“What if Mangiapane gets here late? Johnson could leave. Then we’d have to reschedule the goddam show- up—”
“Alonzo, please. Johnson is one of the best, a true professional. He will want to get this over once and for all as badly as anyone else. But then you too are a professional. One of the best. It is unlike you to be so worked up.”
Hearing it helped. Tully’s taut muscles seemed to relax. “You’re right, Walt. I don’t really know what it is. I don’t know why I want Kramer so bad. But I do. If this show-up works, it’ll be another nail in his coffin. God, I’m even beginning to care what happens to him in court. One thing for damn sure: He’s not gonna walk because of some screwup over here.”
“Do you have anything more?”
“The knife. Way down deep next to the handle the techs found a smidgen of blood. The rest of the thing was completely clean.”
“The blood type?”
“O positive.”
Koznicki shrugged. “The most common type.”
“It’s Kramer’s type.”
“Oh?”
“And Nancy Freel’s.”
Although for all purposes Koznicki was trying to be supportive, had anyone probed he would have had to admit he was disquieted by Tully’s single-minded pursuit of Kramer.
Koznicki was well aware that a policeman must have a restrictive attitude toward crime and criminals. An officer could not afford to be judgmental. The policeman’s lot was to make an arrest for good cause and to present a solid case supported by firm evidence to the prosecutor. While mindful of this, still Koznicki found himself at odds with Tully over this case.
Quite beyond his conscious control, Koznicki found himself judging Father Kramer and finding him innocent. And the inspector was just as certain that Tully had judged the priest and found him guilty. “So,” Koznicki said, “both Father Kramer and the woman have the same blood type. That could mean the blood found on the knife was, indeed, Father Kramer’s.”
“Maybe. But Kramer has no cut marks on his body. And for the blood to have clotted where it did, there should have been a rather serious cut . . . like, maybe, an incision all the way down a woman’s torso.”
Koznicki could not deny that the circumstantial evidence was piling up. “One more nail?”
“You got it.”
“And the iron—the branding iron?”
Tully shook his head. “Not yet. They’re still taking the car apart.”
“They have not completed that operation yet?”
“As far as I’m concerned, they’ll never get done as long as there’s one piece of metal attached to another. On top of that, one of the guys is getting a search warrant for the home—what do you call it?—the rectory . . . and the church too.”
“That is the smoking gun, you know.”
“Uh-huh. And it may be a little tough to convince a judge or a jury of what you and I both know: that it is not unusual for killers—even serial killers—to change their M.O.
“That branding had to be a cumbersome thing to pull off. He’d have to get the thing red-hot over a hot plate or, failing that, with a lighter. And after he got done, he’d have to cool the thing before he could pack it away. After two tries, he could have figured it just wasn’t worth it. If he gutted the victim, maybe carved something on her body, we’d still know it was the same guy. It’s happened before . . . I mean a killer changing his M.O.”
“That is true.”
“But I sure as hell would like to find that thing.” Tully’s knuckle tapped the desk.
“The smoking gun.”
“Yeah.”
The phone jingled. Tully had the receiver in his hand before the first ring was completed.
After a few words exchanged, Tully hung up and turned to Koznicki with a sense of finality. “Mangiapane’s up on nine. He’s got the witnesses. Time to get started.”
As he turned to leave, Koznicki patted him on the back. He could not force himself to wish good luck.
At the door of the squadroom, Tully turned back, winked, and said, “One more nail.”
29
When Tully reached the ninth floor of headquarters, he first looked in on Adelle and Ruby, made sure they were as comfortable as possible, and introduced them to Johnson, who was, as usual, impeccably dressed.
Next, Tully went backstage, as it were, to where Sergeant Dominic Salvia had assembled the required seven people who would participate in the show-up. As was the practice, Tully brought Johnson along. It was the attorney’s prerogative to suggest any minor changes he might want in the subjects presented or their positions in the show-up. Afterward, the attorney was to sign the show-up form acknowledging that everything had been conducted fairly.
Johnson knew Salvia, so no introductions were necessary.
“Who you got?” Tully asked.
Salvia enumerated the seven. Four were police officers, two were maintenance employees; the seventh, of course, was Father Kramer. Each man wore a black overcoat and black hat. Four were blond. The other three had gray hair that, under the hat, more or less appeared blond. All were roughly the same size, but were facially quite different, with the exception of one policeman named Harmon, whose features closely resembled Kramer’s.
“How do you want them placed?” Salvia asked.
“Oh,” Tully said, “how about we make Kramer fourth and Harmon fifth. Put the others anywhere you like.” Tully glanced inquiringly at Johnson, who nodded agreement.
“Okay,” Tully said to Salvia, “I’ll get the witnesses ready and we’ll go.”
“Hilly and Johnson returned to the lounge, where Tully explained the procedure to the two women. “You both know Mr. Johnson. He’s gonna be in the show-up room with us. He’s not gonna say anything. He’s just here to observe.
“We’re gonna take you in the room one at a time. There’s gonna be seven men standing on an elevated platform. There’ll be one-way glass between you and the men, and there’ll be bright lights shining on them. So all they’ll be able to see is their own reflection. There’s no way they can see you. But they can hear you if you speak loudly. So speak softly only to me or Officer Mangiapane. We’ll want Mr. Johnson to hear what you say, too.
“The seven men are all wearing black coats and hats like the guy you both saw a week ago Sunday. That guy didn’t say anything. So none of these guys will speak.
“Now, I gotta tell you this because it’s very important: Just because we got seven guys in there for you to look at don’t necessarily mean that one of them is the guy you saw. Maybe he’s there and maybe he isn’t. You just go in there with an open mind. If you see the guy, you tell us. And one more thing: Take your time. There ain’t no hurry. Okay?”
The two women nodded. Evidently, they were impressed, and not a little apprehensive.
“Okay,” Tully said. “You first, Adelle.”
Adelle, Johnson, Mangiapane, and Tully filed into the show-up room, leaving Ruby alone behind.
It was a rather impressive sight, particularly for someone—such as Adelle—new to it. Seven men looking straight ahead, seeing nothing but a pane of glass only a few feet in front of them. The bright lights focused on them made it impossible for them to see beyond the glass. With the black coats and hats, they looked so very much alike it was almost comical. Almost—except that one of them might be an exceptionally vicious murderer.
Adelle seemed overwhelmed by it all.
“Take your time,” Tully cautioned.
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
“I just don’t know.”
“They look too much alike,” Mangiapane complained.
“That’s the idea,” Tully responded.
