Mangiapane scratched his head. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. We got him. We got the pictures he took. We got the knife. We got the belt. And, best of all, we found the branding iron.”
Koznicki seemed especially pleased. “You found the iron.”
“Yes, sir.” Mangiapane was far from being on a first-name basis with the boss. “We got it. But he claims he can’t tell us what the inscription means. Said he copied it. And he still won’t admit to more than the last murder.”
“If he will not admit to the first two murders,” Koznicki said, “does he have an alibi for the first two Sundays?”
Tully shook his head. “He lives alone and he is a loner. Same as Kramer,” he added.
Koznicki looked sharply at Tully.
“But why?” Koesler asked. “Why would he not admit he killed all the women?”
Koznicki cocked his head to one side. “There is a possible reason. There was no way he could deny responsibility for the murder of Mae Dixon. The evidence speaks for itself. However, he may be considering some sort of plea such as temporary insanity—some plea that would be difficult to sustain over a full pretrial period.
“That would seem to jibe with his attitude when we arrived at the apartment tonight. It is somewhat rare that a suspect will waive his right to have an attorney present and then be as uncooperative as Bush was. It was almost as if there actually was an attorney present advising him as to when to speak and when to remain silent.”
“That—or he really didn’t commit those first two murders,” Tully murmured.
“Didn’t do them!” Koesler exclaimed. “If he didn’t kill the first two women as well as the third, who did?”
“We got a guy locked up for that,” said Tully dispassionately.
“Lieutenant!” Koesler said, “you can’t still believe that Father Kramer did it!”
“I always did believe it.”
Koznicki was about to intervene, but thought better of it. The battle lines had been drawn. It was between Father Koesler and Tully. It might be revealing one way or the other to let them go at it.
“What about a week ago Sunday?” Koesler pressed. “There can be no doubt that Bush set up Father Kramer. And you arrested him.”
“Bush doesn’t admit that.”
“He doesn’t admit to it!”
“No. And without a confession there is no evidence that he made a call that would bring Kramer to the Dixon apartment. So maybe there was no call. Maybe, as is alleged, Kramer came to the apartment to kill Dixon just as he killed the other two.”
“Lieutenant, that makes no sense. Not in the light of what we’ve learned tonight.” So intent was he in his debate with Tully that Koesler was virtually oblivious to the presence of Koznicki and Mangiapane.
“On the contrary, Kramer looks as guilty now as he did before you came up with Bush.”
“What about the iron—the branding iron, Lieutenant? When you arrested Father Kramer you were unable to find the branding iron. And in the previous two murders, the killer returned to his car to get the brand after strangling the victim. You didn’t find the iron either on Father Kramer’s person or in his car. In fact, you’ve never found a branding iron that belonged to Father Kramer!”
Tully sighed. “Anytime you’re working with human behavior, you’re going to find variables and atypical situations you don’t and can’t expect. I don’t deny it would help to find that iron. But the mere fact that Kramer didn’t have it when we got him doesn’t mean he didn’t have it at one time. He may have made his statement. He may have found it too clumsy an instrument. Even in serial murders, perps change their M.O. They can go from guns to knives to ropes. As long as they can leave a telltale calling card. And in this case the identical cutting and gutting would be enough.”
“But Lieutenant, you’ve got the branding iron! Detective Mangiapane just said you found it tonight, at Bush’s apartment. Never mind his desperate claim that he doesn’t know anything about the inscription. That’s it. What do you need with another one?”
“We got a branding iron tonight. Not necessarily the branding iron.”
“But I assume it conforms with the marks left on the victim’s bodies.”
“It appears to. We’ll see.”
“And if it does . . .?”
“Bush could have made a duplicate. He saw the bodies. He handled them. He had blown-up photos of the brand. He worked in a tool shop. He could have made his own instrument.”
“That’s stretching things pretty far, don’t you think?”
“Not if you’re a professional in police work.” Tully finally got the chip off his shoulder. “They call them copycat murders. It happens. We try to avoid that kind of thing by keeping details of murders—particularly serial killings—out of the media. Otherwise we’d be flooded by wackos duplicating weird murders to the last detail. Usually when there is a copycat murder, the killer messes up badly on one or another detail because he’s not totally informed. But in this case there was no avoiding it. Not when the copycat works in the M.E.’s office. He knows as much as the police, the M.E., the original killer. He knows as much as anybody.”
Koesler considered ordering another glass of wine, but immediately dismissed the notion. He was in an argument with a most worthy adversary, the result of which argument might well mean the release of Father Kramer. At least temporarily.
If Tully’s reasoning were to convince Inspector Koznicki, it seemed possible that the police department would actively oppose the release of Father Kramer.
“One final point then, Lieutenant: The two of them—Arnold Bush and Father Kramer—look enough alike to be blood relatives. What would you think of this scenario? Supposing Arnold Bush kills two prostitutes. The newspapers tell him that the police recognize these as a series of killings by one and the same person. He knows the police will be closing in on these crimes. He also knows that he has a lookalike who is a priest. Easy enough for him to know that. Priests are very public people. They take part regularly in public liturgical functions. Besides, Father Kramer’s picture has been in the Detroit Catholic newspaper any number of times.
“So, the third consecutive Sunday, he phones Father Kramer and dupes him into going on what appears to be a sick call. He knows that Father Kramer drives a black Escort—as does Bush, of course. The trap springs and Father Kramer is arrested. The following weekend Father Kramer is released on bail. Bush, in the M.E.’s office, would be aware of the scuttlebutt from Police Headquarters just down the street. No great trick, I think, for him to learn about Father Kramer’s release on bail. And this allows Bush to commit the third murder, again creating the impression that Father Kramer has struck again.
“He failed only because, by accident, I happened to discern pictures on Bush’s wall that could have been taken only by the killer.
“So it is inescapable: Bush killed the third woman. It follows that he also killed the first two. But, for a reason yet to be discovered, he doesn’t want to admit that just yet.” Koesler concluded with the trace of a verbal flourish.
Tully smiled. “Not bad, Father. But how about the following premise: Suppose Kramer killed Louise Bonner and Nancy Freel. He tries to kill Mae Dixon, but we grab him. He’s booked and his picture appears in the papers. Bush sees the picture and the resemblance. He knows all the details of the killing from his job at the morgue. He also knows the identity of the third intended victim. So he decides on a copycat murder.
“We think Kramer pulled off the third one too, but that is disproved when you latch onto those photos. So we’ve got the killer of the first two women in jail already. And now, thanks to you, we’ve got the killer of the last one—the copycat—in jail too. Besides how could Bush possibly know that we were planning a blanket surveillance on that third Sunday?”
Tully was conveniently overlooking the fact that he had discussed just such a surveillance with Dr. Moellmann, within earshot of Arnold Bush.
Koesler shrugged. “Lieutenant, our arguments are
hypothetical. You suppose one thing, I suppose another. You think you know for sure; I think I know for sure.” He looked to Koznicki. “Inspector?”
Koznicki said with a sense of assurance. “We must, finally, weigh the sum of circumstantial evidence. The weight falls on the shoulders of Arnold Bush. There is no shadow of a doubt he is guilty of the murder of Mae Dixon. The presumption must be that he is guilty of the first two murders. Tomorrow we will recommend to the prosecuting attorney that she move to dismiss the charges against Father Kramer.”
Koesler breathed a sigh of relief.
Officer Mangiapane finished the beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Can I tell them about the mothers, Zoo?”
Lieutenant Tully said nothing.
“Mothers?” From Inspector Koznicki came part question and part command.
Mangiapane, now conscious of everyone’s eyes upon him, wondered whether he’d drunk the beer too quickly. Perhaps it would have been better not to have brought up the mothers. That was the clear message he was picking up from Tully. But now he felt obliged to continue.
“Uh . . . mothers . . . Well, see, me and Zoo were on surveillance, on this very case, and he told me about his theory about mothers. Uh . . . sorry, Zoo, if you didn’t want me to bring it up . . .”
Still Tully said nothing.
“Well, anyway, Zoo said that in cases like this where you have a multiple murderer or a serial murderer or a woman killer, nine times outta ten you’re lookin’ for somebody who had problems with his mama.”
“Oh?” said Koznicki, to whom the theory was not unfamiliar.
“Yes, sir,” Mangiapane affirmed. “Usually, he said, you got an orphan or a bastard or somebody who was institutionalized. And what he’s doin’ is he’s killin’ mama over and over again. Because he’s convinced that all his troubles started with his relationship—or lack of one—with his mother.
“Zoo had a whole list of multiple murderers who fit the profile. I could remember only a few of ’em . . . like John Bianchi, Dave Berkowitz, Ted Bundy, Al Fish, Ed Kamper, Albert De Salvo, Richard Speck, Norman Collins, Charles Starkweather . . . I forget . . . there were quite a few others.” He looked brightly at Tully. “Why don’t you tell ’em, Zoo? It’s your theory.”
Tully was turning his glass slowly, meditatively. He did not look up. “It’s not my theory. It’s been pretty well documented. It’s in their records. It’s in their own statements.
“Bundy complained that because he’d been a bastard, he’d been robbed of a past. He was bitter about that. So were all the rest. When Kemper killed he was acting out the rage he felt toward his mother. De Salvo—the ‘Boston Strangler’—was dominated by his mother. He hated her for it. But it was taboo to get her for what she was doing to him so he killed woman after woman.
“Berkowitz—who was the ‘Son of Sam’—was another bastard, who gave that as his reason for shooting women. He himself said that he was an accident: ‘My birth was either out of spite or an accident.’
“It keeps on going like that.”
“Anyway,” Mangiapane said, “I thought that after the inspector said we were going to move to dismiss, that it would be okay to talk about the mother thing. Because . . . because . . .”
“Because,” said Tully, “I told Mangiapane at headquarters after we booked Bush that at least we finally had a suspect who fit the profile. How could it be better? A bastard who spent his youth in a whorehouse.”
“He said it was better than Kramer,” Mangiapane added.
“Actually, it wasn’t that much. Everybody who has—or thinks he has—reason to hate mama doesn’t become a killer. Nor is each and every mass murderer illegitimate. But I must admit, now that the decision has been made, it was the one and only chink I ever saw in the case against Kramer. At least he had a normal childhood.”
“Oh, but—” Koesler blurted.
Tully looked pointedly at the priest. “But what?”
“Uh . . . nothing.”
Quietly and deeply Koesler was in turmoil. Should he bring it up or not? There was no possible way Tully could know that Dick Kramer qualified as an ecclesiastical bastard. If Tully had checked—and probably he had—he would have found records attesting to the fact that Richard Kramer was the legitimate son of Robert Kramer and Mary (née O’Loughlin) Kramer. There would be no grounds for Tully to check a baptismal record—which would reveal that Robert and Mary had not been married in the Church and that, therefore, he was—for ecclesiastical purposes only—illegitimate. Koesler himself would have been unaware of this fact had he not been told by Monsignor Meehan.
But why bring it up? This was no more than a theoretical argument that now was over and finished. Besides, Koesler was only too conscious that he was foreign in this field and that Tully was the expert. Better leave well enough alone.
“Well,” Koesler observed, “it’s getting late. And my parish council met tonight without benefit of my presence. I’d better get back and see if they sold the parish out from under me.”
Koesler, preparing to leave, noticed that Tully was still looking intently at him.
Koznicki, tugging at his French cuffs, glanced at his watch. “It is late and we have much to do tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen.”
That was it. Everybody prepared to leave. Three police officers looked in vain for the bill. Father Koesler’s parishioner, the manager of this restaurant, had delivered another freebie to the priest.
Father Koesler considered Koznicki’s dictum. Koesler tried to consider what he had to do tomorrow. Nothing outstanding.
He had no way of knowing how busy he would be.
39
Sleep eluded Father Koesler. It had been well past his bedtime when he’d arrived at the rectory. That alone was enough to ruin the routine.
Taking into account the glass of wine at Eton Street, he had decided against his usual mild nightcap. Again the violation of routine.
He tried reading—sitting first in a chair and then in bed—but it didn’t put him to sleep. If anything, he was so distracted that he found himself rereading paragraphs two and three times.
Partly, he decided, he was charged up from all the excitement this evening—Arnold Bush and the police and his animated argument with Lieutenant Tully. But it wasn’t just the stimulation of the argument with Tully that was keeping the priest from his much desired sleep. It was more the questions the lieutenant kept raising that continued to plague the priest.
Drat that stubborn man! Bullheaded is all it was. He had been that way from the beginning. Convinced that Dick Kramer was guilty. Doing everything in his power to prove Kramer guilty. And even now, with proof that Arnold Bush was the real killer, Tully refused to accept the fact that he was—had been—wrong. Still asking questions. Did the man believe himself infallible? Good grief! Even the Papacy had only one uncontested infallible statement on record in the slightly more than 100 years since the doctrine of infallibility had been defined. And as far as he knew, no one had claimed even a tiny fraction of inerrancy for the police department.
But those questions—and some that occurred to Koesler even though they had not been asked by Tully—continued to nag.
That point that Tully had raised about troubled youth—institutionalized, adopted, illegitimate. How deep was Dick Kramer’s resentment over his ecclesial illegitimacy? Did he blame his mother for marrying out of the Church? The knowledge of his awkward status had not come to Kramer until he was about to enter the ninth grade. A little late, wasn’t it, for the early sort of self-conflict to which Tully referred? Yet it had radically changed Kramer’s attitude, making him compete with a mirage of legitimate peers. He had forced himself to do as well or better, in every field, than those who had had the good fortune to be born legitimate.
Then there was the fact that the prostitute-victims were older women. Did that have anything to do with a “mother figure”? Or was it more a commentary on Bush’s predilection? After all, there was little question of Bush
’s resentment of his mother. She had given him away, deserted him, thus initiating his hurt-filled youth. Whereas Kramer’s relationship with his mother was a matter of pure conjecture.
A good case could be made for Kramer to blame either or both of his parents for their canonically invalid marriage. After all, it was his father’s prior marriage that prevented their wedding in the Church. On the other hand, it was Kramer’s mother who held the key. The invalid marriage hinged on her assent or refusal. And even if somewhat archaic, still it was customary for men to blame women for whatever went wrong.
At the bottom of all this rationalization and questioning was what bothered Koesler most of all. While it was true that Lieutenant Tully had scarcely considered that anyone but Dick Kramer might be the guilty party, it was equally true that Koesler had dismissed the possibility of Kramer’s culpability from the outset.
Now, despairing of sleep this night, Koesler decided that to be totally objective, he ought to at least consider the possibility that Kramer might be the killer. He would play devil’s advocate; if nothing else it would satisfy his sense of fair play.
Koesler was already aware of a plausible, if remote, motivation for the murders: Kramer’s illegitimacy, at least in the eyes of the Church. What else might conceivably fit?
Well, Kramer had no idea of what was going on when the crimes were committed. He was drunk. On the other hand, according to Inspector Koznicki, people could—have been known to—do things while in a drunken state. There were, of course, drunk drivers. But could an alcoholic go through such an elaborate performance as ritual murder while in a stupor? Especially when such an action would be entirely incompatible with one’s normal nature?
Then, there was the gibberish of that branding iron. On the first two victims, it looked for all the world as if there was some sort of coherent message there. As if it was the curvature of the breast that prevented the entire message from being impressed on the victims skin.
However, as Dr. Moellmann had pointed out, with the third victim the brand clearly broke off sharply at the furthest point of the previous two markings. Meaning that there was no coherent message. Meaning that it didn’t mean anything.
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