A deputy sheriff ushered Koesler into the room. As the officer left to get Father Kramer, there was a sharp snap as the door locked automatically.
This was not Koesler s first visit to the county jail, as well as some of the state’s other places of incarceration. Common to each and every one was this suffocating sense of locked doors. No door was ever unlocked before the prior door was locked.
Never having been jailed himself, Koesler had to project what the experience must be like. Particularly with his slight tendency toward claustrophobia, he was sure the worst part of this bad situation would be the locked doors. So, as they traveled through the building, the unending series of doors clicking locked was particularly unnerving to him.
A key turned in the door and Father Dick Kramer entered.
Koesler had assumed Kramer would be dressed as he had been yesterday at his arraignment. So it came as a surprise to see him wearing a prison uniform—though not a completely unpleasant surprise. For some reason, Kramer looked a bit more at ease in prison grays than he had in that rumpled, slept-in black suit. Yesterday, he had resembled a homeless bum fresh, and literally, off skid row. Now he looked as if he had been interrupted from work in his machine shop.
They greeted each other rather awkwardly.
“I brought you a carton of cigarettes,” Koesler said, “but the guard took them.”
“I guess I’m not allowed to have the full carton.” Kramer smiled briefly. “I wouldn’t have anywhere to put it anyway. I guess they allow you a pack at a time—as long as the supply lasts. I’m not too conversant with all the rules and regulations.”
“I hope you never get to be.”
“Amen.”
Koesler sat down and, as he did so, so did the other priest.
“Dick,” Koesler said, “I’ve been trying to put myself in your place. And, as near as I can come to how you must feel, I suppose you’re wondering whether anything is going on out there. I just wanted to assure you that a lot of people, myself included, are doing all we can to help”
Kramer nodded. “You’re right about one thing. I’ve been wondering if there is a real world out there. Mine seems to have toppled over. I . . . I don’t know what’s happened. It’s like a long nightmare I can’t wake up from.”
In all the years Koesler had known Kramer, he’d never known him to be so open about his innermost feelings. Undoubtedly, this was an indication of how deeply and radically Kramer had been affected by this tragedy. It also seemed an added indication that Kramer had somehow become the innocent victim of a classic case of mistaken identity.
“I talked to Therese,” Kramer said.
“You did?” Koesler was not surprised.
“I called her. I’m not allowed to receive any calls.”
“I’m glad you talked to her.”
“So am I.” Kramer plucked a cigarette from his shirt pocket. Before striking the kitchen match the guard had provided, Kramer looked inquiringly at Koesler. “Mind?”
Koesler shook his head. He was not in the habit of denying smokers their opportunities. He certainly would not deny this beleaguered priest one of his few remaining pleasures.
“She told me about the conversation the two of you had last Sunday night.” Kramer inhaled deeply; his words were punctuated by wisps of smoke.
“She’s a very persuasive lady.”
“I know. She’s been able to get me to do just about everything she wanted me to do. Except, maybe, to give up these.” Kramer held up the smoldering cigarette.
Koesler nodded. A former smoker, he had a firsthand appreciation of the addiction.
“Anyway,” Kramer said, “I want to thank you.”
“Just yet there’s no particular reason to; I haven’t done anything.”
“You were at the arraignment. You’re here. You’re with me. I appreciate it. I really do. Besides, I agree with Therese: Your contacts in the police department may prove helpful. I don’t exactly know how. But I’m willing to believe. One thing is for certain: I have to get out of here.”
Koesler looked concerned. “It must be pretty bad.”
“Very bad.”
“Good God, has there been any . . . abuse?”
“Oh, you mean from the other guys, the other . . . prisoners. Oh, no; nothing like that. Actually, they’ve treated me rather well. But I’ve got to get back to the parish. The longer I’m gone, the more likely it’s going to be that the chancery will take it away from me.”
Koesler thought it inappropriate to suggest that it was extremely unlikely that the chancery would remove Kramer as pastor of Mother of Sorrows. Nobody was standing in line waiting for the parish. Nobody else wanted it.
But Koesler was relieved that Kramer had suffered no abuse from the other prisoners. One could never be sure of what might happen within a prison.
“I really don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about as far as the chancery is concerned. I’m pretty sure Cardinal Boyle would not let that happen. But, as for getting out: How about bail?”
“Not yet. Our next chance is Thursday when I have my preliminary examination.”
“Not till then? Isn’t there a chance they will simply drop the charges?”
“I don’t think so. Not now. One of their witnesses identified me in the line-up this morning.”
“No!” Koesler was deeply shocked. “How could that be!”
“I don’t know.” Kramer lit a fresh cigarette from the one he was discarding. “I just don’t know. My attorney tells me it happens. The cops have to warn witnesses that the person they’re looking for may not be in the line-up. And the cops did that this morning, my lawyer said. But then he said most of the time the warning doesn’t do any good. The witnesses are psyched-up to pick out somebody. Mistakes happen. But for the guy they single out, it is one pretty damn big mistake.”
“Good grief! I can’t believe it! Somebody actually picked you out of a line-up. Incredible!”
“I really doubt my lawyer would kid about a thing like that.”
“Well, if I’m going to try to help, I’d better know what’s going on. Have they got anything else?”
“My knife.”
“Your knife. You mean the big one.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’ve had that for years. God, all the way back to the seminary. I could testify—any of the guys could testify—you’ve had that thing for ages. We used to sit around and watch you carve things. There’s nothing wrong about that knife.”
“They found some blood on it.”
“Blood!”
“Mine. About a week ago, I cut myself. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it bled pretty good. I thought I cleaned it up. I must’ve missed a drop or two up near the shaft.”
“But it would be your blood type.”
“It is. It’s also the blood type of one of the victims.”
“No! This is truly incredible.”
“And my cut was so minor, my wound is all healed. So they won’t believe the blood came from me.”
“It’s like some fiendish conspiracy. Obviously someone set you up last Sunday to be found by the police. Is it possible the same guy concocted all the rest of this so-called evidence?”
“I haven’t got it figured out. I don’t even know whether I can figure it out. I keep trying to put it together, but it doesn’t go together for me. It’s like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with several missing pieces.”
“Let’s try to put it together. I guess if I’m good at any of this, it’s assembling things in some sort of logical order. Game?”
Kramer nodded and coughed rackingly several times, eventually bringing up sputum. Koesler recalled his own years of addiction; each morning had begun with coughing up his insides.