Koesler said, “I think this is it, Sister, doesn’t this look like the motto for Cardinal Giacomo della Chiesa?”
“It sure does. And he became Pope Benedict XV. Is that what you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know. Wait a minute.”
Koesler checked the motto against the drawing he’d brought with him—a reproduction of the marks left by the branding iron. “No, that’s not it. It doesn’t fit.”
“What doesn’t fit? Maybe it’d help if you told me what we’re looking for.”
“It’s just too complicated to explain just now, Sister. I do need your help though.”
Clotilde sighed. “Very well. Somebody else you want to look up?”
Koesler ran his finger down the list. “Let’s see . . . yes: Pope Pius XI—1922 to 1939.”
“I guess I should be grateful for small favors.” Sister Clotilde shuffled back into the archives, arms burdened with the books just used and being returned to their shelves. “At least you’re picking on fairly recent popes.” Though no longer in view, she could be heard talking to herself. “Dear, dear, dear; where are you, Achille Cardinal Ratti? Ah, here!”
She reentered the reading room, again laden with books. “Here we go again.” She divided the volumes between them.
After several minutes of searching, Sister Clotilde said, “Ah, here it is. This is it: the coat of arms for Cardinal Ratti, soon to become Pope Pius XI.”
Koesler almost snatched the book from her hands.
“Well, for the love of Pete,” she chided. “Take your time, Father Koesler. Moderation. In all things moderation.”
“Sorry.” He quickly but thoroughly checked the motto against the marks that had been burned into the flesh of three murder victims. It did not match. His expression told the tale.
“No go, eh?”
“Not yet.”
“There’s more?”
“One more.”
“Who?”
“Pius XII.”
“I don’t know why, but I had a feeling we were headed toward him.” She was gone for a few moments, then returned with more books. “You’re sure now . . . no more?”
“No more. This has got to be it.”
“I think I can find this one.” Clotilde selected a volume and paged through it. “Here you go: the motto on the coat of arms of Eugenio Cardinal Pacelli.
Koesler began to shake his head, but took the volume from her anyway. He tried to work the motto into the upper half of letters that the brand had made. It was not even close to fitting.
He sat back with wildly conflicting emotions.
He was wrong. His theory, which had seemed so promising last night, went nowhere this morning. Definitely out of character for him. He was by no stretch of the imagination a “morning person.” But, to the extent he had been so sure of himself, he now felt a rather deep depression.
On the other hand, his groundless theory was one more indication that Father Kramer was innocent. Koesler had given it his best shot. Usually when he reached a conclusion such as this, it proved to be well founded. And, as devil’s advocate, for the first time in this investigation he had thrown aside the presumption of innocence for Kramer.
Accepting Lieutenant Tully’s challenge to look at the facts with complete objectivity, Koesler had tried to tie the murders to Kramer and had failed.
Yes, definitely mixed emotions. But, if anything, the predominant feeling was one of relief that Kramer had come out of this clean. The next order of business would be to get Dick Kramer out to Guest House so he could get a handle on his alcoholism before it got completely out of control.
So deep in thought was Koesler that he had to fight his way back to reality and focus on what Sister Clotilde was saying.
“I said, there’s more to this, you know.”
“More? What do you mean?
“I mean that the mottoes don’t stand pat when a Cardinal becomes Pope.”
“What?”
“The coat of arms automatically changes when one becomes a Pope. And so, it seems, does the man’s motto.”
“What?”
“You’re repeating yourself. Here . . .” She handed him an impressive tome.
He studied the book, somewhat bewildered as to its relevance. It was
It was a document entitled
He could not guess why Sister Clotilde had given this to him, nor why she had marked this section. He flipped several pages and came to the end of the document. It was signed,
“You see,” Clotilde said, “Eugenio Pacelli took another motto once he became Pope.
Koesler stared at the motto for several moments. Then, slowly, he began to trace the words into the brand markings. They fit. Perfectly. It was a premonition come true. He stared at them.
After several moments, Sister Clotilde spoke. “That what you were looking for?”
Koesler nodded.
“When we got down to Pius XII and were still looking for mottoes, I thought that’s what you might be looking for. Something came to mind and I thought that might be it.” She paused. “Don’t you want to know how I guessed?”
He looked at her wordlessly.
“I remembered that a few weeks ago, one of your confreres was in here looking for exactly the same thing. But not the motto for Eugenio Pacelli; the one after he became Pius XII.” Another pause. “Want to know who it was?”
Barely audibly, he said, “Father Kramer.”
“How did you know?”
“Bingo.” But there was no joy in it.
41
They sat around the small dining room table in St. Anselm’s rectory. With three large men, the table seemed smaller than usual.
Mrs. Mary O’Connor, parish secretary and wide-ranging factotum, had made a generous supply of coffee. Inspector Walter Koznicki, for one, was most grateful that Mrs. O’Connor, and not Father Koesler, had attended to the coffee.
Koesler was clearly a wreck. His hands were trembling slightly but noticeably, particularly perceptible to the trained eye of a psychologist.
Koesler’s state was the principal reason Dr. Rudy Scholl had decided not to return to his office. He wanted to make certain that Koesler would be all right before leaving him. It had been a stress-filled afternoon for everyone,
