Marked for Murder Read online

  Kramer made his way out of the room and the house as speedily as he could.

  “Can you imagine that?” observed the bystander. “TV makes the Father nervous.”

  “Poor man,” said another bystander.

  9

  “Police are continuing their investigation into the murder of Ms. Bonner.” TV reporter Ken Ford spoke in hushed tones into his handheld microphone as, in the background, the simple casket was carried into St. Anselm’s. “With me is homicide detective Lieutenant Tully. . . .” The picture widened to include Tully’s impassive face. “Lieutenant,” Ford asked, “is there any progress to report in this case?”

  “We’re following leads. There’s been some progress. But there’s nothing really new to report.” Tully looked away from the camera, creating the true impression that he was uncomfortable being interviewed.

  “Look at that,” said Sam. “That guy ain’t wearin’ no hat.” He was referring to reporter Ford.

  Sam owned a small bump and paint shop on Second Avenue near Warren. Most of the other buildings in that block were either boarded up or gutted by long-ago fires.

  “It was goddam cold this morning,” Sam persisted. “Why wouldn’t he wear a goddam hat? That’s what I wanna know.”

  “I don’t know,” Arnold Bush said. “Maybe he’s trying to prove something.”

  “What—that he can catch the goddam flu?” Sam laughed at his own humor. The laugh disintegrated into a hacking cough. When he finally got the cough under control, he retrieved the stub of a stale cigar from an overflowing ashtray, relit the cigar, and coughed some more.

  Sam and Arnold had been friends for almost two years. They shared a natural mechanical ability, a love of working with their hands, a respect for tools, and an overpowering addiction to smoking. Sam smoked cigars, Arnold cigarettes.

  Although Bush had recently been hired at the Wayne County Medical Examiner’s department, he still spent much of his free time with Sam, helping with an occasional auto repair or just doing some fix-up work for someone or for himself. At this moment, he was painstakingly constructing frames for his most recent photos.

  “Oh, the hell with the news,” Sam said. “Maybe there’s a game show on . . . or maybe a basketball game.” He moved toward the television set, which was mounted high on the wall.

  “No! Leave it!” Arnold almost shouted. “I want to see this.”

  “Okay, okay.” Sam retreated from the TV and delicately balanced the cigar stub atop the pile of butts in the ashtray. “You don’t have to bite my ass off.”

  Bush put down the aluminum strip he had been working on and gave full attention to the report of Louise Bonner’s funeral.

  The TV camera zoomed in to a close-up of the coffin. It was a simple metal box. Louise Bonner would have been buried in the simplest coffin of all—a wooden box—except that her sister prostitutes had taken up a collection among themselves, raising, by almost anyone’s standards, a fairly generous amount. They ensured that she would be buried with dignity.

  A smile appeared on Arnold Bush’s face as he contemplated the casket. It was as if he had X-ray vision. He pictured Louise’s body beneath the lid, under the silken lining. He could see in his mind’s eye those photos of her mutilated torso—the very same photos for which he was now making frames. He recalled the procedures that had followed the picture-taking and the autopsy. He remembered in great detail personally tucking Louise’s organs back inside her body and sewing her up. Painstakingly sewing her up preliminary to the mortician’s work.

  In his as yet brief time with the medical examiner’s office, this was the first body that had been all “his.” He had reserved her to himself. He had almost come to blows over possession of her. He would have fought, too, had the other man pushed him further.

  Yes, this was “his” first body. It was not likely to be the last.

  Meanwhile, he was enjoying the pictures of the funeral.

  10

  “Inside, the church was filled to near capacity.” On the six o’clock news, TV reporter Ken Ford continued his muted commentary. “Many in this morning’s congregation were the merely curious who came to attend the last rites of a woman almost completely unnoted in life. A woman who might have remained unknown in death had it not been for the bizarre manner of that death.”

  Father Koesler grimaced as he watched the TV account of the funeral he had celebrated that morning. He had been having second, third, and fourth thoughts all day about what he had done. All that he had told Monsignor Meehan earlier about the funeral had come true. The afternoon Detroit News carried two photos with an accompanying story in its first section. Undoubtedly the Free Press would feature coverage in its early editions.

  Koesler could watch only one TV channel at a time. This happened to be channel 7. Later he would try channels 2 and 4.

  He was standing in the doorway between the rectory kitchen and the dining area. He was trying to cook supper, a never-ending adventure in his life. After this morning’s funeral, it had been easy for him to convince himself that he deserved a treat. So, on the way back from visiting Monsignor Meehan, Koesler stopped to purchase a succulent porterhouse steak.

  Ordinarily, he would flip something like that into a pan and fry it. But not this beauty. It deserved something better. Thus, he had solicited directions from one of his parishioners on the method of broiling. The parishioner had assured him that the process wouldn’t take long and that he should check the steak’s condition every few minutes, first to turn it, then to finish it.

  Several minutes ago he had set the stove’s control on “broil” and tenderly placed the steak in the oven. He had just now checked for progress. Nothing. The oven wasn’t even hot. But Koesler was a man of faith. The kind lady had told him how to broil a steak and by God he was going to follow directions to the bitter end.

  While waiting for some action from the oven, he had made himself a cup of instant coffee, which he was now sipping. He could not understand why his coffee was so universally disliked. He found it quite good. But it was difficult for him to recall anyone who had tasted his coffee ever accepting another cup. Ever.

  “In the congregation,” reporter Ford continued, “were many of the slain woman’s friends and former associates. . . .” Ford put a peculiar emphasis on the words “friends” and “associates.” The picture made his implication quite obvious, especially if one kept in mind that Louise Bonner had been a prostitute. Koesler winced as the camera panned that section of the church where the working women had clustered.

  In hindsight, Koesler wished he had not turned on the heat in the church. For the ladies had removed their coats, revealing clinging dresses that hugged curves and accentuated bosoms. That, plus their extravagant makeup, made it less than necessary for the reporter to get explicit about their line of business.

  Koesler was just beginning to wonder how much longer it would take for . . . when the phone rang.

  “Father?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you realize that the founding pastor of this parish is spinning in his grave tonight. In one morning you have violated all that holy man stood for. It wasn’t bad enough that you staged a funeral for a known prostitute; you had to invite all the other fallen women in the city to this travesty of a sacred rite.”

  “Now, wait a minute: I didn’t invite anyone to this funeral. I merely agreed to bury from our church a Catholic woman who didn’t have a regular parish.”

  “If you didn’t invite them, who did? They were all there. I read about it in the News and now everyone is seeing it on television. This is a scandal of the highest kind. And since when has St. Anselm’s been a receptacle for the refuse of society? If the woman didn’t go to church, she should have been buried like a dog. At best she could have been buried from one of the inner city storefront churches.”

  Koesler thought he recognized the voice. “Just who is this?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

&nbs
p; “Well, I do. And I’m not in the habit of talking with anonymous cowards.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Mister, you’ve got one distinct advantage over me: I’m busy.” He slammed down the receiver.

  Immediately, he began to regret his action. How could he have said such harsh things to such a poor misguided soul?

  However, on second thought, this was not your run-of-the-mill poor misguided soul. This was the quintessential pharisee. The one whose pharisaical scandal Koesler had dismissed when he’d agreed to take on Louise Bonner’s funeral. And he hadn’t been unChristlike; Jesus had always reserved his harshest words and criticism for those disingenuous pharisees who fought truth and charity every step of the way.

  Besides, he had been correct about one thing: He was indeed busy. There was the matter of that luscious steak. What with the phone call, Koesler had temporarily forgotten it. Now anxious, he hoped it wasn’t overdone.

  He quickly moved to the stove, opened the oven door, and slid the meat out for inspection. Wonder of wonders, it was hardly cooked at all. He checked the heat gauge. It was firmly set on “broil.” Koesler shrugged. Instructions were instructions. And that nice lady would not have led him astray. Resigned to following this thing through to its natural conclusion, he slid the steak back into the oven and closed the door.

  As it turned out, he was to have plenty of time for phone calls. For he had placed the steak in the roasting oven, which was immediately above the broiling oven. The steak was, in effect, roasting in the oven, heated by the broiler. But very s-l-o-w-l-y.

  It would be hours before the steak was done to Koesler’s desire. And it would be a long time before, in the course of casual conversation, he would discover how the stove had outsmarted him.

  11

  The leaders of the various homicide squads met routinely two or three times weekly with Inspector Koznicki to report on and discuss cases under investigation. It was at the conclusion of one such meeting on Friday afternoon that Koznicki asked Lieutenant Tully to remain behind.

  After the others left the meeting room, Koznicki said, “I wanted to talk to you a bit more about the Culpepper case.”

  Tully nodded, found the information in his folder, and slid the packet across the table.

  After studying it for a time, Koznicki said, “It seems to make no sense.”

  Tully shook his head. “Not the way it stacks up . . . although Mangiapane did a good job putting it together.”

  “As it stands, we have two men—what were they?—”

  “Brothers-in-law.”

  “Brothers-in-law. Culpepper picks up Moore at his usual time. The two travel to work via the same route they take every morning. Then, out of nowhere, a motorcycle pulls up even with the car. There are two men—according to eyewitnesses—on the ’cycle. The passenger on the ’cycle opens up with automatic fire. The car is ripped open and the two men are killed instantly.”

  Tully nodded.

  “There seems to be no motive.” Koznicki looked expectantly at Tully.

  “Not on the surface. Mangiapane couldn’t find any connection between Culpepper and the brother-in-law—Moore—and any land of illegal traffic. It looked like it could have been a drug or mob thing. A couple guys holdin’ out or movin’ in on somebody else’s turf. But Mangiapane couldn’t find a trace of that. Just two guys own a grocery store together. They’re both straight. Neither one’s makin’ a bundle. Then, one morning, they buy it.”

  “No one got a license number for the ’cycle?”

  “Too shocked. Happened too fast. People couldn’t believe their eyes. We’re lucky we got any description of the ’cycle guys at all. But something interesting happened today.”

  Koznicki raised his eyebrows.

  “The widow, Mrs. Culpepper, came in. Wanted to talk to Mangiapane, but he was on the street. So I talked to her. She wanted some kind of certificate stating that she was not a suspect. I asked her why she needed it and she said that the life insurance company wanted it before they would begin payment on her claim.” Tully grinned. “I told her we don’t do that sort of thing.”

  “You think—”

  “It’s a motive. She profits. Suppose she gets a contract out on her husband. She’s awful anxious to get to that insurance. She’d also like to get us out of her hair. It’s a shot. Mangiapane is on it now. He’s gonna lean on her pretty hard. She tried to be cool this afternoon but underneath she was nervous . . . plenty nervous. I think she’ll crack.”

  “Very good. Now, then, Alonzo, what about the Bonner affair? Is anything moving on that?”

  “At this moment, it’s dead in the water. We’ve got a guy driving a black Ford and he’s wearing black. Maybe he knows enough to recognize the buddy system, so he waits until El is alone on the street. He takes her to her pad and we know the rest. That’s all we know about him. The problem is what he did to her. He didn’t just kill her. He went way beyond that. And—and this is the big question—why?

  “I’m still going on the theory that El paid for being my snitch. Maybe the message was when he gutted her. But if there’s something there, I don’t know what it is. More likely, the message is in whatever it was he branded her with—that cross. And whatever those letters were he burned into her tit . . . that’s probably it. If we could figure out the words. If only we could figure out the words . . .”

  “The M.E. was no help?”

  Tully looked away from Koznicki. “I think the guy didn’t count on the contour of El’s tit. He burned in only the top half of the letters. Doc Moellmann thinks there are four words to the message. Nine letters in the first word, nine in the second, two in the third, and nine in the last.”

  “Making twenty-nine.”

  “Making twenty-nine,” Tully agreed. “I don’t even know if there’s a message in the numbers. Maybe . . .”

  “And you can make out none of the words?”

  Tully shook his head. “I sent enlargements over to Wayne State’s Humanities Department. Some experts in languages are looking them over. So far, nothing. Every spare minute I’m not going through my files trying to find the missing link that ties El to me, I’m going over those damn pictures, trying to break down the words. Most of the letters could be practically anything. It could drive you nuts.”

  “The case is getting old, Alonzo.” Koznicki was gently suggesting that it might be time to at least put it on the back burner.

  “I know, Walt. I know. In my saner moments, I know I’m not going to get any closer to it than I am now. But it’s gonna bug me till my dying day. Either that or somehow, someday, I’m gonna crack it.”

  12

  “Sunday, sweet Sunday, with nothing to do. . .”Alonzo Tully was humming the tune from “Flower Drum Song.” It expressed his sentiments perfectly. Today happened to be that rare Sunday when no duty called and he was determined to do nothing. But in order to fully appreciate doing nothing, one could not spend the day in bed.

  So, Tully had wakened at seven and cautiously slipped out of bed, careful not to rouse Alice. She had been quite explicit in the past about not wishing to share his early-bird habit.

  He had retrieved the Sunday News and Free Press from the front porch, brought them into the kitchen, brewed some coffee, made some toast, and settled himself at the table. He began skimming the papers, scanning headlines, stopping only to read the few articles that caught his interest.

  One such item was the column by Pete Waldmeir in the News. Once again, Waldmeir was taking on the city administration in general and Detroit Mayor Maynard Cobb in particular. This, for Waldmeir, had become routine. Of all the columnists in town, no one spent more time or ink on the mayor’s case than Pete Waldmeir.

  Maynard Cobb was black. And that, particularly to black Detroiters, was the most important feature of the mayor. To Tully, Cobb’s skin color was symbolic of Detroit’s radical change.

  Tully, born and raised in Detroit, easily recalled the early days, the days before any of the civil
rights legislation of the sixties. But mostly, the days before Cobb enraptured and captured Detroit.

  The fifties, perhaps the final decade of innocence for the United States, had been fun. A lot more fun if you were not in Korea or not one of America’s minorities. Blacks in Detroit were significant numerically and distinctive in lack of clout. The white majority lived blissfully more or less unaware that they formed the cork in a bottle seething with a dark liquid. Everything boiled over during the riots of 1967 and again in the wake of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr.

  And then came Cobb.

  It was the Reverend Jesse Jackson who first pointed out to fellow blacks that no one any longer was standing in the schoolhouse door. An allusion to George Wallace’s attempt to block the entrance of black students into Alabama’s all-white schools.

  While it was true that civil rights laws had technically removed racial obstacles to education and, to some degree, advancement, it was the election of Maynard Cobb that had opened doors and ushered blacks through them in Detroit. Then, as might be expected, patronage, appointments, and contracts began favoring minorities. And gradually, the complexion of the city’s majority changed from white to black.

  About nearly all of this Tully couldn’t have cared less. He left politics to the politicians, business to the businessmen, and religion to the preachers. He had cut out for himself a small island called the Detroit Police Department and an even tighter plateau called the Homicide Division. As soon as someone—he didn’t care who—cleared away the strictly racial impediments, he was free to rise as high in the department as talent, dedication, and hard work could take him.

  Now, as lieutenant in charge of one of the homicide squads, he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he wanted to do. He answered only to Walt Koznicki, something he could easily live with. And he spent his time solving puzzles of enormous human consequence.

  As a lad growing up on Detroit’s near east side, he could never have dreamed he would go this far.