The Rosary Murders Page 23

  Koznicki turned Morris to the door. As Harris took the little man’s arm to lead him from the office, Koznicki gave the druggist a reassuring pat on the back, saying, “Mr. Morris, I’m not sure who our man wants next. But I can assure you, it isn’t you.”

  With that, Morris was whisked from the room, wondering whether he wasn’t in this thing over his short head.

  He would have been sure he was, had he heard the order telephoned by Koznicki immediately after his departure. “Dan, have a couple of the boys keep an eye on Morris—just in case.”

  Koznicki was definitely a belt-and-suspenders man.

  Father Robert Koesler was in the living room of St. Ursula’s rectory. He was seated in an overstuffed chair, smoking a cigarette. He had just officiated at the noon Palm Sunday Mass. In half an hour, he would return to the church for baptisms. For the moment, he was left alone with his thoughts.

  As usual, he was thinking about the Rosary Murders. The bizarre string of killings had had a pervasive effect on the entire city. But nowhere was the awareness more pronounced than in the Catholic churches. The danger seemed to be in thinking and speaking about them too much. There was a Gospel message in them, of course. But the Gospel message was far more broad than the violence of murder. And the entire Gospel must be preached.

  One by-product of the killings was the fact that more people seemed to be going to church since the murders had begun a little over a month before. At first, the increase in numbers going to confession on Saturdays and attending Mass on Sundays seemed attributable to its being Lent. But there were too many to be explained away by this penitential season. Koesler had conducted an informal poll of metropolitan priests. All had experienced an otherwise inexplicable influx of sinners.

  Koesler smiled. Strange how people get religion when something upsets the normal flow of life. He remembered the Cuban crisis. On a Thursday evening, President Jack Kennedy had announced a blockade of Cuba. The ensuing Saturday night confessions were more numerous than those of Christmas and Easter combined. Everyone who could remotely be considered Catholic came to Mass that Sunday. Then, as Dean Rusk put it, “We’re eyeball to eyeball, and I think the other fellow just blinked.”

  And as the Soviet vessels turned away from Cuba and returned to Russia, normal religious indifference returned to America.

  Attendance at Masses this morning had been slightly more than even standing-room-only. At the 10 A.M and noon Masses, people were even standing on the outside steps of the church. Fortunately, the weather was decent. Koesler guessed the crowd was due to a combination of uneasiness over the killings, and the fact that it was Palm Sunday.

  And that was another puzzle. Koesler’s stream of consciousness led him on. It was easy to understand why Christmas and Easter drew larger than ordinary crowds of worshippers. Those two days were well promoted by commercial interests as well as by the ordinarily less successful efforts of religions. But Palm Sunday, and—now that he thought of it—Ash Wednesday, always drew uncommonly large numbers. He wondered if the answer could possibly be that those were the only two feasts when the Church gave something tangible. Ash Wednesday, blessed ashes to wear on one’s forehead; Palm Sunday, a blessed frond to hang in one’s house. Perhaps the Church should begin giving blessed dishes on ordinary Sundays.

  At this point, as his rationality was beginning to unravel, the phone rang. Since he was the only one in, Koesler answered it.

  “St. Ursula’s,” he identified.

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “Is this Father Robert Koesler?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Lieutenant Walter Koznicki, Father. I didn’t expect you to answer the phone.”

  “Nobody else here. What can I do for you, Lieutenant? I’ve got to go baptize some babies in a few minutes.” He added the latter, aware how insistent the lieutenant could be. When the lieutenant wanted a body in front of him, he got it.

  “This won’t take but a moment, Father. I have an appointment with your archbishop tomorrow morning at nine. I was wondering if you would mind accompanying me.”

  “Tomorrow at nine? Yes, I believe I can make it. But why do you want me there?”

  “Several reasons. If nothing else, what we speak of may require some communication with the priests and religious of the archdiocese. And communication is at least your avocation.”

  “I’m not trying to get out of this, Lieutenant—but we do have a communications office.”

  “Our experience with that office has not been—uh—productive.”

  “I understand. If you’d called them they’d probably tell you to call us.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But, tell me, Lieutenant. If I had hesitated, would you have told me you’d send a car for me?” He could hear Koznicki’s answering chuckle.

  “You are perceptive, Father. But I’m sure you would not refuse your archbishop’s invitation.”

  “You mean he knows I’m coming?”

  “The appointment was made for both of us.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lieutenant.” He hung up, shaking his head. It was reassuring to know the police department was efficient.

  Koesler checked his watch and noted he had only a few minutes till baptism time. He picked up the certificates that had been completed the day before by the parish secretary. There were only two babies to be baptized. Wonder of wonders.

  Koesler could remember when, even into the ’sixties, there were regularly as many as twenty babies for Sunday baptisms. Then came Vatican II, and the laity began solving their own personal problems. Gone were questions about birth control. And gone was the hitherto common sight of pregnant women in church.

  As he made his way over to the church, he considered the present position of the Church’s hierarchy. He said aloud to no one, “There go my people. I must hurry and catch up with them, for I am their leader.”

  “What I’d like to know,” Joe Cox called in from the kitchen, “is why in hell we had to go to church this morning?”

  Pat Lennon was stretched out in the reclining chair in the apartment’s living room. She had just begun reading the thick Sunday issue of the Free Press. “Because everybody goes to church on Palm Sunday.”

  “Not if you’re a lax Episcopalian. We go only at Christmas and Easter. How was I to know that by living with a lax Catholic, I’d get another day of church thrown in?”

  Cox was rinsing and shredding raw spinach leaves. Sundays, by mutual agreement, were his turn to make brunch. Invariably, it was a multi-ingredient salad. Between them, the day was known as super salad Sunday.

  “And, while we’re at it, what about your sales pitch that we’d hear Koesler preach? He said the Mass, but he didn’t preach.”

  “How am I supposed to remember they don’t preach on Palm Sunday because they read a long Gospel? God! I go to church only three or four times a year. How’s a person supposed to keep track that way?”

  “Can’t you remember back to when you were a good Catholic?” Cox began rinsing and shredding romaine.

  “I’m trying to forget the good old days. They’re too painful. And quit picking on me; if you went to church more often, you’d have known the connection between rosaries and penance a long time ago.”

  Cox decided to add iceberg lettuce to today’s super salad. “Not in the Episcopalian church, I wouldn’t have. We got rid of things like rosaries ages ago. Besides,” he grinned, “I like the way I learned about it from you better.”

  Lennon reddened slightly. The memory of being discovered in that vacant office still embarrassed her. “Let’s not get into that again, love. The next time you feel amorous at work, I don’t care what you do, as long as it’s not with me.”

  “I can’t help it,” Cox protested, “sometimes I just feel so horny I could deflower a chicken.”

  “I don’t care. If you tried that twice at work with a chicken, the second time even she would tell you to cluck off.”

  There was a long silence that told
her he was laughing. “How long must I play straight man for you?”

  “Others may think you’re straight, but we who know you well know you’re kinky.”

  “Stop, already, or I won’t let you write sidebars to my feature story.” Cox began chopping carrots. “What, by the way, was so important about my hearing Koesler preach? Or was that just one of your maidenly ploys to get me to church?”

  “No. He’s good, they tell me. Besides, I thought you’d like to hear a sermon from the guy who first plugged you into the Rosary Murders.”

  “I guess I do owe him. That was a bigger break than Mrs. Cox ever thought her baby boy would get.”

  “This is a great story you’ve got in today on the Rosary Murders.”

  “Where’d they put it?”

  “Page one, where else?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The jump page.”

  “Where’d they put that?”

  “Page eleven.”

  “They could’ve put it on two.”

  “That’s another definition of fat chance. Too many ads on page two. And this is a long story. You must think you’re getting paid by the word.”

  Cox smiled. “Then they didn’t cut it.”

  “If they did, it should’ve been a book.”

  Lennon turned from the paper and gazed out the broad expanse of window that covered the entire length of the apartment’s living room. It was a breathtaking sight on this clear, sunny, springish day. To the right was a jutting corner of the new Renaissance Center. The rest of the view was an uncluttered panorama of Windsor and Detroit’s east side. On a clear day, she thought, you could see Mount Clemens. But who wants to?

  “What are the cops going to do now?” she asked.

  Cox was slicing a cucumber. “Whatever they do, they’re not going to panic. Not as long as Koznicki’s in charge.”

  Lennon smiled as she continued to contemplate, from her aerie, Belle Isle, that gem of a recreation island in the middle of the Detroit River. “You’ve really become Koznicki’s fair-haired boy, haven’t you?”

  Cox’s face had a serious look as he quartered a piece of green pepper. “No, not really. I figured him for a straight shooter. I’ve honored his embargoes. I’ve told him what I know. Maybe I’ve told him more than I would’ve another cop. But it’s worked both ways. He’s made sure I got a few breaks, too. But he hasn’t let me in on any of his bottom-line secrets. I didn’t expect him to.”

  “Secrets?”

  “I don’t even know how many there are in this case. But I know there are some things about this killer’s M.O. that the cops use to verify each successive murder—so they won’t get thrown off the track if someone else tries to pass himself off as the Rosary Killer. That’s how they were able to determine right off that Father Palmer, that priest who died of a heart attack, wasn’t one of his victims. Yeah, Koznicki’s task force has kept its secrets well.”

  “But what are they going to do?”

  “My guess is they’ll continue with the investigation the way they have from the beginning. They might just get lucky and crack it that way. But, come next Friday, I’ll bet they cover the priests and nuns like a blanket. According to my theory—”

  “Our theory. I gave you the clue.”

  “And may you continue to give me clues in the very same fashion. Anyway, according to our theory, this Friday should be the murderer’s final day to kill.”

  “Think it’ll go off?”

  “I don’t know. Probably it’ll all come down to luck. This latest nun he killed on Friday—that was unadulterated luck from every angle. It was luck that brought the visitor to see the nun at just the right moment. That luck brought the cop into the convent. And sheer luck that the killer was able to get away.”

  “How ’bout that composite picture they made from the druggist’s description?”

  “Look like anybody you know?”

  She picked up the paper again, turned back to the front page, and looked intently at the reproduction of the drawing. “No,” she admitted.

  “They never do.” His words seemed mumbled.

  “Hey,” she called, “are you getting choked up over this?”

  “No. I’m slicing an onion.”

  She rose from the chair, walked quietly to the kitchen door, and peered around the corner. Cox was no more than a foot from her. “How’s the salad coming?” she asked.

  “I’d say… ten minutes and counting.”

  “Can you put it on hold? I was just thinking how rotten it was that I’m horizontal and you’re vertical!”

  He frowned at her as he wiped his hands. “Very well…” He laughed, unable to continue the charade. “... if you insist.”

  He scooped her up and carried her down the hall toward the bedroom. The super salad was put on hold. For a while, it was completely forgotten.

  It was 8:30 A.M as Father Robert Koesler backed his car out of the garage adjoining St. Ursula’s rectory. It would take approximately twenty minutes to drive downtown. He was sure he could find a vacancy in one of the many parking lots and reach the chancery building within another ten minutes. Still, he knew he was cutting it close. He turned from Georgia onto Gratiot and was able to maneuver quickly into the fast lane of traffic. As usual, when driving these familiar streets, his mind was wandering.

  Meetings between him and the archbishop were extremely rare. Koesler remembered the time he had been called downtown about a dozen years ago. It was unusual for the archbishop to summon one of his many priests for a personal interview. Usually, it meant either being called on the carpet for some misdeed or a special sort of assignment.

  An ordinary assignment from one parish to another, back in those days, was accomplished through a simple form letter, which routinely began, “For the care of souls, I have it in mind to assign you to…” There followed the identification of where the priest would be spending his next five years—approximately.

  Koesler, at that time, was not aware of having done anything bad enough to be summoned to the chancery. It must, he had thought, be a special assignment. Even so, he had been stunned when the archbishop’s opening words were, “Father Koesler, I have it in mind to give you a special assignment. You will be the editor of the Detroit Catholic.”

  So astonished had he been by this announcement that Koesler, even now, could not remember what the archbishop had gone on to tell him about the archdiocesan newspaper. He recalled only the archbishop’s concluding words. “If you have no serious objection, we will consider this assignment to be final.”

  Koesler, at the time, could think of no serious objection other than that he didn’t want the assignment. And that, he concluded without verbalizing it, would not have been considered by the archbishop a serious objection.

  Thus, with no journalistic experience whatever, Father Robert Koesler had assumed what the Free Press, in a front-page article on the appointment, had described as an “influential” position. Koesler came to learn the position was short on influence but long on controversy.

  His reverie was interrupted as he neared downtown and had to concentrate on the intricate series of one-way streets that added to the difficulty of downtown driving. He found a parking spot a block from the chancery. As he entered the building, he was overwhelmed by the unmistakable figure of Lieutenant Walter Koznicki pacing the ground-floor corridor.

  “Ah, Father Koesler… how good of you to come,” Koznicki greeted him warmly.

  “Not at all.” Koesler smiled as he shook Koznicki’s hand. “I consider this a command performance, literally. I don’t know why I feel like apologizing…” He glanced at his watch. “…we’ve got two minutes to spare. But, sorry I’m on time.”

  “Shall we?” Koznicki gestured toward the elevator at the end of the corridor.

  They stepped into the elevator. It was operated by a fragile elderly gentleman, probably a retiree, thought Koesler, and, from what little the diocese paid him, well able to stay within the maximum allowed
by his social security.

  The man was reading last week’s Detroit Catholic. He looked up as the two entered the elevator. He knew neither. “Floor?” he asked.

  “Two,” answered Koesler.

  He looked at them again. “Names?”

  “Father Robert Koesler and Lieutenant Walter Koznicki.” Koesler unsnapped the top of his black raincoat, revealing the Roman collar he thought might reassure the operator.

  As the elevator began an extremely slow ascent, Koznicki noticed a small index card taped to the elevator’s front wall, directly in front of the operator. His name and that of his priest companion were the third and fourth on the list typed thereon. The archbishop’s appointments for the day, he thought. If one’s name isn’t on the list, one doesn’t get off on the second floor. Good security, he concluded.

  A conclusion that was reinforced when they emerged from the elevator and entered the deeply carpeted reception area. There was but one door in view, obviously leading to a staircase. The presence of a panic bar indicated that the door was locked from the other side.

  The two men hung their coats and hats inside a sliding cylinder that, when closed, preserved the decor of dark brown paneling.

  The reception area was long, narrow, and tastefully decorated. One wall displayed two coats of arms—one the archbishop’s, the other the pope’s. A secretary was seated at her desk in the far right corner of the reception area. She smiled and nodded when Koesler gave her his and Koznicki’s names.

  At precisely nine, a door out of view of the reception area opened. A few muffled words could be heard. A rotund, balding priest appeared and hurried toward the closet area, smiling nervously at no one in particular. Koesler watched with amusement. It was Father Ron Peterson. Putting two and two together, Koesler guessed that Peterson had just been assigned to a new pastorate. Judging from his unaccustomed ebullient state, Peterson probably had been moved from his down-at-the-heels Ferndale parish to one of the more affluent suburbs.