“Where to now, Father?”
“Well, if I’m going to try to help him, I guess I’d better go see if I can talk to Father Kramer.”
Koznicki touched Koesler’s arm, causing him to pause before leaving the courtroom. “If I may offer a suggestion, Father.”
“Of course.”
“Hold off your visit until tomorrow afternoon.”
“If you say so . . .?”
“Something very important is scheduled for tomorrow morning. It is called a show-up, wherein a couple of witnesses will try to identify the man they saw last week entering the victim’s apartment building.”
“Oh, you mean like the line-up they have in movies?”
“Yes, a line-up. We call it the show-up. The case against Father Kramer will neither stand nor fall on the result of the show-up, but it will be very important nonetheless.”
“And if the witnesses cannot identify Dick?”
“That will be one bit of circumstantial evidence the prosecution will not have.”
“And if they do?”
“It will be a very important bit of circumstantial evidence favoring the prosecution. You see, Father, we have here neither a perpetrator caught in the act, nor an accused person who has pleaded guilty. All the evidence against Father Kramer is circumstantial. Which does not mean it is weak evidence; almost all evidence in such trials is circumstantial. The more such evidence mounts, the better it is for the prosecution. In this, you see, Father, quantity adds up into quality”
“Then you feel it would be better if I delayed visiting Dick until after the, uh . . . show-up.”
“We will know so much more then, Father. By that time, he may need your presence more. I sincerely hope not. But it is possible.”
“Then tomorrow afternoon it is.”
“Good. I shall arrange special visiting privileges for you tomorrow. Say, two o’clock?”
“Two o’clock it is then.”
28
“The second day in a row we have a promise of temperature in the forties,” Inspector Koznicki said. “If this continues all the snow will be gone.”
“Yeah,” Tully responded, “forty degrees. That’s Detroit’s plan for snow removal.”
Koznicki sensed the pressure Tully was under. The two sipped coffee as they stood looking out a window in Tully’s squad room. There was nothing of great interest to see from that vantage. A brick wall and, if one craned far enough, a tiny slice of what Detroiters liked to call Bricktown.
But they weren’t standing there to enjoy a breathtaking vista. Tully was marking time until the show-up. Koznicki was keeping him company.
Without success, the inspector was trying to recall a time during their association when Tully had been this nervous. Nor was this anxiety easily explainable. This morning’s procedure, following yesterday’s arraignment, was one both officers had gone through at very frequent intervals over the years. To Tully, it should have been almost second nature. Yet for the past hour, he had restlessly checked the details over and over. “What time you got, Walt?”
“Eight . . . 8:40.”
“It’s getting late.”
“You have twenty minutes until the show-up. Plenty of time. Who’s picking up the witnesses?”
“Mangiapane.”
“Good. And the subjects in the show-up?”
“Salvia.”
“Both reliable officers. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not—” The phone on Tully’s desk rang. He grabbed it. “He’s here already? Okay, stay with him. Get him some coffee.” He hung up and turned to Koznicki. “Johnson’s here . . . Kramer’s lawyer.”
“Good.”
“He’s early.”
“He will be able to talk to his client before the show-up. Just about perfect.”
“What if Mangiapane gets here late? Johnson could leave. Then we’d have to reschedule the goddam show-up—”
“Alonzo, please. Johnson is one of the best, a true professional. He will want to get this over once and for all as badly as anyone else. But then you too are a professional. One of the best. It is unlike you to be so worked up.”
Hearing it helped. Tully’s taut muscles seemed to relax. “You’re right, Walt. I don’t really know what it is. I don’t know why I want Kramer so bad. But I do. If this show-up works, it’ll be another nail in his coffin. God, I’m even beginning to care what happens to him in court. One thing for damn sure: He’s not gonna walk because of some screwup over here.”
“Do you have anything more?”
“The knife. Way down deep next to the handle the techs found a smidgen of blood. The rest of the thing was completely clean.”
“The blood type?”
“O positive.”
Koznicki shrugged. “The most common type.”
“It’s Kramer’s type.”
“Oh?”
“And Nancy Freel’s.”
Although for all purposes Koznicki was trying to be supportive, had anyone probed he would have had to admit he was disquieted by Tully’s single-minded pursuit of Kramer.
Koznicki was well aware that a policeman must have a restrictive attitude toward crime and criminals. An officer could not afford to be judgmental. The policeman’s lot was to make an arrest for good cause and to present a solid case supported by firm evidence to the prosecutor. While mindful of this, still Koznicki found himself at odds with Tully over this case.
Quite beyond his conscious control, Koznicki found himself judging Father Kramer and finding him innocent. And the inspector was just as certain that Tully had judged the priest and found him guilty. “So,” Koznicki said, “both Father Kramer and the woman have the same blood type. That could mean the blood found on the knife was, indeed, Father Kramer’s.”
“Maybe. But Kramer has no cut marks on his body. And for the blood to have clotted where it did, there should have been a rather serious cut . . . like, maybe, an incision all the way down a woman’s torso.”
Koznicki could not deny that the circumstantial evidence was piling up. “One more nail?”
“You got it.”
“And the iron—the branding iron?”
Tully shook his head. “Not yet. They’re still taking the car apart.”
“They have not completed that operation yet?”
“As far as I’m concerned, they’ll never get done as long as there’s one piece of metal attached to another. On top of that, one of the guys is getting a search warrant for the home—what do you call it?—the rectory . . . and the church too.”
“That is the smoking gun, you know.”
“Uh-huh. And it may be a little tough to convince a judge or a jury of what you and I both know: that it is not unusual for killers—even serial killers—to change their M.O.
“That branding had to be a cumbersome thing to pull off. He’d have to get the thing red-hot over a hot plate or, failing that, with a lighter. And after he got done, he’d have to cool the thing before he could pack it away. After two tries, he could have figured it just wasn’t worth it. If he gutted the victim, maybe carved something on her body, we’d still know it was the same guy. It’s happened before . . . I mean a killer changing his M.O.”
“That is true.”
“But I sure as hell would like to find that thing.” Tully’s knuckle tapped the desk.
“The smoking gun.”
“Yeah.”
The phone jingled. Tully had the receiver in his hand before the first ring was completed.
After a few words exchanged, Tully hung up and turned to Koznicki with a sense of finality. “Mangiapane’s up on nine. He’s got the witnesses. Time to get started.”
As he turned to leave, Koznicki patted him on the back. He could not force himself to wish good luck.