priest.”
Koznicki raised an eyebrow.
Tully went on as if answering an unspoken question. “At least there wouldn’t be this knee-jerk reaction to arresting a priest.”
The statement was rather strong coming from a subordinate. It was by no means the first time Tully and Koznicki had crossed swords. One of the things Tully liked best about his boss was that Koznicki was a most self- secure person who never felt threatened or became defensive. Tully never felt he had to hold back any honest opinion. If anything, Koznicki was the one who, despite his enormous bulk, felt constrained to tiptoe over metaphorical eggshells.
Besides, Tully was forced to admit, Koznicki usually was right. This time, however, he was wrong!
Koznicki had by no means completed his challenge. “Father Kramer claims he was summoned on a sick call, a mission of mercy.”
“So he claims.”
“Might it not be so?”
“No.”
“Just ‘no’?”
“Who would have called him?”
Koznicki shrugged. “Someone who wished to set him up. Make him a sitting duck. The real perpetrator.”
“The real perpetrator . . .” Tully’s tone dripped incredulity. “Walt, how could ‘the real perpetrator’ arrange to have Kramer resemble the guy whose description we already had? How could he make him drive a black Escort? How about the oversized belt? And,” Tully emphasized, “how about that knife? It’s not a little pocketknife on a chain with a miniature flashlight. That’s an honest-to-God switchblade that you could skin a bear with. If somebody— anybody—set him up, how did the guy arrange every one of even the most insignificant details to correspond with all we know about the real killer? Coincidence? Walt,
Koznicki was silent.
Tully continued. “Walt, like I said, I didn’t give a damn who it was, as long as we got him. If you push me into a corner, I wish it hadn’t been a priest. But if it is, it is.”
“There is, of course, one thing more.”
It was Tully’s turn to lift an eyebrow.
“The iron . . . the branding iron.”
“I know.” Tully bit his lip. It was a weak point. Perhaps the only weakness in the entire case. Not, he thought, a fatal flaw, but definitely a loose end he wanted tied.
“You did not find it.”
Tully shook his head. “We went over the car as thoroughly as we could. Over every inch of ground around the building. We didn’t find it. But it’s somewhere. We’ve got the techs taking that car apart piece by piece. From the one woman who saw him close up, his M. O. seems to be that he accompanies the pro to her pad. Then he lolls her. Then he goes back to his car to get the iron. Then he brands and guts her. But . . . I don’t know. One guess is that he assembles the iron. In which case he could have one piece of it attached, magnetically maybe, inside the engine and another piece someplace in the chassis. The handle? Anywhere.”
“It is the smoking gun.”
“I know. I’d give . . . a lot to find the damn thing. But even without it, we’ve got a good solid case. Especially if my two witnesses can make him in the show-up.”
“When is that?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“But first, the arraignment.”
Tully glanced at his watch. “In just a couple of hours.”
“Who is the judge?”
Tully shrugged as he rose to leave. “Who cares? That’s another world. But it would be nice if, whoever the judge is, he wouldn’t start out by presuming that no priest could have committed these crimes.”
27
One thing was certain: Father Kramer could not possibly have committed these crimes. Father Koesler decided to pass this thought on to his companion. “There is one thing for sure,” Koesler said, “no priest could have committed these crimes. And if you knew Father Kramer, you’d know that he, of all people, couldn’t have done it.”
Inspector Koznicki could not help smiling. “That is precisely what Lieutenant Tully fears.”
“What’s that?”
“That people will presume that no priest in general and Father Kramer in particular, could possibly be responsible for such brutal murders. I assure you I cast no aspersion on Father Kramer when I say that Lieutenant Tully is one of our best officers. He has an enviable record of convictions as a result of his arrests.”
Koesler turned to look directly at his friend. “You don’t mean to say that you think Father Kramer could be guilty?”
Koznicki tipped his head slightly to the side. “I hope he is not guilty, I must admit. But the verdict is not in. In point of fact, the trial has not begun. This is only the arraignment.”
Tully had no sooner left Koznicki’s office earlier in the day when Father Koesler had called. He told Koznicki of his interest in the Kramer case. He did so apologetically, admitting that he really had no business getting involved, particularly in volunteering involvement. But, after a soul-searching self-analysis, he’d had no option but to do what he could for his brother priest.
While he did not tell Koesler so, Koznicki had expected the call. Indeed, mindful of their past collaborations, he would have been surprised, even disappointed, if Koesler had not called.
Koznicki did not consider Koesler to be any sort of para-expert in police work. But the inspector had come to appreciate the priest’s keen analytical mind. He would not have wanted, nor even permitted Koesler to become involved in just any investigation. Nor, he knew, would the priest presume to do so.
But when it came to homicide investigations that included any sort of Catholic element, Koesler had been helpful in the past. And in the present instance, Koznicki was quietly pleased that Koesler was aboard. The odds seemed stacked against Father Kramer. He could use someone like Koesler in his corner. It might even make Lieutenant Tully at least reevaluate some of his conclusions.
Father Koesler had wanted, at the outset, to attend the arraignment. Koznicki offered to accompany him. So they had met at headquarters, had a somewhat late, light lunch, then walked over to the Thirty-sixth District Court. Koznicki was easily able to get them both into the courtroom before the general public was admitted.
In the courtroom with them at the moment were several uniformed Wayne County Sheriff’s deputies, a few Detroit police officers—including Tully and Mangiapane—defense and prosecuting attorneys, and a most healthy representation of the local news media. No cameras, still or TV, were permitted in the courtroom; a couple of artists seated in the otherwise empty jury box were already sketching the scene.
Several sheriff’s deputies gathered at the doors, which were then opened. Outside, in the hall, a considerable crowd had gathered. The spectators would have surged into the court had not the deputies halted each for individual checking with portable metal detectors. Consequently it was possible for the already seated Koesler to study each one.
There were, by Koesler’s count, seven priests, in addition to himself, in attendance. Most, like Koesler, were in clerical garb. The brethren were gathering to support one of their own.
For only a few brief moments, Koesler caught sight of Sister Therese. She passed very quickly through the metal detector and was immediately lost in the crowd. She was wearing her order’s modified habit clearly denoting that she was a nun. Koesler could not recall ever having seen her in a habit—even modified.
Once the benches were filled, the doors were closed. It was not unlike church in that the crowd spoke in whispers and the only ones who seemed completely at home—like priests in church—were the court officers.
“Where are the lawyers?” Koesler whispered.
“At the tables just in front of the judge’s bench,” Koznicki replied. “The rather nice-looking woman on the left in the beige suit is Dava Howell, the prosecuting attorney. The tall black man on the right . . .”
“. . . is Bill Johnson. I recognize him from his pictures. Used to be on the Detroit Common Council.” Koesler was impressed. Bill Johnson’s professional skill was such that he now accepted only the most challenging cases. His
