Marked for Murder Page 12

  Father Kramer kissed the center of the altar, reverencing the bone-relic of the martyr saint “buried” in the altar stone. He intoned, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

  “And also with you,” the congregation replied.

  “And also with you,” said the man who had just entered the church.

  Arnold Bush had timed his arrival carefully. He did not wish to be early and chance the others’ taking note of him. On the other hand, those who came in after him would be more concerned with discovering where Father was in the Mass than taking any interest in him.

  Yes, this was the perfect time. Just a few seconds late and seated quite apart from anyone else. No one would bother him. No one would extend to him the greeting of peace. He was at leisure to study the priest, Father Richard Kramer.

  It was not long ago that someone—he’d forgotten who—had told him he bore a striking resemblance to Father Kramer. Until then, Arnold Bush had never heard of Father Kramer. Nor, at that time, did the possibility that he had a lookalike in the priesthood much interest him. More recently, the possibility of such a resemblance took on a much more practical significance.

  So, Bush, of late, spent one or two of his lunch hours each week driving out to Mother of Sorrows church to attend noonday Mass. As a rather intense Catholic, he did not mind attending Mass more often than just Sundays. But there was much more than mere devotion involved. In fact, at these Masses he seldom said an actual prayer. He would automatically respond to the celebrant’s invocations, as he just had to the opening prayer, but his mind was far from prayer and God.

  Rather, he was planning his next move.

  Things were falling into place rather nicely, all things considered. He needed only a little more time to tie up a few loose ends. Then, with any luck at all, his plan would be complete and ready to be put into action.

  As he carefully studied the priest, Bush realized that their features were not by any means identical. Oh, they were about the same height and build; blond-haired, fair-complexioned. The likeness, such as it was, would not stand the test of close scrutiny. But to the casual passerby the similarity was enough. Yes, Arnold Bush would stake his future, his freedom, on that.

  “Let us proclaim the mystery of faith,” Father Kramer invited.

  “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again,” the congregation responded.

  Christ died for sinners, thought Bush. It was only fit and proper that sinners should die for Christ.

  17

  Sister Mary Therese offered to show Father Koesler the way to the church basement, but he assured her he was familiar with the plant and could find the way. So she told him which doors were locked and which were not. And away he went.

  She was surprised but pleased that Koesler had come to visit. She wished that her presence, support, and companionship were sufficient for Dick Kramer, but she knew that wasn’t so. There was just something about one priest that needed another. And Kramer did not have many priest friends, at least to the extent that any priest socialized with him, or he with any of them.

  There was nothing she could do about this beyond encouraging him to give himself a break and party with the gang once in a while. He always seemed grateful for her solicitude, but he almost always begged off. Workaholism, a defect that Kramer had to a terminal degree, did not mix well with worry-free relaxation.

  Thus she was happy that Koesler had come on what seemed to be a social call. Perhaps this could be the beginning of a new companionable dimension in Dick Kramer’s life. God knows he could use it.

  Koesler of course had no way of knowing what was on Sister Therese’s mind. As far as he was concerned, this visit was the result of Monsignor Meehan’s request. The next time Koesler stopped by, he wanted to be able to give the monsignor some sort of report— positive, Koesler hoped—on the state of Richard Kramer.

  It was not that Koesler was in any way opposed to the possibility that this visit might blossom into a deeper friendship more frequently renewed. Such, indeed, he would welcome. But it was not in Koesler’s nature to enter into another’s life uninvited. In truth, there was no way he would have undertaken this visit had it not been for Meehan’s concern for his former associate.

  Koesler negotiated the maze of locked and unlocked doors without incident, though it was fortunate that he was familiar with Mother of Sorrows church. Otherwise, he might have become hopelessly lost and lucky to find his way back to Sister Therese for a guided tour.

  As he passed through the final door leading from the boiler room to Kramer’s carefully outfitted and unexpectedly complete workshop, Koesler felt a foreboding. There was nothing specific; it was just so dark and chill and deserted. He was reminded of the smokehouse where Jud Fry holed up in the musical Oklahoma!. Koesler shrugged; to each his own. It was not his cup of tea, but evidently it suited Dick Kramer.

  Koesler would not have been able to see into this workroom had his eyes not already become accustomed to the dark. He knocked, and cleared his throat. Kramer, bent over his workbench at the opposite side of the room, whirled, clearly startled.

  “Oh, sorry, Dick. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like this. There wasn’t any other way of doing it.”

  “You startled me!” Kramer didn’t seem angry, merely nettled. “What are you doing here, anyway? Where’s Therese?”

  “Therese is at the rectory. She gave me directions on how to find you. As to what I’m doing here: I came to visit. I expected you to be at the rectory.” Koesler was aware that Kramer was tucking something into one of the workbench drawers. It appeared to be an object he had been working on, but, apparently, something he didn’t want Koesler to see.

  Kramer seemed to unbend. “Sorry to be so abrupt. I just wasn’t expecting company. I guess I was kind of wrapped up in what I was doing. You gave me a start. What brings you here . . . I mean besides the visit?” Kramer did not get casual visitors. And he knew that everyone knew that.

  “No strings, Dick . . . well, maybe one. I was visiting with Monsignor Meehan and he mentioned you. We both got to wondering how you are.” Koesler paused. “So how are you?”

  “Okay, I guess.” Kramer fumbled in his pants pocket and extracted a crumpled half-full pack of cigarettes. He fished one out, straightened and smoothed it, then lit it from the stub that was about to expire in a nearby overflowing ashtray. “Want to go back to the rectory? We could have a drink.”

  Koesler waved a hand. “No ... no; thanks just the same, but I’ve got enough left to do today without a midafternoon libation.”

  Kramer studied the other priest with a measure of abstract interest. He honestly could not fathom why one person would pay a strictly social call on another person—especially when both were busy priests—in the middle of the afternoon. “Oh. Okay, then, we can visit here, I guess. What did you want to talk about?”

  Koesler didn’t “want” to talk about anything in particular. When one paid a social call, especially when both parties were priests, it really wasn’t necessary to announce a subject matter for conversation. One simply chewed some innocent fat for a while. Now that Kramer had suggested the need for a topic, Koesler found himself hard-pressed to come up with one. But, after a little thought, “How’s Sister Therese working out?”

  “Therese? Good. Fine. I really don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  Koesler had not expected such enthusiasm, particularly from Kramer. “That’s quite a testimonial! What’ve you got her doing to elicit all that praise?”

  “Oh, Therese does a little bit of everything. She takes a special interest in the old folks . . . the ones in nursing homes and the ones shuttered up in their homes, afraid to come out even in broad daylight. Folks with bars on their doors and windows. They really need help, someone to take an interest in them . . . and Therese does.”

  “Nice.”

  “But that’s not all. She takes care of the kids. Takes t
hem out for projects, picnics, whatever. They love her. I think when they grow up, if they think kindly of the Catholic Church, it’ll be Therese they’re thinking of. On top of that, for all practical purposes she’s the director of Religious Ed—youth and adult.”

  “Impressive. Everything but hearing confessions and saying Mass.”

  Koesler’s obvious exaggeration was not lost on Kramer. “Actually, Bob,” he returned the joke, “I think maybe she does hear confessions once in a while.”

  “Better not let the Vatican hear about that. As far as Rome is concerned, females are lucky to be allowed into church.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, all right, they can come in. But they’d better not get too close to the altar.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Koesler began to wonder whether Kramer was still joking . . . or did he actually not know about the exclusion of girls from serving at the altar?

  “Are you serious?” Koesler returned. “You do know that girls are banned from serving Mass, don’t you?”

  “Is that still going on?”

  “You bet your sweet bippy it’s still going on. You mean you’re not involved in the war against altar girls?” While this was not of major concern, especially in the Detroit archdiocese, it was a fairly popular topic of conversation in clerical groups. But then, Koesler reminded himself, Kramer was seldom to be found in informal clerical gatherings.

  Kramer shook his head. “I had no idea anyone was still concerned about that. I’m afraid we solved that question a good long while ago in this parish. Our Mass servers are coed, at best.”

  “Then you’d better pray you don’t pull Bishop Malone for confirmations.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Probably what happened the other week at St. Valentine’s. They were all ready to go out in procession when Malone spotted some girls in the line—cassocks and surplices.”

  “And then?”

  “And then Malone handed the pastor an ultimatum: Get rid of the girls or cancel confirmations.”

  Kramer whistled. “He plays hard ball, eh?”

  “So it seems. You’d think a guy who grew up in Mississippi would be familiar with the evils of discrimination—but this guy doesn’t appear to have learned a damn thing.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t come to Mother of Sorrows. I might be able to live with him, but Therese—never.”

  Ordinarily, Koesler would not have bothered counting. But he could not help noticing that, in this short visit, Kramer was already on his third cigarette. Well, to each his own poison.

  “Speaking of altar servers,” Koesler said, “I see by the paper you lost one of your altar boys—what was the name? . . . Rudy . . . uh . . .”

  “Taylor. Yeah. Nice kid. Fate is a funny thing. His mother sent him to the store for some groceries. He went, but he stopped to talk to one of his buddies. And that was it. The guys in the car were cruising the neighborhood looking for the youngster who had stung them on a drug sale. The lads were stoned out of their skulls anyhow. Plus Rudy did look a little like the guy they were after. So they shot him dead. Just like that.

  “Since then, almost everybody in the parish, especially his mother, has been speculating on what if . . . what if . . . what if. What if he hadn’t met his friends? What if he had just gone on to the store? He might be alive. Hell, he would be alive.”

  “Tough funeral.”

  “You said it.”

  “I had a tough one about a week ago.”

  Kramer’s expression changed. Koesler noted it but only momentarily.

  “That prostitute who was murdered,” Koesler said. “You must have read about it . . . named Bonner. To this day I still can’t quite figure out how I got that funeral.” He shook his head. “I took a lot of heat before, but mostly after.”

  “The chancery?”

  “No, not downtown, thank God. Some parishioners . . . some of those ‘concerned Catholics.’”

  “I saw some of that funeral on TV. How did you get it?”

  “Funny thing: The officer who’s investigating the case asked me to take it . . . and he’s not even a Catholic.”

  “I . . . I think I saw him interviewed on that same newscast . . . the day of the funeral. What was his name?”

  “Uh . . . Tuller. No. Tully. Yes, Tully. Lieutenant Tully.”

  “Tully.” Kramer seemed to be memorizing the name.

  “Then there was that second prostitute. Killed the same way, the same horrible way, the papers said.”

  “Yeah . . .” Kramer seemed abstracted.

  “I wonder if it will happen again,” Koesler said.

  “What?”

  “I said, I wonder if it’ll happen again. The papers described them as serial murders. The reporter said the police said it could happen again. I wonder if it will. What do you think?”

  “How should I know?” Kramer said, a whit testily.

  Koesler sensed that he might be overstaying his welcome. After all, when one was as nearly a hermit as Kramer, visits should be kept to a minimum in time and frequency until the recluse feels comfortable with company.

  “Hey, Dick,” Koesler said, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  He paused to allow Kramer to express the usual disclaimer of polite society. Something like, “Oh, do you have to leave already?” When it was clear that no such empty reassurance would be uttered, Koesler continued. “But it was good seeing you. We’ll have to do this again. Hey, you know where St. Anselm’s is; why don’t you stop by sometime? Bring Therese if you want. We can sit around for a couple of hours and solve most of the Church’s problems . . . what do you say?”

  “Sure, sometime.”

  With that, Koesler left, concentrating carefully on how he was going to escape from these ancient catacomblike buildings. He had to remember which doors had been locked and which left unbolted. His sense of direction was, for once, remarkably unerring.

  As he drove away from Mother of Sorrows, Koesler rehashed his conversation with Kramer. All in all, it had not gone badly. A bit awkward at the beginning and end, but Koesler attributed that to Kramer’s workaholism. The poor guy relaxed so seldom it was only natural that he would be ill at ease at the outset and, in the end, tire of the conversation.

  Koesler resolved to keep this social contact with Dick Kramer open and also, at his next visit with Monsignor Meehan, to report that all seemed reasonably well with Father Kramer.

  Koesler was grateful that Meehan had suggested this renewal of an old friendship. He felt that he had accomplished something this day.

  18

  Arnold Bush never went on dates. Or, in the words of Sir William Schwenck Gilbert, hardly ever.

  For one, he didn’t know what to do about women. His upbringing had been so grossly muddled, he felt at best ambivalent about females. The time spent living in a house of ill repute—as a bygone era described it—had convinced him that women were manipulative, shallow, insincere frauds.

  The archconservative Catholic school he had attended taught him that women were to be reverenced, respected, left untouched before—and pretty much after—marriage. At one extreme of his imagination stood the seductive whore; at the other the Blessed Virgin Mary. As a result, he never quite achieved any sort of realistic blending of these attitudes.

  While he harbored violent tendencies toward women, he scarcely ever got close to a woman, let alone violated her. While he went well beyond Church doctrine in adoration of the Blessed Virgin and kept pictures and statues of her, these objects shared space with soft- and hard-core pornography on the walls of his apartment.

  He was filled with so many varying positive and negative vectors that he hardly ever moved off square one when it came to initiating any sort of social contact with a woman, much less asked one for a date.

  Enter Agnes Blondell, an attendant in the Wayne County Medical Examiner’s Department. She had been increasingly attracted to Arnold over the brief time they had worked together.
She couldn’t put her finger on any one incident that caught her attention. It was the whole thing.

  For starters, he did not come on to her the way almost every other man did. He had kept his distance. Very suave, almost continental, she thought.

  Agnes was endowed with, as one of her many boyfriends had put it, a figure that would not quit. By actual measurement—and she had actually measured—38-28-40.

  Her final reservation concerning Bush disintegrated when she saw a manifestation of his strength. The way he had manhandled a few of the other attendants at the morgue! The respect, if not downright fear, in which he was subsequently held! Yet he did not go out of his way to pick a fight. No; he just stood up for what he wanted. He was the strong, silent type who did not appear to be your run-of-the-mill octopus when it came to women. He certainly seemed to be Agnes Blondell’s kind of guy.

  So it was, late Thursday afternoon, that Agnes took the initiative. “Doin’ anything tomorrow night after work, Arnie?”

  He had not anticipated any such overture. Indeed, hardly anyone ever familiarized his name. He was either “Bush” or “Arnold.” Thus he was uncharacteristically flustered. “After work? Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, Friday, tomorrow, after work ... got any plans?”

  If he did, he certainly could not recall any of them at this moment. “I don’t know. I guess not. No, I can’t think of any.”

  “So then, howdja like to go out somewhere? Maybe a movie or something?”

  “Geez, I don’t know . . . uh . . .”

  “Agnes. Don’t you know my name, Arnie?”

  “Of course. Agnes Blondell.” Bush was very much aware of Agnes Blondell as was every other still living man at the morgue. But while the others fantasized about “Jugs” Blondell, Bush had no clue as to how to relate to her.

  “Call me Aggie, Arnie. All my friends do.”

  “But we’re not friends.”