Washington and Oregon, and proceed through the Dakotas and Minnesota, on to Chicago and into Detroit.
Frequently frustrating this orderly progression, however, was the jet stream that plummeted Arctic air in from Canada or pumped unseasonably warm weather from the south. Most puzzling were the occasional winds from the east that threatened the impressive homes along Lakes St. Clair and Erie with flooding.
So, while unexpected for a Monday late in January, a springlike day was a welcome change. Commuting Detroiters, in elephantine procession toward downtown via the Lodge or Ford Freeway or one of the main thoroughfares, generally were more patient with near gridlock conditions. Natives understood this was a lull, and that snow, ice, and bitter winds would return. But this
Lieutenant Zoo Tully did not need special help from the weather to feel ebullient.
He had solved a puzzle, a particularly personal puzzle. He always felt good after having solved a case, but this was exceptional. Even though he was not as personally involved with the killer of Louise Bonner as he had initially assumed, the connection never quite faded from his mind nor did his approach to the case alter. For no sheerly rational reason, from the beginning he had considered this his private preserve.
As he turned the corner on the fifth floor leading to homicide, he was a tad late. For him, par for the course. Plus, on this day, it was a small personal reward.
Walking down the corridor, he encountered several other homicide detectives. They knew, of course, about yesterday’s arrest. To a person, they congratulated him. Yet some seemed somewhat reserved. Or was it his imagination? Much more of this hedging, and it just might take the edge off his day.
There was only one officer, Mangiapane, in his squad room. The rest would be occupied with interviews, other cases, old and new.
Mangiapane was bent low over his desk, laboriously suffering through paperwork. Tully correctly assumed that Mangiapane was preparing the complaint against Father Kramer. Reports, records—anything to do with paperwork—was not Mangiapane’s forte. Which had little to do with being a cop—Sherlock Holmes didn’t have to fill out complaints to the satisfaction of some prosecutor or judge. While he may not have been a Holmes—who was? —Mangiapane was a good cop. And he would get better.
“How’s it goin’?” Tully poured coffee into his mug, grateful that some earlier arrival had bothered to brew it.
“Oh, hi, Zoo.” Mangiapane had been concentrating so diligently he hadn’t heard Tully come in. “Okay. Slow.”
“When’s the arraignment?”
“Two this afternoon.”
“You got time.”
“Yeah; looks like I’ll need it.”
“Well, move it as fast as you can. We got stuff to do.”
“Yeah, okay.” Pause. “The inspector wants to see you.”
“Mmmm. Okay.” Something was up. This was not the usual response from Mangiapane. Ordinarily, he would jump at any interruption to put aside and, for at least the time being, block out all thought of paperwork. Tully had expected him to turn his chair away from the desk, maybe get a cup of coffee. Anything but pursue the report. Mangiapane had scarcely lifted his nose from the paper.
“Somethin’ wrong?” Tully asked.
“Huh? No, nuthin’, Zoo.”
But something was wrong. Not only with Mangiapane, but with the other cops. There seemed to be an ineffable chill in the atmosphere. Well, Tully wouldn’t push it. In time he’d find out. “I’ll be with Walt.”
“Right, Zoo.”
He carried his coffee down the hall to Koznicki’s office. This time he paid no attention to anyone he passed in the corridor.
Koznicki, alone in his office, was studying the contents of a folder. Tully knocked perfunctorily. Koznicki looked up and nodded. Tully entered.
“Just one moment, Alonzo.” Koznicki returned to the file he was perusing.
Tully sat in the chair opposite Koznicki’s desk. As with everyone he had met so far today at headquarters, Tully had more than half expected Koznicki to be at least congratulatory. After all, he and his team had cracked a major homicide case involving that most dangerous of perpetrators, a multiple murderer. He had expected commendation, especially from Koznicki. Tully sipped his coffee and studied the inspector.
Of course! That had to be it! Tully recalled a previous conversation in this very office. Koznicki had referred to the clerical garb worn by the suspect as a “masquerade.” No way was this dyed-in-the-wool Catholic ready to believe that an actual priest was the mutilating slayer of prostitutes. That would also explain the chilly reception Tully had gotten from some of the other officers this morning.
And that certainly was what was bugging Mangiapane. Not only had Tully trapped and arrested a priest, but he had obliged Mangiapane to process the suspect and, to top it off, to face the news media.
They were trying to make him feel guilty. He’d be damned if they’d succeed.
“So”—Koznicki put the file aside, looked across at Tully and smiled—“you made the arrest.” There seemed no genuine warmth in the smile.
“Uh-huh.”
“It was a clever plan you had. It seems to have paid off.”
“Seems?”
“You made an arrest.”
“Walt, let’s get right to it. I got the guy.”
“How sure are you?”
“How well do you know me?”
Koznicki seemed somewhat taken aback. “How well do I know you?”
“I don’t play games. You know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t grab Richard Kramer just to make an arrest, close a big case.”
Koznicki was extremely grave. “I ... I know that.”
“Then why am I being treated like some kind of leper?”
“Leper?”
“It’s not just you, Walt. And I’m not saying it’s everybody in the division. But for once, in January it’s warmer outside than it is in here.”
Koznicki fixed Tully with a steady gaze. “There are some problems.”
“Oh?”
“Catholics have a difficult time with the fact that we have a priest in custody.” Tully was about to respond, but Koznicki held up one very large hand. “Particularly this priest. The Archdiocese of Detroit has been very cooperative. Their director of information sent over Father Kramer’s record.”
The inspector indicated the file he had been studying when Tully entered the office. Koznicki didn’t mention that the file had been released to the police not through any spirit of cooperation on the part of the information office, but due to a direct order from Cardinal Boyle. From many previous professional contacts, Koznicki and Boyle knew and respected each other. By no means was everyone able even to get through to the Cardinal. Koznicki was one of the few who had access.
“Not only do we have his record,” Koznicki continued, “but there have been many calls regarding Father Kramer.” He indicated an impressive stack of messages. “It seems that Father Kramer is a most respected priest . . . indeed, one of the most diligent priests in the archdiocese.”
“The Son of Sam was a hard-working mailman. The guy who blew away a dozen or so in the McDonald’s in California didn’t have any record either.”
“We are not talking about your average worker. This is a priest!”
“Where’s the surprise? For the past couple of Sundays he’s been dressing the part.”
“Alonzo, anyone can purchase clerical garb . . . at a religious goods store or even through the mail.”
“Okay, Walt, anybody can do it. It could have been a guy pretending to be a priest. Or it could have been a priest. And this is the God’s honest truth: I was willing to go with it either way. I didn’t give a damn which way it went. But now, after the kind of reaction that’s goin’ on, I wish to hell it’d been some nut dressed up like a
