Marked for Murder: The Father Koesler Mysteries: fk-10 Page 3

  Koznicki controlled an apologetic smile. “Be fair, Alonzo. St. Aloysius is on Washington Boulevard serving a basically transient group. People go in and out all day. A funeral of any sort there can become a three-ring circus—especially one like the Bonner woman’s is bound to be.

  “You might try Old St. Mary’s or St. Joseph, or, even better, Sts. Peter and Paul.”

  “The point is, Walt, I haven’t got the time to shop around for a church for El.”

  “Then—?”

  “How about your friend?”

  “My friend?”

  “Father . . . what’s his name . . . Koesler?”

  “Father Koesler! But his parish is way out in Dearborn Heights!”

  “I know. But he’s your friend. He’d do it if you asked him. It would save me a helluva lot of time and it would please El. As a favor, Walt?”

  “I will phone him.”

  “I’ll check back with you later. . . . I’m obliged, Walt.”

  Tully permitted himself a slight smile as he walked the few blocks to the Wayne County Morgue.

  It had been late last night as he riffled through his files when the problem of El’s funeral had occurred to him. Ordinarily, he felt no responsibility for the final disposition of the bodies in cases he worked on. If he had, with Detroit’s homicide rate, most of his waking hours would be spent arranging funerals.

  El was different. She had friends. It wasn’t that. But none of her friends would be in a position to secure for her what she certainly would have wanted: a Catholic burial. He—Alonzo Tully—was the only one who might be able to pull it off.

  But he wanted more than simply a Catholic burial. When the idea first came to him, he, as had Walt Koznicki, initially thought of one of the core city parishes. He knew he wouldn’t have to look far to find one of those dedicated priests who not only would handle the funeral but would do so graciously.

  Tully wanted more.

  El had lived most of her life well beyond the outer fringe of polite society. He wanted her to have in death what, in life, had been beyond her wildest expectations. He wanted her funeral to be held at a respectable, reasonably well-off suburban parish.

  He had liked the idea from the first moment it had occurred to him. But which parish? He had no time, especially with the complex puzzle of her death to solve, to shop around in the ’burbs for a priest brave enough to take on what could easily become a most controversial requiem. He was not acquainted with any priests, in or out of the city.

  Then the figurative light bulb had lit over his head: Walt Koznicki’s friend.

  Tully, as well as everyone else in homicide, was aware that over the recent years, this priest—Koesler—had participated in some investigations. Always there had been something “Catholic” about the case, something that a priest would be familiar with.

  Tully had never had any direct dealings with this priest. But it was common knowledge in the department that Koesler and Koznicki had become close friends.

  That, then, was the key: Get Koznicki to ask his friend.

  He was sure Koesler would not refuse the request. Tully would contact the priest later, when he had time—whenever that might be—to take care of the details. But for the next few days, it would have to be one thing at a time.

  He entered the vast, nearly empty lobby of the morgue.

  “Hi,” Tully greeted the receptionist. “The M.E. start yet?”

  “He just went down.”

  Tully took the stairs to the basement. As he neared the autopsy chamber, that distinctive odor that early on had made him gag became pervasive.

  Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann was at work.

  Stretched out in long aluminum trays were three corpses. In front of each was a lectern on which was a form with the outline of a human body. Normally, the M.E. moved from one body to another, making notations on each chart, indicating the location of injuries, wounds, and the like.

  But today Dr. Moellmann was giving his undivided attention to the body on the middle tray.

  Tully and Moellmann knew each other well. The detective attended autopsies on his cases faithfully. And although Moellmann tended to play the flamboyant showman, Tully knew the doctor was one of the most competent medical examiners in the country. Perhaps in the world. Each respected the other’s professionalism and expertise, even if the two were locked into role playing.

  Though Moellmann became aware of Tully’s presence, he did not turn to formally acknowledge it. “Your case, Lieutenant?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Interesting. Very interesting. I don’t believe we’ve had one like this before.”

  At this point, Tully guessed why Moellmann was giving his exclusive attention to the corpse of Louise Bonner. Like a psychotherapist who has treated too many emotionally disturbed people, the M.E. had autopsied so many corpses that the bodies virtually had lost their distinctiveness. There were so many shootings, drownings, asphyxiations; deaths from sharp and blunt instruments; traffic deaths, OD’s. The medical examiner reaped the maimed shells of what had been God’s most intricate creation. Though it might be noted that Moellmann believed neither in any afterlife nor in God. His incredulity was his peculiar reaction to his work.

  Thus, just as the psychotherapist who is sated with manic-depressives, phobics, and the like, so was Moellmann inundated with death pure and simple. The psychotherapist’s interest might be whetted by a rare psychological aberration. Moellmann clearly was excited by the challenge offered by this mutilated body.

  “Was strangulation the cause of death?” Tully asked.

  “What?”

  It was as if Moellmann had been roused from some private reverie. “Oh . . . yes, it certainly seems so. Yes, asphyxial death. There’s a tremendous fullness of blood in the internal organs. But she was not eviscerated until at least—oh, ten minutes after death. Otherwise, the heart would still have been pumping and she would have lost much of this blood.”

  Moellmann moved back and forth between the body and the lectern. He made many notations on the chart.

  Tully next spoke when Moellmann turned his attention to the mark of the cross on Louise’s breast. His face was only inches from the body as he studied the branding.

  “So . . . ?”

  “Mmmm . . .” Moellmann touched the edge of the mark. “. . . unquestionably makes this one unique. Makes it a ritual. A ritual killing.”

  Ritual. Tully’s brain went into quickstep

  He would have to enlist the aid of the news media. This murder, unlike many other killings in Detroit, would make the news—at least the local news. The police as well as the medical examiner’s staff would have to keep certain details from the media. At the same time, they would direct the media not to divulge certain other details to the public. This sort of crime could more likely be solved if the authorities alone—besides the killer, of course—knew all the details.

  “What do you make of it, Doc?”

  “It’s a cross, of course. The mark seems to have been made by some metal instrument. Very thin. We’ll get exact measurements. Heated. Was there a stove in the room?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then heated over the stove. There may be two parts to this instrument.”

  “Huh?”

  “The vertical mark is more clear, more burned in, than the horizontal mark. Possibly the thing comes apart. Then he would have to put it together—fit one beam into the other, as it were. . . . Wait: This is interesting.”

  Moellmann was now using a magnifying glass. “There’s some sort of . . . something on this horizontal mark. It looks like letters of some sort. Perhaps just the upper part of letters. It isn’t clear because the breast curves just there. It appears he may have wanted to leave a message of some kind, but failed. Maybe because he hadn’t counted on the curvature of the breast.”

  “Can you get me that, Doc?”

  “We’ll have enlargements made. But I don’t know that you’ll be able to make heads or tails of it.” Moe
llmann continued to study the marks. “Definitely the top portions of letters. But it’s almost impossible to supply the bottoms. I can’t make any sense of it. It might be four words. There’s one open space on the left side of the vertical bar and one space on the right side.”

  “Nobody knows anything about this but us,” Tully cautioned.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s the best we’ve got so far.”

  “The belt that was used to strangle her was one inch and seven-eighths wide.”

  Considerably wider than the average belt. That was unusual—and helpful. Anything unusual was helpful.

  From the scrapings taken from under El’s fingernails, it was determined that the belt had been of black leather. Evidently she had clawed at it while being garroted.

  The remainder of the autopsy reverted to the routine. It was established that the deceased’s stomach was nearly empty except for the remains of a hamburger. Tully recalled a greasy spoon near the corner of Third and Willis, El’s prime place of business. She had probably stopped sometime yesterday afternoon for a snack. Maybe the proprietor or some of the customers had noticed something.

  It was worth a try. Tully returned to headquarters, picked up Mangiapane, and returned to the area in Cass Corridor that belonged to the hookers, their pimps, and their Johns.

  Meanwhile, eventually, the autopsy on the body of Louise Bonner was completed. One of the attendants put Louise back together and sewed her up.

  The attendant who ministered to Louise had taken an extraordinary interest in her from the very beginning of work today. In fact, he had almost come to blows with another attendant over custody of Louise’s body. The scuffle had to be broken up by the technical assistant who was supervising the attendants. Both men had been warned at this time that they were on probation and could be dismissed summarily. But for a little while, the tussle had been the prime topic of conversation among the technical assistants.

  Until that moment, only a few of the assistants had even known the name of Arnold Bush. Now his name would become almost an “in” word and Bush would become the subject of ribald humor, most of it having to do with necrophilia and his willingness to do battle over a dead whore.

  But the jokes for the most part were exchanged behind Bush’s back. For Arnold Bush had a short fuse and, despite a very commonplace appearance, he was uncommonly strong. He was a loner. And, especially after this morning’s brief turmoil, he was left alone.

  The attendant Bush had vied with for custody of Bonner’s body had bruises on both arms. He showed the bruises readily, hoping for some sympathy. The marks of Bush’s fingers were clearly evident. Anyone who could cause such injury simply by grabbing another’s arms was given a wide berth.

  Thus no one else challenged Arnold Bush’s claim to exclusive care for the remains of Louise Bonner.

  4

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Alonzo Tully approached St. Anselm’s rectory. He had phoned earlier to make sure that, first, Walt Koznicki had contacted Father Koesler regarding El’s funeral and, second, that this would not be too late to call on the priest.

  It had been a busy day. Tully was tired with that peculiar enervation that comes after pursuit down a series of blind alleys.

  Which was not to say there hadn’t been any progress. The M.E. had been particularly helpful. Now, if only they could determine what words, what message, had been burned into El’s breast. That might clarify the entire mess. That could be the key.

  Ever since this morning’s discovery of the partial lettering, Tully had been certain that his initial premise was correct. This was a mob-sponsored killing in retaliation for El’s having given him some tip, some information.

  The problem was, what message did the ritual convey? It did not seem manifestly symbolic. What could it symbolize, the garroting, the gutting, the cross? That damned cross! The message was in those words. It had to be.

  Tully had checked with the M.E.’s office periodically throughout the day. But, as yet, nothing. All they would tell him was that they were working on it.

  Otherwise, it had been a day like so many he had spent in past investigations. A day where you take on the street and the street people. People who knew nothing. People who knew something, but weren’t going to help a cop.

  The owner of the greasy spoon remembered El. She was a regular, a regular in that restaurant of ill repute and a regular on that corner. He remembered serving her the hamburger, the remains of which Moellmann found partially digested in El’s stomach. But he’d read the early Monday papers and knew what happened to El, so he knew nothing more. Whether or not he could have helped, it was obvious he wasn’t going to.

  Much more disposed to cooperate were the street hookers. On the one hand, one of their number had been murdered and each knew, at all times, that the same could happen to any of them. So the quicker the weirdo John was put away, the safer life would be for all of them. Additionally, many, particularly the older women, knew Tully from his days on the vice squad. They knew him to be eminently fair, even understanding and, more’s the miracle, often kind.

  Thus, Tully experienced a great deal more cooperation than did, say, Mangiapane. Even so, there just was not all that much information available.

  By far, Tully’s most significant breakthrough came from a woman who was both a friend of El’s and beholden to Tully for past favors.

  This woman had been working the street a few blocks from El’s corner. Yesterday had been particularly slow, she said, so she had been able to be more aware of details than she ordinarily would.

  It had been late afternoon, maybe about five, when she noticed something a little out of the ordinary. A black four-door sedan—a Ford, she thought, though she couldn’t come up with the exact model; but it was black and so was the driver—no, wait: He wasn’t a black—although she had thought he was the first couple of times she saw him. Yes, she saw him more than once because he seemed to be circling the same several blocks. About the third pass, she could tell he was white, but he was wearing black: black hat, black coat, collar pulled up

  She figured the guy was cruising, looking for a party. She would have pursued him more aggressively, but it was so damned cold she was almost frozen.

  What was so peculiar was the number of times he circled. Most tricks go around a couple of times making their selection. This guy kept going around and around—like he was looking for something else.

  This meshed with Tully’s hypothesis that the perpetrator took care to make sure El’s buddy was nowhere in sight.

  Intrigued by this somewhat erratic behavior, the woman, against her better judgment—what with the cold and all—walked over to Third to see the man’s next pass. There she saw somebody—she was sure it was El—get in the guy’s car. But dammit, she didn’t get a number. Nonetheless, it was another piece of the puzzle. A puzzle he was going to solve. Of that he was certain.

  Tully had no problem finding St. Anselm’s. His years on the force had made him familiar with all sections of the metropolitan area. Anselm’s was just north of Ford Road, set well back on West Outer Drive. As he saw it now, under a light cover of snow, with the Christmas crèche still up and the facade of the church illuminated by soft floods, it looked like a lovely Christmas card. El would enjoy being buried from this church.

  Father Koesler, in cassock, collar, and soft slippers, answered the rectory doorbell. Tully figured the slippers indicated either that the priest had sore feet or hoped their meeting would be brief, as bedtime was calling.

  Koesler greeted the officer and led him into the main office, which was none too large. At this hour, and given the identity of his guest, Koesler might have held their meeting in the rectory’s more comfortable living room. But in his phone call, Inspector Koznicki had briefly explained what it was Tully wanted. Koznicki had suggested nothing. He asked the priest for no favor, only cleared the way for the appointment.

  Although Tully had noticed the priest at Police Headquarters sever
al times over the past few years, he had always been too occupied to take much note of Koesler. Now, one on one, Tully took a closer look.

  The priest was taller than he had appeared at a distance—maybe six-foot-three. His thinning hair was completely gray and the cassock’s sash did not conceal a slight midriff bulge. The glasses were bifocals. There were no facial wrinkles, only a hint of laugh lines around the eyes to betray his late fifties age.

  Tully sat in one of the two visitors’ chairs. “I came to arrange for a funeral, Father. I never did this before.” Help me, his expression said.

  “That’s what Inspector Koznicki said. It’s for that woman who was killed yesterday?”

  Tully nodded.

  “Horrible,” Koesler said. “The paper said her body was mutilated.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tully was not about to confide details. In truth, Koesler did not want to know.

  “Well, Lieutenant, a couple of questions do come to mind. First, was the woman—Louise Bonner—was she a Catholic?”

  “Oh, yeah. I knew her pretty well. Every once in a while she’d talk about growing up Catholic. She even attended a Catholic school. ’Course, she didn’t go to church much lately . . . what with her, uh, profession and all. Is that a problem—that she didn’t go to church very often?”

  Koesler smiled. “It used to be. But not so much anymore.”

  Since the inspector’s call this morning, Koesler had been reluctantly awaiting this appointment. Instinctively, he was opposed to holding the rites at St. Anselm’s. He feared there would be a lot of publicity, not to mention notoriety, attending such a funeral. St. Anselm’s needed neither publicity nor notoriety.

  So, off and on through the day, Koesler had been formulating reasons why Louise Bonner could not be buried from his parish. The primary and overwhelming reason her funeral should not be here was, of course, that there was no reason why it should. At least no reason he could think of. Now he began exploring the soft underbelly of the matter.

  “These few times Louise attended church,” Koesler said, “did she ever come to St. Anselm’s?”