benefit of any doubt to Dr. Moellmann’s expertise.
He looked away from the photo to find Moellmann studying him. “Are these pictures disturbing you, Father?”
“Well, I couldn’t say they qualify as light morning viewing. And I may pay with a few nightmares. But, all in all, no; I’m all right.”
“Good.” Was it Koesler’s imagination, or did Moellmann seem disappointed? “This, here, the branding mark, should be the final thing that interests you.” He began rummaging through the photos, in search of blow-ups of each victim. He found them and set them side-by-side before the priest. “See, these are shots of the left breast of each of the women—magnified, of course. You can see clearly the form of a cross burned into the flesh.”
“This happened after they were dead?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Thank God, Koesler breathed.
“Now, you see, these are the first two victims. There is some form of lettering on the horizontal bar of the cross. Here is a closeup of just the lettering. Here is a magnifying glass. Look.”
Koesler looked. The marks meant nothing to him.
“They don’t mean much, do they?”
“No.”
“For a time—well, for the first couple of weeks—we thought the marks might be the top part of some letters. And that the reason the bottom part of the letters was not imprinted was because of the natural curvature of the breast. See, the top of the vertical bar is the strongest, deepest imprint. So, what the guy did was start there at the top and sort of rolled the iron downward. See, the bottom of the vertical bar is the weakest imprint. We reasoned he was not putting as much pressure on the iron as he rolled it down the woman’s breast. Maybe a difficult angle or something.
“But then, with the third victim, we were in luck. This time he was able to exert pretty much equal pressure during the whole process. See, now on the third one, the marks don’t fade out at the bottom. They are etched clearly and definitively. But, sad to say,” Moellmann turned both palms up, “they still seem to mean nothing. Just gibberish.”
Koesler studied most intently the brand on the third victim.
Without doubt, there was a greater clarity. Still he could not glean any meaning from them. The longer Koesler studied the marks, the more certain he was that they were letters—the topmost portion of letters. The hypothesis, after the first two murders, that this was some sort of truncated lettering, certainly seemed accurate. But the branding of the third victim contradicted that theory. There was no gradual fade-out of the letters nor of the bottom of the vertical beam. The marks were crisp and clean. But why would someone go to all that trouble just to leave a mark that was impossible to fathom? Was it some sort of code? There must be some explanation of all this. But what could it be?
As he drifted back to the present, Koesler noticed that Moellmann was gathering the photos, notes, and charts and returning each to its proper folder. The show was over; the time Moellmann had allocated for this exhibition was up.
Koesler rose and gathered his coat and hat. “Thank you very much, Doctor. It was very kind of you to give me so much time.”
“This came to you through the courtesy of Inspector Koznicki. And now, Father, you know about as much as the police. Much of what I showed you is very confidential.” The statement was delivered as a warning.
“I’m good at keeping secrets, Doctor.”
“You know, don’t you, that Father Kramer has a workbench with appropriate tools so that he could easily have fashioned this branding iron?”
“Yes, I know that, Doctor.”
“And still you think he is innocent?”
“Yes.”
Moellmann shook his head. “One last thing: Did those markings mean anything at all to you?”
“Not really. Although the longer I reflect on it, the more they remind me of something. But I can’t think what. It may come to me—probably in the middle of Mass or a shower, or shoveling snow.”
“Well, if it comes, don’t keep that a secret.”
35
Father Koesler’s mind was reeling as he descended the stairs to the morgue’s street floor. If it was possible to learn too much in a brief period, he’d just done so.
On reflection, it was not so much the sheer weight of new knowledge as the fact that he expected himself to utilize it. He was beginning to wonder whom he was kidding. Dr. Moellmann was a highly respected pathologist— among the best, if not
Inspector Koznicki: one of Koesler’s better friends. The priest knew the inspector to be a cautious man, rich in experience in police work, particularly in homicides.
Originally, Koznicki had been on the side of the angels. Indeed, until this very morning, Koesler had been sure he could count on the inspector’s active support. Now even Walt Koznicki had lost confidence in Kramer’s innocence. Though he would continue to give counsel, it was obvious he held out no hope. Koznicki was going through the motions out of friendship rather than conviction.
And both Dr. Moellmann and Inspector Koznicki, as the foundation for their opinion, cited Lieutenant Tully.
Through Koesler’s several adventures in the realm of homicide, he had never before encountered Tully personally. Although he had been vaguely aware of the lieutenant’s reputation, this was the first time they had figuratively crossed swords. Apparently, Tully was something more than merely good. Reputedly, he possessed some sixth sense when it came to homicide. A sense that his fellow professionals respected.
Koesler could not help thinking that if Tully had been a woman and operated on an intuitive hunch that Kramer was guilty, he would have been derided as an hysterical female. But as a macho man, his sixth sense was revered. Yet, in the final analysis, it was no more than a highly formed, experientially proven intuition.
And to cap the climax, Dick Kramer seemed to be on their side. Why in God’s name had Kramer not spent yesterday in the credible company of someone—anyone? At the very least, he might have taken steps to guard against his inclination toward alcoholism. He knew Sundays were his Achilles’ heel. He had confessed as much to his attorney as well as to Koesler.
Why hadn’t Kramer managed to stay sober one single Sunday? The Sunday for which he would most need an alibi?
Finally, what was there about the mark of the branding iron? The whole thing was so ugly, so perverted. But, at least as far as Father Koesler was concerned, the mark of the cross and its accompanying inscription was a puzzle that needed an insight and then a solution. He could not say the answer was on the tip of his tongue. It was buried far more deeply than that. Knowing himself, he realized that no amount of concentration would bring this solution to the fore. It would come, if it came at all, spontaneously. And there was nothing he could do but wait for that moment and hope it would come.
He was pulling up the collar of his overcoat preparatory to leaving the building, when he heard an insistent voice behind him. “Father! Yoo-hoo! Priest! Wait a minute! Please!”
Koesler turned. It was a woman in the uniform of one of the morgue’s technical assistants. A tall, blonde, not unattractive woman. Koesler searched his memory, but could not recall ever having met her. This was a constantly recurring nightmare. He had been a priest so long and had served in so many parishes and met so many people that he simply could not remember everyone from his past. Yet almost everyone expected to be remembered. His acquaintances had it so much easier than he. All they had to do was call him “Father” and they were home free. Whereas he had to come up with a name. One of the tricks of the trade was to postpone for as long as possible using any name at all. Perhaps it would come to him. Or the individual might volunteer the name.
So Koesler merely remained in a half-turn and watched, as the woman closed the distance between them. “Father?”
“Yes.”
“You are a Catholic priest, aren’t you?”
