to.
“Detroit police,” Harrington said, “believe the vicious and sadistic attacks on prostitutes over the past couple of weeks are over now, with the arrest of a suspect in the case. Hard, honest, painstaking police work seems to have paid off after this area of the core city was put under surveillance this afternoon.”
The camera, in a scene taped earlier, panned through the neighborhood that had been patrolled by Tully and Mangiapane.
“Not the prettiest part of our city, it was, nonetheless, the area police figured would attract the man who, for the past two Sundays, has been preying on defenseless women. And their hunch seems to have struck pay dirt.”
The screen now showed the actual apartment house where the arrest had taken place. Areas surrounding the front entrance were cordoned off by distinctive protective tape. Uniformed officers were keeping gawkers, drivers, and pedestrians moving. In the background, technicians were carefully examining the terrain.
Harrington glanced at his notes. “Lieutenant Alonzo Tully and Officer Anthony Mangiapane were the ones who apprehended the suspect as, they allege, he was about to strike again. Here to tell us about it is Officer Mangiapane, one of the two who made the arrest.”
Mangiapane blinked as the lights were turned full on him. It was not difficult to tell that he was enjoying his day in the sungun. This was fairly new to him. It was very much old hat to Tully, who did not relish talking to reporters in any case. He had given Mangiapane this assignment.
Harrington stepped close to Mangiapane. The two were about the same size, although Mangiapane’s girth was slightly the larger—the effect of daily hearty doses of plentiful pasta.
“Officer Mangiapane,” Harrington began, “I understand you were the one who actually made the arrest.”
Technically, this was true, since he, not Tully, had Mirandaized and booked the priest. Mangiapane nodded modestly.
“Can you tell us,” Harrington continued, “how you happened to be in what proved to be the right place at the right time?”
“Okay. See, it was our lieutenant—Lieutenant Tully—who got the idea. The idea was that the perp—the killer—was setting up a pattern, like multiple killers, serial killers, do. He took out his first victim two Sundays ago in the afternoon, and his second last Sunday in the afternoon—both older prostitutes. So this afternoon our squad staked out likely areas. And that was it.”
“I see. So it wasn’t a matter of luck, but rather good police work.”
“Well . . .” Mangiapane dissolved in proud humility.
“The surprise is in the person you apprehended.”
“Yes.”
“And that person . . .?”
Mangiapane appeared genuinely embarrassed. “It’s a priest.”
“And his name is . . .?”
“Father Richard Kramer.”
“I understand Father Kramer is pastor of Mother of Sorrows parish on Detroit’s far west side.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve known for a week now that the killer was seen dressed as a clergyman. But were you thinking that you would arrest an actual clergyman?”
“No. I still can’t get over it.”
True. Since the arrest, Mangiapane had felt somehow unclean. It was if he should go to confession to tell a priest that he had arrested a priest and had subjected him to all the indignities of processing.
“I see. And what’s the status of the accused as of now?”
“He has been processed and he’ll be in a holding cell until his arraignment.”
“When will that be?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I see. So Father Kramer is not being given any preferential treatment?”
“No.” Although if it had been left to Mangiapane, Kramer certainly would have been accorded every possible privilege up to and possibly including the freedom to return to his rectory.
The camera moved back to Harrington in a tight close-up that eliminated Mangiapane. “So that’s it from Police Headquarters.” Harrington wrapped it up. “The two-week search for the person terrorizing, mutilating, killing prostitutes would seem to be over, with the alleged killer in custody at Police Headquarters.
“By far the most bizarre aspect of this bizarre case is that police are holding a Roman Catholic priest as the alleged killer.
“We’re going to leave Headquarters now. But you can bet we’ll be back. From what I’ve been told by some of the officers here, this case is far from over.
“Gerald Harrington, Channel 4 News, reporting. Back to you, Bob.”
23
Sister Mary Therese Hercher sat in the only upholstered chair in her efficiency apartment. Her mouth hung open.
This news story had become the closest she had ever had to an addiction. Quite unaware, she had turned on the six o’clock news, mostly to get the local weather forecast. The news that the prostitute killer had been caught —even though the newspeople guardedly kept using the usual disclaimer words such as alleged and accused— grabbed her attention instantly. Then the word “priest” had been dropped, and she was riveted to the TV set. Finally, almost reluctantly, the reporter had given this shadowy priest a name, and Therese had used up one of her lives. She doubted her ears. It couldn’t have been Father Kramer! Not her Father Kramer!
But how many Father Kramers could there be?
For one brief moment, she thought of finding the P.J. Kenedy Official Catholic Directory and discovering for herself just how many Father Kramers there were. But that and similar thoughts were the product of panic. There was only one Father Richard Kramer in Detroit. And it was, indeed, her Father Kramer.
Then the phone calls began. Friends torn between real concern for her emotional and physical welfare and a morbid fascination with this sordid story and the desire to be a part of it, if only vicariously. Eventually, she removed the phone from its plug-in outlet. She would take no more calls.
But the story went on. She followed it at every opportunity, mostly on radio, since TV would not have another newscast until eleven o’clock.
Some of the radio newscasts were more tentative than others, and she would take hope. Then a commentator would sound particularly sure of himself when he announced the charges against Father Kramer, and she would despair anew.
Mostly, it was the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. She felt compelled to help her friend. But for the life of her she couldn’t think of a single thing to do.
Briefly, she considered going down to Police Headquarters. She phoned, only to find that there was no possible way she would be allowed to see him. No one could. Not until after his arraignment tomorrow—afternoon, sometime. The officer did not know the exact time and he was far too busy to find out.
So she was reduced to following one news bulletin after another. Once Gerald Harrington signed off, she realized that would be the final substantive news of the night. Anything that followed would be a synopsis of what she already knew.
She was disconsolate, beside herself, and alone. There was no question of even an attempt at sleep. Not while Dick Kramer was probably pacing a dank cell in fear, humiliation, and solitariness.
Desperate, she turned to prayer. Not the sort of unfamiliar prayer the irreligious fall back on in moments of stress. Rather, hers was the confident prayer of one accustomed to regular conversation with God. Even in this trying time, prayer came easily. She sought God’s consolation for Father Kramer, now abandoned by everyone but God. She sought light and inspiration—some practical way to help Dick Kramer.
Then, through the turmoil of her thoughts, an image began to form. It was a memory enhanced by special attributes that could be, perhaps literally, a godsend to Father Kramer. It was an awareness of the one person who was qualified in a unique way to solve this problem, if anyone could.
Father Robert Koesler.
Wasn’t he a friend to Dick Kramer? Hadn’t he just the other day dropped in to visit Father Kramer? It was she
