All very interesting, but, “What about the brand?” Tully asked.
“Not so good.” Moellmann shook his head. It might be anyone’s guess whether his reaction was regret as to the inconclusiveness of the evidence, or disapproval of the sloppy work of an artist.
“Why ‘not so good’?”
“See . . .”Moellmann again used the magnifying glass, now in the area of the left breast. “I think he does not ever take into account the curvature of the breast.” He shook his head rather sadly. “Evidently, he applies the brand in a . . . uh . . . sequential way. See how deep the burn mark is, here on the upper portion of the breast: He applies the iron here first, it would seem. Then, probably by pronating or flexing his wrist, he impresses the vertical mark downward. He seems to want the horizontal bar to intersect just at the nipple. Then the vertical bar continues on down the torso.
“Where he makes his mistake is just under the nipple, where the breast curves away. That’s why we get the imprint of just the top portion of these letters. The bottom portion is just not sufficiently impressed. It’s even worse this time. Even less of the upper portion of the lettering was imprinted. We have less to go on now than we had last week.”
“Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless,” Tully said, “that’s all he wants us to know.”
“You mean he deliberately burns in only the upper portion of the letters?” Moellmann seemed more comfortable with the supposition that the carnal artist was deliberately giving them less than half a message rather than that he was committing an amateurish blunder.
The M.E. seemed to be enjoying a private joke as he returned to the lectern to make additional notes on the body chart. “Clever, clever, clever,” he murmured. Or at least Tully thought that’s what he was muttering.
It was Tully’s guess that this set of serial murders would provide a chapter in the next medico-legal treatise Moellmann would edit. The way the doctor appeared to be appreciating this killer’s work gave every indication that Moellmann was already mentally composing the article. The notion, true or false, amused Tully.
“So, then,” Moellmann said, “are you at all close to catching this guy?”
It was an odd question from the M.E., thought Tully. Usually to all appearances, Moellmann never gave much of a damn about police progress. His interest seemed to begin and end with his practice of forensic medicine. Maybe, went Tully’s reasoning, the Doc, in projecting his article on the serial murder and mutilation of prostitutes, wanted to be sure there would be a happy ending. Which, of course, would be that the crimes were solved and the killer apprehended.
“We’ve got some leads,” Tully said.
“Better, I hope, than that composite picture in the paper today.”
Moellmann’s remark elicited general laughter from the doctors and technicians in the morgue area.
“Yeah, I hope.” Tully went along with the joke. It was a given in the police and legal community that composite drawings usually did little more than scare the person whose likeness it was supposed to be.
Moellmann, basking in the response to his little joke, looked over the rims of his glasses at his assembled colleagues, a smile tugging at his lips. He was going to give the joke one more shove. “Why, according to the picture your police have come up with, I could be the killer. Or”—he looked more intently among his confreres—“maybe Dr. Rosen over there.” Then, slightly more seriously, “Or, what’s-his-name, Bush over there.” Abruptly, the laughter died. Momentarily, Moellmann looked startled. In his Germanic subculture, when der Papa cracked a joke, all the Kinder laughed—whether they had gotten it or not. Thus the present silence was a bit more than ordinarily disconcerting. Moellmann tried to mask the moment by issuing several orders to a couple of the other pathologists present.
What neither Moellmann nor Tully knew was that earlier, and mostly in jest, one of the other autopsy attendants had accused Arnold Bush of resembling the picture of the killer. At which Bush had become violent and attacked the other attendant. It had taken several men to pull him off. Bush, not a technical assistant, and thus still on probation, might have been summarily dismissed by Moellmann if anyone had told the M.E. But, intimidated as they were by his strength and his temper, no one wanted to take the chance of incurring Bush’s wrath.
Thus, too, no one had dared challenge Bush when he assumed complete custody of Nancy Freel’s body. Just as he had done with Louise Bonner’s corpse one week ago. Bush’s behavior in coveting the two bodies at best was peculiar. But then, who’s to say what is normal in a business whose most important product is an endless series of cadavers?
Tully picked up on Moellmann’s previous question. “I got a feeling, Doc, that we’re close to this guy . . . not just closer than last week. Artist’s sketch or not, we do have a witness who saw him up close. Maybe the drawing that came from her description isn’t a photo, but she saw him. And when we bring him in, she’s gonna identify him.”
“Not if?”
“No, Doc. When.”
Moellmann, again close to the body and taking more measurements, observed, “He seems to choose older women.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And white.”
“Yup.”
“And on Sunday.”
“And on Sunday afternoons,” Tully agreed. “All noted, Doc. And with the task force I’ve got, if we don’t get him by week’s end, we’re gonna have a big surprise for him if he tries to pull something next Sunday.”
“Hmmm . . .” Moellmann was so engrossed in the autopsy, he seemed not to have heard Tully’s final remark.
But someone else was listening . . . intently.
Arnold Bush hung on every word. As he had learned years ago in parochial school, words were important. So important that no matter what evil you committed, all you had to do was go to confession and say the magic words: I’m sorry. And the priest would forgive you. Anything.
15
Father Koesler was concerned. He had come again to the Burtha Fisher Home to visit Monsignor Meehan. This time, the old monsignor had decided to abandon his wheelchair and walk, though none too steadily. To complicate matters, the janitor had just washed the marble floor; signs warned of the slippery surface.
Meehan walked deliberately enough, holding onto the railing that ran the length of the corridor. Regardless, Koesler lightly grasped the monsignor’s arm. The limb felt so fragile that Koesler feared that if Meehan should fall, Koesler would be left holding an arm that had simply broken off from an equally fragile trunk.
But they survived the walk and entered the visiting parlor. It was one of those glorious January days where, after a night’s dusting of snow, the sun shone brightly, reflecting off the unbroken white surface with an intensity that was almost painful to the eye.
“So, Bobby, it happened again, didn’t it? With the murdered prostitute?” Meehan’s pleasant, slightly nasal tenor was unmistakable. His shriveled body made it difficult for some familiar with his former somewhat rotund shape to now recognize him. But the voice hadn’t changed. The voice alone put everything into perspective.
“You’ve been following the news?” Koesler never failed to be surprised anytime Meehan happened to be au courant.
The monsignor chuckled. “For your sake, I’m trying to keep up with things. And, Bobby, isn’t it lucky you didn’t have to make a pastoral decision about burying that poor girl . . . I mean the second prostitute.”