A good case could be made for Kramer to blame either or both of his parents for their canonically invalid marriage. After all, it was his father’s prior marriage that prevented their wedding in the Church. On the other hand, it was Kramer’s mother who held the key. The invalid marriage hinged on her assent or refusal. And even if somewhat archaic, still it was customary for men to blame women for whatever went wrong.
At the bottom of all this rationalization and questioning was what bothered Koesler most of all. While it was true that Lieutenant Tully had scarcely considered that anyone but Dick Kramer might be the guilty party, it was equally true that Koesler had dismissed the possibility of Kramer’s culpability from the outset.
Now, despairing of sleep this night, Koesler decided that to be totally objective, he ought to at least consider the possibility that Kramer might be the killer. He would play devil’s advocate; if nothing else it would satisfy his sense of fair play.
Koesler was already aware of a plausible, if remote, motivation for the murders: Kramer’s illegitimacy, at least in the eyes of the Church. What else might conceivably fit?
Well, Kramer had no idea of what was going on when the crimes were committed. He was drunk. On the other hand, according to Inspector Koznicki, people could—have been known to—do things while in a drunken state. There were, of course, drunk drivers. But could an alcoholic go through such an elaborate performance as ritual murder while in a stupor? Especially when such an action would be entirely incompatible with one’s normal nature?
Then, there was the gibberish of that branding iron. On the first two victims, it looked for all the world as if there was some sort of coherent message there. As if it was the curvature of the breast that prevented the entire message from being impressed on the victims skin.
However, as Dr. Moellmann had pointed out, with the third victim the brand clearly broke off sharply at the furthest point of the previous two markings. Meaning that there was no coherent message. Meaning that it didn’t mean anything.
Or did it?
Bush claimed he had nothing to do with the first two murders. If that were true, he would know no more about the brand marks than the police or the morgue would. So if he were to make a branding iron—for the copycat theory that Tully favored—he could go no further than the “incomplete” marks on the previous two victims. And that also would explain why the marks on the first two seemed to fade out and why the marks on the third were definitive.
Kramer, Kramer, Kramer. He could have constructed the branding iron in his workshop. No doubt about that. But why?
At birth, he was branded a bastard—uh, there’s that word again. But it’s true. He was branded illegitimate from conception actually. Not by society at large, but by the church alone. Yet nothing would happen as a result of that ecclesial designation. There was little chance he would even know about it. It would matter only if he were to try to enter a seminary toward a vocation to the priesthood. And once he did, at least as far as his psyche was concerned, all hell broke loose.
Like so many things in life, it had been an accident of timing as much as anything else.
There was a cartoon—old now—about Catholics eating meat on Friday. For centuries Church law had prohibited Catholics from eating meat on Friday. The object was the fostering of a penitential spirit, as well as the commemoration of Christ’s death on Good Friday. The obligation bound Catholics under pain of serious sin. Theoretically, then, Catholics could be—and maybe were—condemned to hell for eating a succulent slice of prime rib, or even a hot dog, on Friday.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, in 1966, the ban on Friday meat-eating was lifted. Overnight, it was no longer a sin. The cartoon depicted a typical scene in hell, wherein one devil says to another devil, “What are we going to do with all the people who are here for eating meat on Friday?”
To some extent, that was the situation in which people like Dick Kramer found themselves.
If, between 1917 and 1983—the lifetime of the first Code of Canon Law—a child was born to parents at least one of whom was Catholic but whose marriage was considered, for whatever canonical reason, invalid, that child was illegitimate in the eyes of the Church. The only practical sanction was in being barred from the priesthood. After 1983, on promulgation of the new Code, such an illegitimate child was home free.
A man such as Dick Kramer could conceivably build up quite an anger over that sort of seemingly cavalier treatment.
He would be angry . . . an idea was coming; it was knocking on Koesler’s mind . . . he would be angry . . . of course! He would be as angry with his parents—with his mother—as he would be with the Church. But not as long as Church law remained unchanged.
However, what if the Church were to simply change the law? What if, after all those years of feeling inadequate, soiled, unclean; what if, after all those years, the Church simply said, “Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore”?
The first time Dr. Moellmann showed Koesler the mark of the branding iron, something, some glimmering from the past tried to enter his consciousness. He knew the memory would get there eventually. He just didn’t know when.
Now.
Father Koesler needed to do some checking. And it could not begin until the workday began. But already he felt that deep sense of relief that comes from breaking through to the ultimate clue.
It was the middle of the night. There was nothing to do but wait. Koesler decided to read again. But so relaxed was he now that after a few paragraphs, he drifted into a sound if not untroubled sleep.
40
Shortly after the doors were unlocked at the chancery, Father Koesler arrived.
He’d been in this building many times in the past. At least to the clergy of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit, 1234 Washington Boulevard was a familiar address. The ancient building housed St. Aloysius Church, a three-tiered structure that was unique, at least to Detroit.
In the same building above the church were residence rooms for priests assigned to downtown functions, as well as for visiting clergy. In addition, there were offices for the archbishop, the tribunal, and the chancery, among other departments. Hidden away here—appropriately, some might say—were the archives of the archdiocese.
While Koesler had on occasion visited almost every other department in the building at one time or another, he had never, until this morning, called on the archives. Even before the chancery opened this snowy morning, he had phoned Sister Clotilde of the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary to make certain she could and would accommodate him this morning. She could and would, but she did little to hide her surprise that he would call her. They knew each other only in passing and, to her knowledge, he had never before visited the archives. And her sharp memory covered a great number of years.
She sat him at a large table and fixed him with a quizzical smile. “Now, what can I do for you, young man?”
It was his turn to smile. He was in his late fifties, and she couldn’t have been much older. Age, he thought, like so many other things in life, was relative. “I’m interested in the mottoes of Popes.”
She inclined her head slightly to one side. “You are, are you?” There was something tantalizing about her tone. But she said nothing more that might clarify the remark and Koesler didn’t pursue it.
“I’d like to start back around the turn of this century. In which case, each Pope, before becoming Pope, had been a bishop and then a Cardinal. And as bishop, each one had a motto as part of his coat of arms. That’s what I’d like to see.”
She whistled noiselessly. “A tall order, young man. But let’s see what we can find.”
Koesler started to rise but Sister Clotilde waved him back in his chair. “You stay put,” she ordered. “I’ll bring things to you. It’s easier that way.”
The first item she brought was a mug of steaming coffee, for which he was duly grateful. Next, she brought a chronological list of Popes. “Maybe,” she said, “this will help you tell me exactly who you’re interested in.”
“Absolutely. Very good. Okay, let’s see . . .” Koesler ran his finger down the list. “Let’s try Pope Benedict XV, who was Pope from, uh . . . 1914 to 1922.”
She returned loaded down with books, several of which she pushed toward him. “You start with these and I’ll take the rest.”
There followed the quiet turning of pages, then exchanges, one book for another.
