Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries: fk-10 Page 15

  He heard it. It was muffled, but he heard it. He nodded toward the stairs, then, followed by Mangiapane, raced up them. Now it was clearer. From inside the apartment at the head of the stairs— second floor, apartment 2A—came the sound of shouting. A male and a female.

  “Open up! Police!” Tully yelled. He didn’t wait for a response. A well-placed kick more shattered than simply opened the door. Tully bolted in, followed, after the proper precautionary interval, by Mangiapane.

  Standing at the far side of the room was a woman—white, of indeterminate age, but well worn and badly used. She was holding a knife, a large kitchen knife. She appeared to be terrified.

  Just inside the door stood a white man dressed in black. Black shoes, trousers, hat, winter coat with collar turned up. He too held a knife. It appeared to be a switchblade.

  “Police!” barked Tully. “Drop the knife! Both of you! Now! NOW!”

  The woman dropped her knife. The man hesitated.

  Tully pointed his gun directly at the man. “You got just about one more second to drop that knife.”

  It clattered to the floor.

  “That’s better.”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” the woman shouted. If she seemed frightened by the first man with a knife, she was clearly terrified by the addition of two more strangers with guns.

  Not taking his eyes off the man in black, Tully displayed his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Tully. This is Police Officer Mangiapane. What’s going on here?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” the woman said. “I was here, mindin’ my own business, when this guy walks in on me, wavin’ a knife around. Well, he don’t know who he’s takin’ on. I grabbed my knife too. Next thing I know, you two come in, wavin’ guns. So that brings me back to where we started: What the hell’s goin’ on here?”

  “Okay.” Tully had not looked away from the man. “Turn around,” he ordered. “Face the wall, feet apart. Then lean against the wall.” The man started to speak. “Now!” Tully insisted.

  The man shrugged and obeyed. Tully nodded to Mangiapane, who holstered his weapon and patted the man down. “He’s clean.”

  “Okay,” Tully said. “Turn around. Now: Who are you?”

  The man reached for his wallet. He had some difficulty since his hands were shaking markedly. As he opened his coat, his roman collar was revealed.

  Mangiapane gasped. “Holy shit, he’s a priest!”

  “That’s right; I’m a priest.” He sounded as if his throat and mouth were dry.

  Mangiapane read from the man’s driver’s license. “Richard Kramer—Father Richard Kramer.” He looked at the man. “You actually a Catholic priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “What parish?”

  “Mother of Sorrows.”

  “Out Grand River.”

  “Yes.”

  “Holy God!”

  Tully holstered his gun and approached the priest. “Mind telling us what you’re doing here?”

  “Sure.” Kramer licked his lips. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to restore normal moistness to his mouth. “I . . . I was called here.”

  “Who called you?”

  “I don’t know. A man. He didn’t identify himself. He said it was an emergency. That a woman was here. That she was in trouble. That she had to see a priest. That it was an emergency—oh, I said that.”

  “Why you? This can’t be your parish area.”

  “I asked him. He said he’d tried other parishes, that I was the only one he’d been able to reach.”

  “That made sense to you? I mean, there are hundreds of parishes in this city. You the only priest home?”

  “It . . . it’s possible. Sunday afternoon, most priests are out of the rectory. Besides, he . . . he didn’t have to call every parish in the city before he got me. We’re not that far from downtown.”

  “So, all the other priests go out Sunday afternoon—except you?”

  “I didn’t . . . I didn’t say that. I said m-most priests.” Kramer had never in his life stammered. Then again, he’d never been in such a situation before.

  “So, you were home this afternoon ...at the rectory?” Tully kept up the interrogation as if no one else were in the room.

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “No.”

  “Were you also home the past two Sunday afternoons?”

  Kramer pondered for several moments. “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Convenient.”

  “What . . . what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tully picked up the knife the priest had dropped. “Tell me, Father . . .” there was a mocking tone when he pronounced the priest’s title, “is it your usual practice to enter a room where there’s somebody sick or somebody who wants to see a priest with a drawn knife?”

  “I ain’t sick and I didn’ wanna see no goddam priest,” the woman said.

  The other three seemed to have forgotten her. They continued to do so.

  “The knife was in my pocket when I came in here.”

  “That’s not what the lady says.”

  “She . . . she’s lying.”

  “Like hell I am!”

  “Guess it’s her word against yours.”

  “But I’m a priest!”

  Tully shrugged.

  Kramer found it hard to believe the officer would not honor a priest’s word. Nothing more was said for a moment. Kramer fumbled for a cigarette and lit it. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked after the fact.

  “Mind if I see the lighter?” Tully reached toward Kramer, who surrendered the lighter.

  “Nice,” Tully said. “Big.”

  “I smoke a lot.”

  “Big enough to heat, say, a small branding iron if there wasn’t a hot plate handy.”

  “Huh? What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Father Kramer’s attitude became assertive. “I think it’s just about time for some explanations from you. I mean, I was called out of my rectory this afternoon and asked to visit someone who needed a priest. I went way out of my way to make a sick call. I didn’t break into this place. I knocked on the door. This woman invited me in. Then, for no reason, she pulled that huge knife out of the drawer. So, naturally, I drew my knife—in self-defense.”

  “Pretty big knife.” Tully hefted the weapon. “Now why would a priest be carrying such a big, sharp knife?”

  “I’m a carpenter as well as a pretty good mechanic. I always carry it with me. Frequently I’ll whittle on some wood.”

  “Okay, go on: You say she pulled a knife, so you did too. Then . . .?”

  “That’s it. I asked her to put her knife away. And she started screaming at me. That’s when the two of you broke down the door.”

  Tully turned to the woman. “What’s your name?”

  “Mae Dixon.”

  “Okay, Mae, the next time you tell your story, you’re gonna be under oath. If you lie then, it’s perjury. And if you change your story too many times, nobody’s gonna believe you. You see Officer Mangiapane over there, taking notes, writing all this down? Well, it’s part of the record. It’s admissible in court.

  “Now, if you change your story in court, the judge is gonna have two different accounts from you about this. What’s he gonna believe? You might be tellin’ the truth in court. But if they don’t believe you then, that’ll be perjury. And that’s jail for a long, long time.

  “So, how about it, Mae? You want to tell us the story the way you’d tell it in court?”

  She thought this over. “Okay. I don’t know how the hell he happened to come here. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Just takin’ the day off, like.”

  “You weren’t ‘expecting anyone’? You are then . . .”

  “A hooker. God, you’re gonna find that out anyway. Yeah, I’m a hooker. But I wasn’t gonna screw today. Then all of a sudden, there’s this knock on the door. I thought maybe it was one of my regulars.”

  “No app
ointments? You get Johns just any old time?”

  She cackled. “These days I’m lucky to get any tricks at all, Sonny. But it wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, a long time ago, they were waitin’ for me to have time for them. But, God, that was a long time ago.”

  “Go on.”

  “Where was I?”

  “You heard a knock on the door. You thought it might be one of your regulars.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. So I just said, ‘Come on in.’ Hell, no use lockin’ that door; all you have to do is push it . . . locked or unlocked. God! Look what you did to the goddam thing! It’s in splinters.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “Where was I?”

  Tully sighed. “Someone knocked on the door. You invited him in even though you didn’t know who it was.”

  “You don’t understand. Regulars do that. They just come on up. If I’m busy, they wait.”

  Tully couldn’t decide whether the idea of people waiting in line for Mae was funny or was going to make him sick. “Then what happened?”

  “Well, this guy, this priest, I guess, came in. He surprised me. I mean, he wasn’t no regular. I never seen him before. And he’s all dressed in black. Then I saw his collar. That’s when I went for my knife.”

  “So,” Tully said, “he didn’t have a knife in his hand when he came in.”

  She worked her mouth as if chewing on her next word. “Well, no . . . not ’zactly . . . not really.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah . . . but what else could it be? I saw them stories in the papers and on TV—about how this guy dressed like a clergyman was killin’ us. When it happened the second time, why, hell, wasn’t a hooker in town wasn’t on her guard. And by damn, I wasn’t goin’ down without a fight. So I got my knife. Then, quick as a wink, don’t he pull out that shiv and shake the blade out real professional. And that’s when I started yellin’. I guess I didn’t expect any help . . . not around here. But I thought if I started yellin’ I might scare him off. Then you guys come stormin’ in like gangbusters.

  “I didn’t know what the hell to think. I’ll tell you, I never thought I’d be glad to see a cop!”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Kramer said. “It’s just a case of mistaken identity. Whoever phoned me was either a practical joker or he was confused about the address. When I came in, this lady simply confused me with someone else.”

  Kramer looked from one officer to the other, not sure whether it would be possible for him to just walk out.

  “That’s the way you see it, Kramer,” Tully said, “but that’s not the way I see it.

  “On two consecutive Sundays, a man in black, with a clerical collar, driving a black Ford Escort, has been selecting over-the-hill white prostitutes to kill and mutilate. I had a hunch he’d do it again on the third consecutive Sunday afternoon—today. Then you drive into this red-light district in a black Ford Escort, dressed in clerical clothing and collar. You head for the apartment of a woman who fits the general description of the previous two victims. You’re carrying a knife that could gut a deer. Guess who I think you are?”

  “You can’t . . .” Kramer was perspiring freely. The apartment was warm, but that had little to do with the sweat that soaked his underclothing.

  “Remember last week, Kramer,” Tully continued, “when you went back to your car after you killed Nancy Freel? You were going back to mutilate her. Remember just before you reentered the building, you looked to one side and maybe you saw the woman who was watching you? Well, she’s our eyewitness. And she’s going to identify you.” Tully was almost nose to nose with Kramer.

  Kramer shook his head as if denying all this was happening.

  “Open your jacket, Father Kramer,” Tully ordered.

  Near petrified with nameless apprehension, Kramer fumbled with the single button that held the front of his jacket together. As he undid the button, the jacket fell open.

  Tully smiled. “That’s one of the widest belts I’ve seen. That belt might just hang you . . . Father.”

  “W . . . what . . .?”

  “Officer Mangiapane is going to read you your rights. Listen to them carefully. Then we’re gonna take a very short ride down the block to Police Headquarters.”

  There was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs.

  For an instant, Tully wondered who it might be. Then he remembered: He had called for back-up from the other detectives on his squad who were on surveillance in other districts.

  They certainly had taken their sweet time getting here. He could have been dead by now!

  When he got a chance, he would read them the riot act. But for now, he felt too satisfied and fulfilled to stay angry at anybody.

  20

  Bob Pisor, weekend anchor man for Channel 4 News, opened the 11:00 P.M. report with an account of the arrest of the Cass Corridor Ripper, as he had been christened by the local news media.

  “Police announced tonight,” Pisor said, “that there has been an arrest in the Cass Corridor Ripper case. For the past two weeks, fear has plagued the city’s ladies of the evening, as a killer who first murders, then mutilates his victims, has been on the loose.

  “According to witnesses, who have provided the police with a sketch of the suspect, the man has been garbed as a clergyman. Until tonight, police had no other clues in this case. But in a surprising twist, an arrest was made late this afternoon. And, in the most astonishing development of all, the man alleged to be the murderer is, indeed, a clergyman.

  “We’ll go live to Police Headquarters and Channel 4 reporter Gerald Harrington right after these messages.”

  21

  “Feel good, Zoo?”

  Alice and Tully were seated on the living room couch before the glow of the well-used fireplace.

  “You betcha.” Tully was not paying a great deal of attention to the TV news. For him it was a rerun. He had been there for the original drama.

  Tully and Alice each held a mug filled with a mixture of hot tea and rum. It would be a pleasant nightcap. At the moment, since Alice had just put the concoction together, it was too hot to drink. They warmed their hands on the mugs.

  “Were you surprised?” Alice asked.

  “At what?”

  “That he was a real priest.”

  “Not much.” Tully thought about the question. He was answering the woman he loved, not the news media or the guys in the squad. No need to be a smartass. “Yeah ... I was.”

  “So was I. I’ve never been able to figure out why the guy wore a clergyman’s outfit. At first, I figured he couldn’t possibly be for real . . . that he must have been wearing it as some kind of disguise.”

  “It’s been a good question all through this business. That’s why I gave it little thought. I figured the same as you: It had to be somebody pretending to be a clergyman; I figured it must have been to gain the hooker’s immediate trust. The two who went with him to their death probably didn’t have the slightest doubt that they would be safe.”

  “But what would they think about a priest being a John? I mean, that has to be different.”

  “Listen, if hookers stay in the business long enough, they get to service just about every possible kind of guy. When they’re young and fresh with tight skin, they may be screwing the chairman of the board, the corporation president, the movers and shakers. As they get used up, they move down the ladder. Then it’s blue-collar, kids, old men. So if they hang in long enough, they’ll probably get everybody, including priests, ministers, and rabbis.

  “But the worst thing that can happen to them is when they get a weirdo. And it can happen at any level. Guy says he wants a special trick. She puts her head down and he puts a knife at her neck. Or he sticks a gun in her ear. Maybe plays Russian roulette.”

  “No!” Alice shuddered.

  “And worse. It’s the most consistent risk the hooker has to face. And she does it practically every time she turns a trick. After a while, if they learn anything�
�and if they survive—they get to sense who’s safe and who isn’t.”

  “But they could still get taken in by a guy who is actually dressed like a priest?”

  “That’s what I figured. Those two gals had been around. They’d probably seen it all. But I’d be willing to bet they didn’t get many clergymen who went so far as to dress the part. If he figured he threw them off with the outfit, made them lower their guard, I guess he was right.”

  “So you think it didn’t actually matter whether the guy was or wasn’t a real clergyman? Whatever he was, he was using the uniform to quiet their apprehensions and get them to go with him without a second thought.”

  “I think so. So it didn’t matter. I got to admit, I never actually was sure it would be a real priest. But it doesn’t matter; priest or not, we got the guy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure?”

  “That this priest did it.”

  “Huh?”

  “That radio guy on WJR . . . he sort of left everything up in the air.”

  “What? When was that?”

  “The nine o’clock news, I think it was. He gave the impression that the priest had an alibi.”

  “Not an alibi, but an explanation. Claims he was on a sick call or something. Person unknown calls, tells him somebody needs him. So he just ‘happens’ to arrive driving the car we’re looking for, wearing the clothing we’re expecting, going to the prime area we have under surveillance, looking just exactly the ways he’s supposed to look, carrying a king-sized knife, with the right size belt holding up his pants. It’s like the wolf telling Little Red Riding Hood it’s just a coincidence he’s waiting for her in grandmother’s bed. It won’t wash. It just won’t wash.”

  Alice looked relieved. The soundness of Tully’s case had been troubling her ever since the earlier radio newscast. There was only one more doubt bothering her. “But isn’t your case—what do they call it—circumstantial?”

  “We’ve been through that before, Al, in other cases. There ain’t a thing wrong with a case based on circumstantial evidence. Like the rope . . . remember?”

  “Uh . . . oh, yes. Now I do.”