavily on the infinitesimal seconds she had to make such a crucial identification. But, having met Ruby today, I’d say she won’t budge an inch.” Koesler glanced at his ever-present watch. It was nearing eleven o’clock. According to his schedule, he was only a few minutes from the late news, a nightcap and bedtime. While he had every intention of giving Sister Therese all the time she wanted, he held hope that his routine would not be too severely fractured. “Sure you don’t want some coffee? Or maybe a drink?”

  “No, nothing. Thanks.”

  “Mind if I have something?”

  “Of course not.”
>
  Koesler went to the kitchen, put a few ice cubes in a tall glass, poured in a couple of fingers of scotch, and filled the glass with water—the nightcap. Now if Sister did not stay beyond another half-hour, only the late news would be missing from his routine. He could live with that.

  He returned to the living room, sat again across from Sister, and gently rattled the ice against the sides of his glass. He liked the sound. “And how about you? Weren’t you going to check some of your contacts?”

  “Yes. I went to see a friend, a Sister Helen, who runs a halfway house for women who want to get out of the life—the profession, she calls it. She knows more about prostitution and prostitutes than just about anybody. Over the past couple of weeks she’s been checking things out for me. Today she had four women who regularly work the areas where all three of the victims were picked up. Or, with Mae Dixon, where she lived and worked.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing, really. None of them was aware—before these murders, that is—of anything like some John dressed as a priest. All of them said that something like that would have been noised about. And none of them had seen anything like that, nor had there been any word on the street about it. All of them said that if Adelle and Ruby say they saw the guy, they probably saw him . . . that they weren’t the kind who would give false information—especially to Lieutenant Tully.”

  “So . . .” Another discouraging word.

  “But,” Sister added, “that doesn’t mean that Adelle and even Ruby couldn’t be mistaken in their identification of Dick as the man they saw.”

  “Of course.”

  The phone rang—11:10. Just what I need, thought Koesler: a late-night sick call. He excused himself and took the call in his office. “St. Anselm’s.”

  “Father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Father Koesler?”

  “Yes.” It didn’t sound like a sick call.

  “This is Arnold Bush.”

  Arnold Bush . . . now, there was a familiar name. But after all these years, all the people he’d met, and the lateness of the hour, nothing clicked.