Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries: fk-10

  Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries:

  ( Father Koesler - 10 )

  William Kienzle

  "Readers will be turning the pages into the wee hours of the night, trying to solve the mystery along with Tully and Koesler." —West Coast Review of Books

  Has the Detroit Police Department found the perpetrator of one of the most gruesome serial murders in Detroit's history—the brutal mutilation of prostitutes? Father Robert Koesler has a special interest in solving one of the most challenging cases in his career.

  In this tenth Kienzle mystery, Koesler—Detroit's most famous Catholic priest—may be facing his toughest test yet. On Sunday afternoons, in Detroit's inner city, older prostitutes are being picked up by someone described by witnesses as a man dressed in clerical garb. By the time that Detroit's Homicide Division enters the picture, the victims have been strangled, mutilated, and finally, branded—in a strange place—with a strange marking.

  For Javan

  1

  “It’s all right, you know—I mean, if you can’t. . .”

  The young man tried feverishly—as he had for the past fifteen minutes—to stimulate himself. But the longer and more frantically he tried, the less likely it seemed that he would maintain or even attain an erection. And, before he’d begun, she had spent another quarter of an hour trying to help him. She’d used every means she knew. And she knew them all.

  Nothing.

  “Believe me, honey,” Louise Bonner assured him, “it happens to everybody once in a while. It’s nothing to get upset about. Tomorrow you’ll probably have a hard-on all day.”

  “I can do it.” His teeth were clenched as he thrashed about. “Goddammit, I’ve done it all my life.”

  “Yeah, sure, honey. But this is your first time with a woman, right?”

  He flushed deeper as he continued his effort.

  All his life. Louise suppressed a smile. All seventeen or eighteen years of his brief life. She had a mental image of him in his room, alone. On the walls, photos of females, nude or in various stages of dishabille. And there he would masturbate the night away. Then the fateful day—today. He’d saved his money. Or his father gave him ten bucks, told him to find a whore and become a man.

  Well, what can you get for ten bucks these days, Louise mused. Forget the pricey bitches in comfortable hotels. Head for Cass Corridor in the decaying center of Detroit and you’re likely to find a Louise Bonner—El to her street friends.

  She had plied this, the oldest of professions, for all but sixteen of her fifty-one years. And, as far as she was concerned, she had never achieved her full potential. Even as a kid with tight skin, she’d been on the streets. For that she blamed her early pimps.

  Now? Hell, she knew she was much the worse for wear. Oh, she had managed to stay slim. And even if the curves were no longer shapely, the angles were still there. But her legs were a bit flabby, the flesh of her upper arms sagged, and the wrinkles—God, how they betrayed her!

  But she was still good enough for this kid. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t get it on. Even though she was old enough to be his mother. Forget that; old enough to be his grandmother!

  All this she thought as she lay back on the metal bed with its stained sheets and grungy mattress.

  “Look, honey, if it’s the money . . .”

  “It’s not the money, dammit! I can do it. I know I can.”

  She shook her head. Time was money, even on a Sunday afternoon. The longer she spent in the room and off the street, the more potential business was driving away from this tired old neighborhood. By now, she would gladly give back his ten bucks. If she spent countless hours waiting for ten dollars to get used up, she could forget about eating.

  She sat up and reached for her pantyhose.

  “No, wait!”

  She hesitated.

  He went to his coat, which he had thrown across a chair. He fumbled in the pocket and brought out what appeared to be some kind of feminine undergarment. He offered it to Louise.

  “What the hell!” she exclaimed. “It’s a garter belt.”

  “Put it on.”

  “Honey, it won’t fit. It’s way too large.”

  “Put it on. Please put it on.”

  “But, why—?”

  “It’s my mother’s.”

  She shrugged. Why not? It had been a crazy afternoon. Maybe she could get rid of him if she humored him. She slipped the belt on. It was, as she had anticipated, several sizes too large. She looked at him to check his reaction.

  He was ready.

  “Well,” she sighed, “I’ll be damned.”

  It did not take long. In a few seconds he was no longer a virgin.

  It was obvious from his demeanor as he dressed, and the jaunty wave he gave as he left the room that, as far as he was concerned, today he had become a man.

  She dressed, pulling her coat tightly about her. Early January in Michigan could be cold. Or it might be warm. One never knew what to expect from Michigan’s weather.

  But this was a cold one. The wind whipped through the parallel streets of Woodward, Cass, Second, and Third—which, for the purposes of work, made up Louise Bonner’s world.

  She walked briskly, leaning into the wind, up from Cass and Selden, the corner where her apartment was located, toward Third and Willis, the corner she and a few others had staked out for these many years.

  As she walked, she pondered. You’re never too old to learn, she reflected. Take that kid. She’d heard of the Oedipus complex. Sometimes when she was younger, but even now occasionally, she would entertain a trick who happened to be a psychologist or a psychiatrist. From them, she had learned, among many other things, about the Oedipus complex. Matter of fact, one of her current regulars was a psychologist. She’d have to tell him about the kid. He’d get a kick out of that.

  Indeed, she had told that shrink so many things about some of her tricks that she had considered raising her rates for him. He seemed to get a lot out of her information. Sometimes he would get so interested in her experiences he would forget to screw her. After which, he would argue about the money. She always got paid up front. That was one of her first lessons in the trade. But Doc would want his money back if they didn’t get it on.

  She never gave it back, of course. But, now that she thought of it, she was performing a double service for him. And dammit, she ought to get paid for it. What did the Bible say? Something about a worker being worthy of his hire. Something like that.

  Thinking on it further, this whole business had started with her learning things.

  Lord, it was cold!

  It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the humidity. There was nothing like damp cold along with bitter wind.

  Where was she? Oh, yeah: learning things. School.

  She’d gotten good marks during the ten years she went to school. Especially considering the turmoil that went on at home day after day, night after night. God, how her parents had fought! She could never figure out what kept them together. Even so, she had been good in school. Except that she’d had to work so hard for those marks. Until the ninth grade. Then that science teacher had showed her how to get great marks without any study at all.

  Until he entered her life—and her—she had been unaware that she possessed dispensable favors. And that those favors were worth compensation. Suddenly, she had become a 4.0 student of science without cracking a book. Being naturally bright, she had put two and two together and came up with prostitution.

  She was in school to learn how to earn a living. Along the way she discovered how to make what could be a very adequate
living whereby school was irrelevant. She could make more money on her back than she ever could as a nine-to-five secretary. And she could start right then at age sixteen. Added boon: She would get out of that wretched house with its perpetual state of war. And where, as the years ripened her, her ox of a father had begun to ogle her.

  It hadn’t worked out as well as she had anticipated. Oh, the pimps weren’t so bad. She was luckier than many of the girls in that she had never had a pimp who deserted, or worse, beat her. Nevertheless, for years now she had been pimpless—in the language of her profession, an outlaw. In fact, she had become adviser and confidante to many of the women, particularly younger ones.

  But like almost all the other women, particularly those on the street, she could do little or nothing about the four plagues that afflicted today’s hookers: certain cops, jail, society, and sorry-ass tricks.

  Mostly the tricks. Who could depend on a John?

  Massage parlors were worse than the streets. In the parlors, the girls had to service whoever came in, with little or no chance to veto anybody whose money the boss had taken. It was better on the streets, but just barely. A girl could turn down anyone she chose to, whether he approached her on the sidewalk or in a car. But the inclination was to accept anybody’s money. After all, that’s why they were out there. However, too often, indiscriminate acceptance led to a lot of abuse, verbal as well as physical. And murder was all too common.

  There were few defenses. Experience, added to some well-honed intuition, was the main protection. But that took time. And while one was gaining that experience, one made mistakes. One hoped none would be fatal.

  Another defense was the buddy system. Working in pairs or in groups of three or more, they demonstrated that there could be safety in numbers. Louise recalled a time when she was just getting started on Eighth Avenue in New York City. She was propositioned by a sailor. Before she could accept, an older woman advised against it. She was right: The sailor turned out to be a cop in disguise. Sailors don’t offer to bring you to their apartments, the woman told Louise. Sailors live on their ships. Besides, there was just something about that guy . . .

  Experience.

  Another benefit of having a buddy was being able to check on one another. When one entered a car, the buddy could take down the license number and note the time. If too much time went by, the buddy could begin checking likely places where they might have gone. In a genuine emergency, at least the buddy would have a license number.

  Thinking of buddies, Louise began looking for Arlene. Louise was now at the corner of Third and Willis, but no Arlene. Well, that happened.

  El would have to depend even more on her intuition and experience, as she had earlier with the kid. There had been something about his immediate reaction to her. And he hadn’t bargained. She had itemized what he could choose from and what each service cost. She perceived he was only waiting for her to mention the ten-dollar service. That’s all he had and he was going to spend it all.

  He had been unaware that he was expected to pay in advance—indicating this probably was his first time. And his politeness had reinforced that hypothesis.

  Once they got to the small apartment she rented for assignations, his ineptness had further betrayed him. To mix a metaphor, this was his maiden voyage. And Louise had foreseen the entire scenario from the first few words they had exchanged.

  So her intuition was running well today. She’d go on playing her luck whether or not Arlene got back before Louise got another customer.

  She hunched and shivered. This frigid, damp gale cut right through one. The only silver lining Louise could think of was that bundling up hid the telltale signs of age. In the summer it was easy to see she was far from young. On the other hand, Johns who cruised streets such as Cass, Second, and Third had no reason to expect Miss America.

  This was the third time that particular black ’86 Escort had passed by.

  It wasn’t that difficult to note; late Sunday afternoon there wasn’t much traffic. Was the Super Bowl on TV this afternoon?

  She didn’t pay much attention to football. Only as it affected trade. The crazy thing was on sometime in January, that much she knew. (Actually, it would not be played till next Sunday.) In any case, whether it was football or the lousy weather, there wasn’t much traffic. It was easy, especially with her experience, to spot the Escort.

  On each pass, the guy had eyed her very carefully. Again, she was grateful she was all bundled up. Whoever the guy was, he wasn’t going to get much of a look at her unless he put his money where his eyes were.

  She was right. On the fourth pass, the Escort pulled to the curb directly in front of her. The driver lowered the window on the passenger side. She approached the car. “Want to party?” It wasn’t much of an invitation, but it did have antiquity going for it.

  “I guess so. Are you available?”

  “Sure thing, honey. I’d almost pay you just to get out of this cold. Almost!” She emphasized the word, indicating it was only an attempt at humor.

  She got in the car and gave directions to her apartment. Directions were followed by an itemized listing of services. “. . . Well, honey, what’s your pleasure?”

  He was silent. She studied him. One couldn’t be too careful.

  There was nothing about him to cause anxiety in the casual observer. He was wearing a black coat, hat, trousers, shoes, and gloves.

  So he liked black. Not particularly unusual. Lots of people favor dark colors in the winter. Dark doesn’t show slush marks as such. Dark helps trap and retain the heat of what little sun there might be.

  She got a strong and unmistakable tobacco odor. He wasn’t smoking just now, but he had to be a heavy cigarette smoker. And booze—there was the distinct smell of alcohol, though he did not appear to be drunk. He was wearing gloves, but she would bet her last buck that the index and middle fingers of one or both hands bore the telltale yellow nicotine stains.

  Half-turned in the passenger seat, she had a clear view of his profile. He looked to be younger than she. But not by much. Maybe in his late forties. He was clean-shaven and, judging from what little hair she could see below his hat, he was either blond or gray-haired.

  “I don’t know,” he answered at length, “I kind of thought of spending about twenty-five dollars.”

  “Sounds fine to me, honey.” Most Johns specified just what land of action they wanted. Some, as this one, settled on the amount of money they were willing to invest. Nothing very unusual in that. And twenty-five dollars probably represented the amount he’d been able to squirrel away from his wife. “But I’ve got to have it up front.”

  “Huh?”

  “I need it now.”

  “Oh, okay . . . sure.” He had stopped at the light on the corner of Third and Selden. They were but two blocks from the apartment. He would turn left and they would be there. He opened his coat and reached into his breast pocket for his wallet. For a brief moment, his coat was open at the throat.

  Louise gasped.

  He took a twenty-dollar and a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and handed them to her. As he did, he noticed that she was staring at his collar. He smiled. “Something wrong?”

  “You a preacher?”

  “You might say so. That a problem?”

  “Well, I’ll say this for you: You don’t try to hide it.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I dunno. Most guys at least try some kind of masquerade. They claim they’re single . . . but they’re wearing a wedding ring. Or they’re married but the wife won’t give them any. There’ve been some I knew were preachers, though they wouldn’t let on. But you—”

  “My money not good enough for you?”

  “No, no! It’s just that . . . what kind of preacher are you, anyway?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean . . . Baptist or what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Anglican?”

  “Why would you guess Anglican?”

&nb
sp; “’Cause of your collar.”

  “Oh?”

  “I guess it has to be Anglican or Catholic.”

  “Not necessarily. But you’re right: It’s Catholic.”

  “You a priest?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A Catholic priest?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Louise paused. He was parking on the corner of Selden and Cass, in front of the apartment. “I don’t believe I’ve ever screwed a Catholic priest before . . . that I know of.”

  The car was parked but since she showed no inclination to get out, he let the engine continue to run and pump heat in.

  “I mean, I used to be a Catholic . . .”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.” Louise sat facing front. “A long time ago. I still go to church once in a great while. But I haven’t been to confession or Communion in . . . God, I don’t know how long.”

  “I didn’t come here to hear your confession, you know.”

  “Right. Business before pleasure. Let’s go, honey.”

  She led the way up to the second floor. Her apartment was at the head of the stairs. She unlocked the door and they entered.

  It wasn’t quite an efficiency. The most prominent article of furniture was the less-than-sanitary bed. There were a couple of chairs and a coat rack, a minuscule kitchenette, and a small table. He correctly concluded that this was only her workplace, not her residence.

  She removed her coat and dress and hung them on the rack and sat on the bed. She kicked off her shoes and began removing her pantyhose, then stopped. “Aren’t you gonna get comfortable, honey?”

  “Sure. I want to watch you first.”

  “Whatever turns you on.”

  She continued taking off her pantyhose. Something about him made her nervous. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something . . . For one thing, he hadn’t even taken off his gloves. You’d think he’d at least take off his gloves. The room was plenty warm. She fought periodic battles with the landlord over the heat. Today, at least, it was working fine. But he hadn’t taken anything off.