He quickly moved to the stove, opened the oven door, and slid the meat out for inspection. Wonder of wonders, it was hardly cooked at all. He checked the heat gauge. It was firmly set on “broil.” Koesler shrugged. Instructions were instructions. And that nice lady would not have led him astray. Resigned to following this thing through to its natural conclusion, he slid the steak back into the oven and closed the door.
As it turned out, he was to have plenty of time for phone calls. For he had placed the steak in the roasting oven, which was immediately above the broiling oven. The steak was, in effect, roasting in the oven, heated by the broiler. But very s-l-o-w-l-y.
It would be hours before the steak was done to Koesler’s desire. And it would be a long time before, in the course of casual conversation, he would discover how the stove had outsmarted him.
11
The leaders of the various homicide squads met routinely two or three times weekly with Inspector Koznicki to report on and discuss cases under investigation. It was at the conclusion of one such meeting on Friday afternoon that Koznicki asked Lieutenant Tully to remain behind.
After the others left the meeting room, Koznicki said, “I wanted to talk to you a bit more about the Culpepper case.”
Tully nodded, found the information in his folder, and slid the packet across the table.
After studying it for a time, Koznicki said, “It seems to make no sense.”
Tully shook his head. “Not the way it stacks up . . . although Mangiapane did a good job putting it together.”
“As it stands, we have two men—what were they?—”
“Brothers-in-law.”
“Brothers-in-law. Culpepper picks up Moore at his usual time. The two travel to work via the same route they take every morning. Then, out of nowhere, a motorcycle pulls up even with the car. There are two men—according to eyewitnesses—on the ’cycle. The passenger on the ’cycle opens up with automatic fire. The car is ripped open and the two men are killed instantly.”
Tully nodded.
“There seems to be no motive.” Koznicki looked expectantly at Tully.
“Not on the surface. Mangiapane couldn’t find any connection between Culpepper and the brother-in-law— Moore—and any land of illegal traffic. It looked like it could have been a drug or mob thing. A couple guys holdin’ out or movin’ in on somebody else’s turf. But Mangiapane couldn’t find a trace of that. Just two guys own a grocery store together. They’re both straight. Neither one’s makin’ a bundle. Then, one morning, they buy it.”
“No one got a license number for the ’cycle?”
“Too shocked. Happened too fast. People couldn’t believe their eyes. We’re lucky we got any description of the ’cycle guys at all. But something interesting happened today.”
Koznicki raised his eyebrows.
“The widow, Mrs. Culpepper, came in. Wanted to talk to Mangiapane, but he was on the street. So I talked to her. She wanted some kind of certificate stating that she was not a suspect. I asked her why she needed it and she said that the life insurance company wanted it before they would begin payment on her claim.” Tully grinned. “I told her we don’t do that sort of thing.”
“You think—”
“It’s a motive. She profits. Suppose she gets a contract out on her husband. She’s awful anxious to get to that insurance. She’d also like to get us out of her hair. It’s a shot. Mangiapane is on it now. He’s gonna lean on her pretty hard. She tried to be cool this afternoon but underneath she was nervous . . . plenty nervous. I think she’ll crack.”
“Very good. Now, then, Alonzo, what about the Bonner affair? Is anything moving on that?”
“At this moment, it’s dead in the water. We’ve got a guy driving a black Ford and he’s wearing black. Maybe he knows enough to recognize the buddy system, so he waits until El is alone on the street. He takes her to her pad and we know the rest. That’s all we know about him. The problem is what he did to her. He didn’t just kill her. He went way beyond that. And—and this is the big question—why?
“I’m still going on the theory that El paid for being my snitch. Maybe the message was when he gutted her. But if there’s something there, I don’t know what it is. More likely, the message is in whatever it was he branded her with—that cross. And whatever those letters were he burned into her tit . . . that’s probably it. If we could figure out the words. If only we could figure out the words . . .”
“The M.E. was no help?”
Tully looked away from Koznicki. “I think the guy didn’t count on the contour of El’s tit. He burned in only the top half of the letters. Doc Moellmann thinks there are four words to the message. Nine letters in the first word, nine in the second, two in the third, and nine in the last.”
“Making twenty-nine.”
“Making twenty-nine,” Tully agreed. “I don’t even know if there’s a message in the numbers. Maybe . . .”
“And you can make out none of the words?”
Tully shook his head. “I sent enlargements over to Wayne State’s Humanities Department. Some experts in languages are looking them over. So far, nothing. Every spare minute I’m not going through my files trying to find the missing link that ties El to me, I’m going over those damn pictures, trying to break down the words. Most of the letters could be practically anything. It could drive you nuts.”
“The case is getting old, Alonzo.” Koznicki was gently suggesting that it might be time to at least put it on the back burner.
“I know, Walt. I know. In my saner moments, I know I’m not going to get any closer to it than I am now. But it’s gonna bug me till my dying day. Either that or somehow, someday, I’m gonna crack it.”
12
“Sunday, sweet Sunday, with nothing to do. . .”Alonzo Tully was humming the tune from “Flower Drum Song.” It expressed his sentiments perfectly. Today happened to be that rare Sunday when no duty called and he was determined to do nothing. But in order to fully appreciate doing nothing, one could not spend the day in bed.
So, Tully had wakened at seven and cautiously slipped out of bed, careful not to rouse Alice. She had been quite explicit in the past about not wishing to share his early-bird habit.
He had retrieved the Sunday
One such item was the column by Pete Waldmeir in the
Maynard Cobb was black. And that, particularly to black Detroiters, was the most important feature of the mayor. To Tully, Cobb’s skin color was symbolic of Detroit’s radical change.
Tully, born and raised in Detroit, easily recalled the early days, the days before any of the civil rights legislation of the sixties. But mostly, the days before Cobb enraptured and captured Detroit.
The fifties, perhaps the final decade of innocence for the United States, had been fun. A lot more fun if you were not in Korea or not one of America’s minorities. Blacks in Detroit were significant numerically and distinctive in lack of clout. The white majority lived blissfully more or less unaware that they formed the cork in a bottle seething with a dark liquid. Everything boiled over during the riots of 1967 and again in the wake of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.
And then came Cobb.
It was the Reverend Jesse Jackson who first pointed out to fellow blacks that no one any longer was standing
