“By the way, Father, something that has been puzzling us is the intervention of Mr. Murphy in posting the bond for Father Kramer. None of us can make the connection. And Murphy is saying nothing, particularly after yesterday’s events. Do you have any notion as to why?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Jim Murphy is a friend of Monsignor Meehan’s.”
Koznicki’s raised eyebrows asked about that connection.
“You see,” Koesler explained, “Monsignor Meehan was once Father Kramer’s pastor and, at another time, he was mine. For the past few years, Monsignor’s been in nursing care at the Little Sisters of the Poor. I visit him pretty regularly. We’ve talked about Father Kramer, especially lately with all the trouble. Monsignor wanted Father out of jail very, very much. And the Monsignor has been a priest for more than fifty years. He knows so many people, from the very wealthy to the poorest of the poor. I know he is a friend of Jim Murphy’s. Without even calling Monsignor, I’m positive that’s how the bail was made. But if it’s important, I could easily check.”
Koznicki waved a hand. “It was only a matter of interest.”
It happened with great infrequency these days, but just now Koesler wanted a cigarette. “How bad is it, Inspector?”
“It could scarcely be worse. Everything was exactly the same as in the previous two homicides. But we have not recovered the knife that was used. Since the original has been retained as evidence, the supposition is that the weapon used yesterday was discarded afterwards.”
“How can they be sure Father Kramer did it?” It was a foolish desperate question.
“Because they are sure Father committed the first two murders. Because the judge found probable cause to hold him over for trial for the first two murders. And because the modus operandi yesterday was identical to the others. If only the murder had been committed while he was still in custody. But . . .” Koznicki turned palms up in a gesture of hopelessness.
“But couldn’t someone else . . .?”
“No one knows all of the details of the other murders. We have held back many of the particulars from the media so that only we and the killer would know the whole story, as it were. Thus, should someone other than the real murderer attempt what we call a copycat crime we would recognize the difference. But yesterday, every detail of the previous two was observed.” Koznicki paused. “Do you intend to continue your . . . special interest in this case?”
“He didn’t do it. Of that I am certain.”
“Not too long ago, I would have tended to agree with you.”
“But now you don’t?”
Koznicki shook his head. “However, I would not attempt to deter you.”
“Will you help me?”
“In whatever way I can. But I can offer you no hope.”
“I need a lot of help. At this point I don’t even know where to begin.”
Koznicki considered several possible suggestions. “I think it might be good for you to talk with our medical examiner, Dr. Moellmann. Have you ever met him?”
Koesler shook his head. “No, but I certainly have read about him. Extremely interesting person, as far as I can tell.”
“After you speak with him, you may change your mind about pursuing this case. And it is possible that would not be undesirable. Supposing I send Officer Mangiapane over with you, and while you are on your way, I will call and prepare Dr. Moellmann to talk with you. He would not feel free to discuss the details of this case with you unless he has authorization from me.
“In fact, Lieutenant Tully is presently there.” Koznicki glanced at his watch. “They should be finishing the autopsy on the Dixon woman about now. This would be a most appropriate time.”
Koesler got up to leave, then paused. “One more thing, Inspector. I have the impression”—he did not think he needed to mention that Sister Therese was his informant—“that Father Kramer intended to spend the weekend at his rectory. I suppose there was no witness to confirm this.”
“There was a priest sent by the chancery to say Mass, since no one thought Father Kramer would be available to do so. But the substitute priest left immediately after the last Mass early Sunday afternoon.”
“But Father Kramer did stay at his rectory? That’s where he was arrested?”
“Yes.” Pause. “There is one more thing.” Koznicki seemed ill at ease. “He was intoxicated.”
Koesler’s initial reaction was dismay. Clearly it was a measure of Kramer’s dependency on alcohol that he would drink yesterday of all days. Koesler was dismayed and depressed at how much Father Kramer needed treatment, specifically the treatment to be found only at Guest House. And how very remote was the possibility of that happening now. First, Father Kramer would have to be cleared of these charges of murder. And after yesterday, that task had been complicated enormously.
It was Koesler’s secondary reaction that caused him to object strenuously: “But if Father Kramer was intoxicated, he couldn’t possibly have committed that murder!”
From what Kramer had described as a Sunday routine of drinking until stupefied, Koesler’s concept was of a man so drunk he would lie wherever he dropped. And he could not understand why Inspector Koznicki couldn’t immediately understand this.
“Oh, no, Father,” Koznicki insisted, “such is by no means always the case. People who are intoxicated can and do perform all sorts of actions. They drive—often successfully; sometimes, tragically, not. They work through an afternoon and evening after drinking too much at lunch. It goes on and on. Intoxicated people are, simply, unpredictable. Some collapse and sleep it off. Others go on with daily activity, sometimes impaired, sometimes more keenly. In fact, one might argue that, not infrequently, drink takes away natural inhibitions. Thus, if Father Kramer were intent on committing such a heinous crime, alcohol might repress his conscience.”
Koesler considered this. And, in the end, rejected it. There was, of course truth in what the inspector said. But none of what he said fit Dick Kramer. The impossibility was that Kramer ever would be more “intent” on murdering someone. Not even possibly.
“Well,” Koesler said, “if I’m going to begin, I’d better get over to the medical examiner’s office. And . . . thanks for your time and direction.”
As Koesler left his office, Koznicki prepared to make calls—first Mangiapane as an escort, then Moellmann to prepare him for the visit. He watched as his priest-friend disappeared around a corner, and wondered what it would take before Koesler would be forced to abandon his quest—which, at this point, really was an impossible dream.
34
This was Father Koesler’s first visit to the Wayne County Morgue. As familiar as he was with downtown Detroit he had never paid any attention to the squat square building tucked in between Bricktown and Greektown. Nor had he ever adverted to the grisly procedures that were the regular course of business there. Now that officer Mangiapane had ushered him into the vast gray interior of the main floor, consideration of what was going on downstairs was inevitable. And creepy.
Mangiapane introduced Koesler to the receptionist, who gave him a genuine, if surprised, smile. Priests were not frequent visitors at the morgue. Once in a long while, one might come in to identify a corpse. But even with some dispute among Catholic theologians as to when the soul departs the body, all would agree that the morgue was beyond the purview of the Sacrament of the Sick.
“Inspector Koznicki just phoned, Father,” the receptionist said. “I sent the message down to Dr. Moellmann. He should be up here any minute now. He was just about done.”
As she finished speaking, the sound of voices entered the lobby. Two men and a woman appeared. The woman and one of the men wore white coats. Koesler presumed, correctly, that the two were pathologists and that one had to be Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann. The man in plainclothes Koesler already knew to be Lieutenant Tully.
Mangiapane’s introduction of Koesler to Tully was interrupted. “We’ve met,” said Tully. “Sorry to run off, Father, but I’ve got lots of work to do.” With that, he was gone.
Shortly, the woman, too, was gone, leaving Koesler and Moellmann standing alone together.
Moellmann scrutinized Koesler. “So,” he said (it came out “tzo”), “so this is
