Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries:

Father Koesler recalled many memorable occasions at the Masonic Temple. Among them were concerts by outstanding artists; operatic performances, including his first experience, Carmen; a superlative Porgy and Bess; Yul Brynner’s The King and I.

None of that was going on tonight. The neighborhood was shrouded in snow, and bitterly cold. The streets were practically deserted. He searched carefully for a parking space that would be in a well-lit area and at the same time not too far from his destination— an apartment building at the corner of Fourth and Temple.

He found a near ideal spot. Its only drawback, common to much of the city, was the number of drifts that had piled up over many snowstorms and, short of a warm spell, would not be removed. He slid into the tracks of previous cars and offered a silent prayer that he would be able to extricate himself when the time came.

The time of departure was essential to his strategy for the evening. He intended to return to his rectory for at least some of the parish council meeting. On the one hand, he really ought to at least make an appearance at part of that meeting and on the other; he did feel somewhat queasy about this dinner invitation.

One thing, and one thing alone, had brought him to this point: his too often indulged inability to say no. It had been an element of Koesler’s personality so long as to be immemorial. And it was so ingrained that he knew it was foolishly futile to resolve to change.

This invitation had come without warning. And it wasn’t that this evening had actually been free of any other engagement. There was the council meeting. Also, he wanted to devote every possible moment to the cause of freeing Father Kramer. Besides, he would much rather have had his routine meal at the rectory—a little wine and no surprises.

But here he was at the desolate corner of Fourth and Temple on the mostly uninhabitable fringe of downtown Detroit. And here was the apartment building, down-at-the-heels as expected, that housed Arnold Bush, Koesler’s host for the evening.

There was no difficulty in entering the building. It had no security system whatsoever. Koesler had no reason to expect any guard. But if he’d had his druthers, he would have been extremely grateful for at least a semblance of security.

He climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor and easily located Bush’s apartment. In addition to having the number on the door, it alone among the second-floor apartments had a thin line of light shining out from beneath the door. Additionally there was the pungent odor of cabbage cooking.

Koesler braced himself and knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately. A smiling Arnold Bush greeted him, took hat and coat, and draped them over the single shaft of ancient wood that served as a clothes tree. Koesler had brought no wine or other gift. Priests, as a singular class, generally considered their presence gift enough.

“Thank you for coming. Thank you very much.” Bush—for Bush—was effusive.

“Not at all.” Koesler was not sure what he had expected, but it certainly was not this one-room efficiency. A table, two straight-back chairs, a bed—more a cot, actually—and a hot plate that appeared to have four burners, two of which were being used to cook dinner. The unmistakable odor promised cabbage and something. The odor, strong as it was, was unable to mask the pervasive nicotine smell that seemed to have permeated everything in the room. Several strategically placed ashtrays were full to overflowing.

But by far the most outstanding feature was the walls. All four walls were filled with pictures. One, the wall next to the bed, held a series of syrupy religious art. The other three walls were covered with photos that appeared to be the same as or similar to the horrors he had viewed yesterday at the medical examiner’s office.

Bush noticed Koesler’s observance of the photos. “Interesting pictures,” Bush remarked.

Koesler managed to close his mouth. “To say the least.” Outside of Moellmann’s office, he’d never seen anything comparable, and was uncertain how to react. The only safe avenue, he decided, was to focus on the religious art. He stepped close to the wall next to the bed and appeared to study those pictures. There wasn’t one he hadn’t seen previously at one time or another. Nor was there one he didn’t dislike.

“Did you notice, I got one of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and one of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.” There was a touch of pride in Bush’s voice.

Koesler quickly scanned the wall and located the cited works near the center of the collection. “So you do.” Jesus was portrayed as a wimp, Mary as a bland woman who’d never had either a thought or a human experience. Each was gesturing toward a heart-shaped organ, such as one might find on a valentine, which was positioned roughly where one would expect to find a human heart, but outside the body.

“You don’t find pictures like that much nowadays,” Bush opined. “Well, certainly not this many.” Koesler guessed that Bush had not been in many traditional, or even nontraditional Catholic homes lately. A multitude of Sacred Heart, Infant of Prague, and the like, were still venerated in many Catholic homes. Taken one at a time, they could at best be tolerated, at worst ignored. In this number, they were overwhelming.

Bush gave Koesler a few more minutes to savor the religious spirit that these pictures could generate. “The other pictures”—Bush indicated the remaining three walls—“are from my work. At the morgue,” he added needlessly.

Without getting too close to them, Koesler looked just long enough to confirm that they were the after-death photos of those three poor women. Short of a more intense study, he couldn’t tell whether these were the same as the pictures Dr. Moellmann had showed him yesterday morning. But they seemed at a glance to be duplicates.

It was commendable, Koesler supposed, to take a certain measure of pride in one’s work. But really! “Where did you get all these pictures, Mr. Bush? Are they the same as the ones in the medical examiner’s office?”

“Arnold,” Bush insisted. “Yeah, they’re mostly the same. The tech is a friend of mine. I got them from him.” Bush neglected to specify that the technician didn’t give the photos. He sold them. Nor did Bush intend to confess that he had removed porno magazine shots from one wall just to put up the photos of Mae Dixon.

While trying to block out the content of the pictures themselves, Koesler did observe that each picture, clinical as well as religious, was framed. And each frame appeared to be formed by a similar or identical mold.

“Interesting frames, Arnold. Where did you manage to get so many different sizes in the same design?”

“Made them myself,” with evident pride.

“Yourself?” Koesler looked around the room, the unspoken question obvious.

“Oh, not here. There’s a bump shop a little north of here. I know the owner. I work there two, three nights a week. Help him some. Do some work on my own. He’s got all the tools, everything.”

Oh, yes; Koesler recalled that Bush had mentioned his hobby at lunch yesterday. It hadn’t occurred to Koesler then, but now it did: Bush and Father Kramer had the same hobby. And both had easy access to a supply of professional tools. Interesting coincidence.

“But, dinner is ready,” said Bush. “Come on; sit down.”

Bush obviously had done his best to prepare what, for him, was an outstanding meal. He served Mogen David wine. Koesler was at the opposite end of the spectrum from a sommelier, but with one sip he knew this was more a garden variety grape juice than a choice wine.

His worst fears were realized when he discovered that the companion to the cabbage that was being cooked over the other burner was corned beef. The latter ranked near the bottom of the few foods not relished by Koesler. This would not stand up as a gastronomically memorable evening, except in a negative way. But he would sip the wine, nibble at the corned beef, and fill up on cabbage.

Koesler, at Bush’s invitation, offered a traditional prayer before meals. As they prepared to eat, Koesler said, “By the way, Arnold, last night on the phone you said that this was an urgent matter. You haven’t mentioned just what this emergency is.”

“I didn’t say urgent. You said urgent. It was your word.”

Koesler tried to recall the conversation in detail, but he couldn’t. However, he’d had the definite impression that this was a matter of urgency, no matter who had used the word. “You seem to remember our conversation better than I, Arnold. What was it that was said?”

“I told you I needed you. Now. You were the one used the word ‘urgent.’”

“You needed me now.” Koesler required only a moment to consider the implications. “Sounds like an urgent matter to me.”

“Maybe. But I didn’t say it.”

This was a strange one . . . possibly the strangest person he’d ever met. The literal-mindedness. And the pictures! “Very well, Arnold; you needed me. For what?”