“Can you imagine that, Zoo? She never turned her radio off! The damn thing was on when she bought it and she never turned the goddam thing off!”
Even though he did not feel like it, Tully smiled, picturing the scene. “What that lady needed was three minutes of silence.” He massaged his brow. A headache was building. “And that’s what we need too, Mangiapane. I got some thinkin’ to do.”
“Sure thing, Zoo.”
And so, in silence, they continued to drive the familiar streets: Montcalm, St. Antoine, Adams, Brush, Columbia, Beaubien, Elizabeth—over and over, changing only the order.
The area was only a few blocks from headquarters. Not much was going on in that neighborhood. They passed a warehouse, storage tanks, some boarded-up structures, a few buildings still occupied—although one wondered by whom—and a couple of residences that were being used almost exclusively by prostitutes.
It might not have been much of an area but, unless Tully was badly mistaken, it contained just what the perp would be stalking.
Not many women worked these streets, nor was there much of a selection. But one thing you were quite certain to find in an area like this was that rarity—an older prostitute. And here the prostitutes came in both black and white. Low-profile, elderly white prostitutes. Little chance of any intervention from either a pimp or a hooker’s buddy. Just the right kind of place.
Tully’s stomach growled. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe he needed a good meal. He thought of Alice, a nice blaze in the fireplace, the football game on TV, the aroma of good food on the stove. Who needed this shit, anyway?
“Bingo.”
It was the way Mangiapane said it. Unlike the way he said almost everything, this held almost a tone of reverence. The sort of tone a dedicated angler might use after waiting hours and finally getting a bite from the very fish he’d been after.
Instantly, the queasy feeling left Tully’s stomach. His every sense tingled.
He glanced at Mangiapane, who was studying the rearview mirror. Tully would not turn and look. He did not need to. In his mind’s eye he could see the black Ford Escort to the rear of their unmarked Pontiac.
Almost as if he could be heard by their quarry, Tully spoke just above a whisper. “Can you make the guy?”
Mangiapane hesitated. “Not quite. He ought to get his windows cleaned once in a while. From here, looks like a white guy and looks like he’s wearing black. Seems like it, anyway.”
Tully almost prayed, he wanted this guy so badly. He yearned to take the wheel so there wouldn’t be any mistakes. But he would place his trust in Mangiapane. He had decided that at the outset when he’d told him to drive.
“He looks like he’s lookin’ for someplace, Zoo. He’s drivin’ real slow, practically stops at every street sign.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what we’re doin’ too. Right now, we’re lookin’ for some way to get on the Fisher Freeway from here. So cut east when we get to the Fisher and go parallel with it for a few blocks, then cut back in.”
“Okay, Zoo. I think he turned in. Yeah, goin’ east on either Elizabeth or Columbia ... I can’t tell from here.”
“If I’m right, he’s only gonna go a block or two. Make it four blocks east, then go south. We oughta be able to spot his car from there.”
Tully had to admit he couldn’t have done it better himself. Mangiapane paced the maneuver perfectly.
Now they were headed south. On any one of these streets, any moment now, they should see—“There it is, Mangiapane, the black Escort. Let’s go!”
No one was in the car. And there was only one building he could have entered—an old rundown apartment house converted from a stately ancient residence.
Mangiapane crossed to the wrong side of the street and pulled up directly in front of and facing the Escort. As the two officers sprang from their car, each drew his .38 service revolver. Mangiapane, exiting from the driver’s side, was closer to the building. He paused a moment so Tully could precede him.
Just inside the door, Tully hesitated. He cocked an ear to pick up some sound that would give him a key to the next direction.
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.”