“There was a lot of yelling. We were both yelling at each other. Then the cops busted in . . . actually it would have been sort of comical if it hadn’t turned out to be so tragic.”
Koesler, who had been nodding his understanding and agreement throughout Kramer’s narration, said, “Okay, you were set up for this. There’s no doubt about that. But how?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Kramer chain-lit another cigarette and coughed.
“Whoever did it knew, or guessed, that the police had certain areas of the city under surveillance. Or maybe he actually saw the police patrolling that area. Somebody who had it in for you. Anybody come to mind?”
Kramer gave the question only a moment’s thought. “No . . . nobody . . . not anybody vindictive enough to go to all the trouble.”
“A good point. That
Koesler paused and rubbed his chin. “But then why didn’t the police buy your story? It seems perfectly logical to me.”
“They kept saying it was too impossible to be a coincidence.”
“What was?”
“That I was dressed as a priest. And, as we know from the papers, so was the killer.”
“So? Priests are not supposed to wear their uniform because some criminal decides to dress like us?”
“No, it was more than that. I drive a black Ford Escort. So did the killer.”
Koesler was about to interject a thought, but Kramer continued. “Then, there was my knife. Again, the papers said that the prostitutes had been stabbed.”
“But a knife! Lots of people carry—”
“They were most persistent about the size of the knife. I’m not sure why. Then there was something about my belt . . . its size, its width. I don’t know what that was all about. I asked them. But they seemed determined to wait until I tell them. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to tell them.”
“Isn’t there any way of finding out?”
“Tomorrow, I think. My lawyer spends tomorrow, or part of it, with the prosecutor. He described the legal process. I think it’s called discovery. He gets to find out what they think they have against me. We have a right to that information before the preliminary examination on Thursday.”
“This is all happening so fast.”
“Maybe. Or not so fast. There’s no way I can get out of here too soon.”
Kramer reached for another cigarette, then thought better of it and tapped it back into the package. Koesler visualized Kramer’s lungs begging for mercy.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Koesler wished he had a pad. Evaluating a situation like this seemed to work better when one could write out the possibilities. “It’s obvious somebody framed you. That you were set up last Sunday is patent. It didn’t take too much imagination to figure that you would respond to that sick call. Or that you would be wearing your clericals. Maybe one of the younger priests would show up in a turtleneck and jeans. But our vintage would come in roman collar.
“The guy—whoever it is—knows you drive a black Escort. He knows you ordinarily carry a knife—but then, you always have. He knows something about your belt, which, for some reason that we are likely to discover tomorrow, is important to the police.
“Okay, all of that information is not all that hard to come by. It’s easily available to anyone who knows you even in the slightest way.
“Who would do this to you? It’s got to be obvious: the real killer. For two consecutive Sundays he went about killing defenseless women and setting you up at the same time.
“All this guy had to do was know just a little bit about you—things he could find out merely by observing you. Then he could dress like a priest, drive a black Escort, carry a knife—with which he could kill—and do whatever he did with a belt like yours. It wasn’t all that hard.” Koesler felt the exhilaration of having solved the puzzle. Or at least part of the puzzle.
“That’s got to be it. That’s really got to be it.” Kramer, in that distracted automatic manner of a smoker, selected another cigarette and lit it, using the second and final match the guard had provided.
“That leaves the big question ...” Koesler seemed deep in thought. “Who is it? Who did it? And, now that I think of it, how did he know that a witness—and he always took the chance of being seen by somebody—how could he know that a witness would confuse the two of you? How could he guess that a witness might identify you as the one who did it? Luck? That seems improbable. Coincidence? I don’t know.”
“Wouldn’t all he’d have to know,” Kramer suggested, “is what my lawyer told me: that witnesses are likely to go into a line-up already programmed to identify somebody? They had all of us—there were seven—dress totally in black. Right away that makes us look an awful lot alike. And the woman who identified me seemed to spend a God-awful amount of time doing it . . . or at least it seemed that an awful lot of time elapsed. Maybe the killer was counting on the witnesses acting or reacting like witnesses usually do. Or maybe it was blind luck . . . or just a coincidence. After all, how could the killer know there would be witnesses?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. That’s the only piece that doesn’t seem to fit with the puzzle. Did he know, did he have any reason to guess, that this might happen? That someone would mistake you for him? I don’t know. It bothers me.”
“Well, anyhow, I feel better. Just going through this with you has lifted a weight off my shoulders, Bob. You know, I know—we both know—I couldn’t have done it.”
“Yes. But realistically, Dick, that may not be enough. I know in our form of law in this country, an accused person is innocent until proven guilty. But in our case, we may have to find the guilty party before—” Koesler stopped in midsentence and looked intently at Kramer. “What did you just say?”
Kramer seemed confused. He could not remember. Few people pay close enough attention to remarks they make to have a verbatim recollection. “I don’t know . . . something about our both knowing that I didn’t do it.”
“No; you didn’t say you didn’t do it; you said you
“Same thing.” Kramer drew nervously on his cigarette.
“Not exactly. If I were considering you and your being accused of a crime, I’d think of you as a priest—and a good one. And I would find it inconceivable that you could have committed the crime. And I’d say of you that you couldn’t have done it. If I were speaking for myself accused of a crime, I’d say I didn’t do it.”
Kramer stubbed out the cigarette without lighting another. “So?”
“So, what were you doing the two Sunday afternoons before this past one?”
“What I was doing day before yesterday: nothing.”
“No one phoned? No one stopped in for a copy of a record—marriage, baptism, confirmation, death—nothing? Two consecutive Sundays and the phone didn’t ring even once? I know you’re in a quiet parish, Dick. But I’ve been in quiet parishes too. And as restful as you would like Sunday afternoons and evenings to be, it would be something to write home about if nothing at all happened for that length of time.”
“I told the cops I was at the rectory alone and nothing happened.”
“I don’t know whether they believe you. But I’m a priest, and I find it very difficult to believe. Nothing? Nothing at all happened? Come on, Dick: Are you trying to protect someone? If you are, let me assure you: It isn’t worth it.”
Kramer selected another cigarette and tapped it against the table, compressing the tobacco. He remembered he had no more matches and replaced it in the pack. Koesler wished he would hurry along. Their allotted time had almost expired.
“If anything had happened, I wouldn’t have known about it,” Kramer finally said softly.
“You wouldn’t have known about it? You weren’t there?”
“I was there, all right. Unconscious. Dead drunk.”
“Drunk!” The statement had taken Koesler by surprise.
“Every Sunday. Every Sunday for months. More than a year. It’s the only time they let me alone.”
“They? The parishioners?”
“They. Everybody. Everything. The pressures. The drive. The concern. There’s nothing I can do about keeping the school open, paying the bills, teaching classes, giving convert instructions, fighting off the chancery. Sundays— the only day I can find any peace. Two Masses, homilies, liturgies. You know that, Bob. Wiped out.”
Koesler nodded. He knew it well. The laity probably couldn’t guess how much it took out of their priest to
