sound like an instant celebrity. If the tactic was intended to disconcert and put the priest on the defensive, it worked, at least to some degree. For a moment, Koesler was speechless. Then, “Someone’s pulling your leg, Doctor. I don’t work with the police.”
“One keeps one’s ear to the ground, one hears things.”
To Koesler, Moellmann seemed to be translating from a more familiar German even as he spoke. But Koesler had heard of Moellmann, too. He was, according to popular reputation, one who jokingly pulled legs unmercifully. But, at the core, he was one of the very best pathologists in the business.
Moellmann led the way up the marble steps toward the second floor and his office. “Tell me, Father Koesler . . .” The “oe” of Koesler’s name became an umlaut; somehow it pleased the priest. “. . . what is your interest in this case? What brings a priest, of all people, to get involved in a murder so messy?”
“A priest is accused of these ‘messy’ murders.”
“So?”
“So I don’t think he did them.”
Moellmann’s face expressed more surprise than Koesler’s statement merited. That, thought Koesler, must be part of the performance.
“Lieutenant Tully thinks the priest is guilty,” the M.E. stated.
“I don’t.” It was said a bit more forcefully than was Koesler’s habit. Perhaps he was playing along with Moellmann.
“And you don’t!” Moellmann’s wonderment seemed unfeigned. “Lieutenant Tully is an excellent detective. I have never known him to be this convinced and not be correct.”
“Every rule has its exception. But if I’m going to help my friend, Father Kramer, I’ll need all the help I can get—particularly since, as you say, Lieutenant Tully is so convinced he’s guilty. That’s why Inspector Koznicki sent me to you.” Koesler hoped the implication was obvious. From Moellmann, Koesler needed information, not discouragement.
“Very well.” Moellmann led the way into his inner office. He proceeded to go through his file cabinets, extracting rather full manila folders, to which he added the one he had carried from the basement. He put all of them on the desk between himself and Koesler. “There, that’s it. The current ‘Case of the Mutilated Prostitutes.’” He then proceeded to arrange photos and charts on the desk.
Koesler looked about as if searching for some specific something.
“What is it, Father? What are you looking for?”
“The tapes.”
“The tapes? What tapes?”
“Don’t you tape-record your autopsies?”
“Tape—? Oh, you mean like Quincy and all those medical examiners you see on the television?”
“Well, yes.”
Moellmann grinned. “No. No, I have a body chart at each body and I make all notations on that chart. Then when I come up, I fill in all the details while they are still fresh in my mind. Each person works according to his upbringing. You know? In Goethe’s
Koesler nodded understanding as he tried to absorb the enormity of the violence depicted in these pictures.
Moellmann watched Koesler intently. The priest didn’t realize it, but he was undergoing a test. He could stomach studying these pictures—or he might become physically ill. Moellmann would continue his help only if Koesler was not upset at the horror exhibited.
Koesler was surprising himself in keeping everything down and quiet.
“You see,” Moellmann said, “I have the police make sure that I get a set of the scene pictures because I want the whole file, the whole case all together.”
“These are all pictures the police have taken, then?”
“No, no. I have our photographer take more pictures. You see, I take more interest in these bodies than in all the others—arteriosclerosis and stabbings and shootings. Because these are a ritual and they are more interesting, I spend more time with these. Make very definitive diagrams, drawings, and be very explicit so I don’t lose anything in translation. And I make sure that they are photographed very adequately. Not only for documentation, but also for purposes of teaching. Because you don’t see this often.”
Koesler wondered whether, in this instance, familiarity bred tranquility. He was getting more used to the pictures and, as a consequence, was able to study them more intently. “Did you use the word ‘ritual,’ Doctor?”
“Yah. I’ve not seen people ripped open like this after death.”
“That happened after the women were dead?”
“Yah, after death. That immediately makes it a ritual.”
“You mean the evisceration?”
“No, the whole thing. The strangulation, the cross, the evisceration. This combination—that is what makes it a ritual.”
“And you’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Well, not exactly. I’ve seen people with tic-tac-toe on them.”
Koesler’s mouth dropped open. “Tic-tac-toe? You mean with X’s and O’s? Somebody played tic-tac-toe on a person’s skin?”
“Yah. With a sharp object. A knife, a screwdriver, something like that. People do strange things.”
“I should say.”
“Sometime back, maybe you remember, we had a series of prostitutes who were murdered on Cass Corridor. He used—I don’t recall what it was—but it was something plaited, about this wide. . . .” Moellmann raised his right hand, fingers indicating a span of a couple of inches. “It was black . . .”He tried to recall how it was he knew its color. “. . . because I had it eventually. He left it— I don’t know—or they found it on somebody. Maybe somebody came in and caught him and he just ran and left the victim with this thing. But all the other victims had this plaited imprint on the skin and we would see the body and we would say, ‘Oh, that’s another one of those.’ There were four or five of those.
“But you see, that’s what I would say when they brought in one of these. The first body, I knew it was a ritual. And I knew there would be more.”
“You did?”
“Of course. There was no reason to perform such an elaborate ritual just once. I knew I would see it again. The only question was, how many times. If Lieutenant Tully is correct and if . . . uh . . . Kramer stays in jail, this will be all.”
Koesler prayed the murders were finished. He rejected the hypothesis that they were over because Kramer was locked up. But he had to admit that among all those close to the investigation, he stood virtually alone in believing in Kramer’s innocence.
But believe he did. So he had to get on with it.
“Then, these marks, Doctor . . .” Koesler directed Moellmann’s attention to one of the photos. “. . . around the neck of the victim. These are marks of a plaited object?”
“No. No, that was the weapon in the other cases I just told you about.”
Koesler surmised that patience was not Moellmann’s long suit. He was fleetingly thankful that he’d never had the doctor as a teacher.
“See?” Moellmann continued. “There are the marks of a belt, though not a very ordinary belt. See, the indentations—there, on the skin. I’ll show you. Press your fingers against your wrist. Hard, a lot of pressure. See, it is blanched. If you do it hard enough, it will stay. See what I’m talking about? See how fast it goes away now when you take your fingers away. That’s because the blood goes back in. But if the person is deceased and the belt stays on the neck—he doesn’t remove it; he leaves it on there—then, when I remove the belt, it will be pale all around. I’ll be able to tell you the width of the belt because the upper and lower edges of the belt will scrape the skin. As you can see, the instrument used here—the belt—is rather wider than the ordinary belt.”
Koesler, looking carefully, could detect nothing outstandingly unusual about the mark on the victim’s neck. On the other hand, this was the first time he had ever studied the body of a strangled person. He decided to give the
