“Nothing else?”
“Mangiapane and I went door to door in the building last night after the crime scene—by the way, I’m taking Mangiapane with me on this one—anyway Mangiapane came up with one woman, lives in the apartment directly below El’s. She thinks she heard the comings and goings. She says they came in about five o’clock in the afternoon. She heard them go up the stairs. But mostly, she heard them go into the room above hers.
“Apparently, the lady spends her time counting El’s tricks. There were five yesterday afternoon—one of El’s slow days, she said.
“What was interesting was that she can tell when there’s action going on upstairs. She can hear the springs squeak. El’s final trick— the one who killed her—the springs didn’t squeak.”
“He had no other purpose than to kill her.”
“Uh-huh. And the M.E. is undoubtedly gonna find semen in her. But, if the lady is right, it ain’t gonna be the perp’s. So we’re not gonna get a blood type.”
“Prints?”
“All over the room. But maybe none from the perp. He must have touched the tub, but the only prints we could find in or on the tub were El’s.”
“None other?”
“No. And the perp must have handled the stove to heat whatever it was that he branded her with. Again, just her prints.”
“You think he wore gloves?”
“Must have. But how’d he get away with it? How come El didn’t insist he take them off? Or how come she didn’t tumble to something haywire going on?”
“Interesting.”
“That’s not all. The lady downstairs, after she heard the couple go up to El’s room, heard someone come down later all alone. Then she heard someone go up into the room, and then someone came down and went out.”
“Meaning?”
“It had to be the perp. With a trick up there, why would El come downstairs, go out, then come back up? No, I think the perp went out—probably to his car, where he got the instrument he used for branding.
“So,” Tully summed up, “what we’ve got so far: They got to the apartment about five o’clock. They went up. They didn’t get anything on. Instead, he killed her. And somehow, she let him get away with leaving his gloves on. And why not? Hookers are used to quirky customers—to Johns having all sorts of fetishes.
“But he couldn’t bring the branding iron in with him. So, after he strangles her, he goes out to his car, gets the iron, goes back upstairs, drags her to the tub while the iron is heating, guts her, brands her, and gets out. And nobody we’ve talked to yet saw him.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m going to the autopsy. Then Mangiapane and I will canvass the neighborhood.”
Koznicki nodded. He knew he did not need to tell Tully that time was of the essence. In an investigation, hours were important, days critical. The longer it took to run down a case, the less likely it was to ever be closed.
“One more thing, Walt: I want to arrange for her funeral.”
Koznicki raised an eyebrow, as if to ask what Louise Bonner’s funeral had to do with him.
Tully correctly interpreted the body language. “I’m nothin’—oh, maybe a Baptist once, a long time ago. But El was a Catholic. She used to talk about it every so often. Only she wasn’t very active in it . . . not lately, anyway. She’d just go to church once in a while, almost like when no one was looking. So she didn’t have any church or—what do you call it?—parish. I’m not so sure the average parish would have her funeral.”
Again the raised eyebrow, not quite so elevated this time.
“You’re a Catholic, Walt. I thought you could help me.”
Koznicki spread his hands on the desk. “Alonzo, I am certain any number of downtown churches would accommodate your wish. All you need to do is explain the situation and the pastor would—”
“How about St. Aloysius?”
Koznicki controlled an apologetic smile. “Be fair, Alonzo. St. Aloysius is on Washington Boulevard serving a basically transient group. People go in and out all day. A funeral of any sort there can become a three-ring circus—especially one like the Bonner woman’s is bound to be.
“You might try Old St. Mary’s or St. Joseph, or, even better, Sts. Peter and Paul.”
“The point is, Walt, I haven’t got the time to shop around for a church for El.”
“Then—?”
“How about your friend?”
“My friend?”
“Father . . . what’s his name . . . Koesler?”
“Father Koesler! But his parish is way out in Dearborn Heights!”
“I know. But he’s your friend. He’d do it if you asked him. It would save me a helluva lot of time and it would please El. As a favor, Walt?”
“I will phone him.”
“I’ll check back with you later. . . . I’m obliged, Walt.”
Tully permitted himself a slight smile as he walked the few blocks to the Wayne County Morgue.
It had been late last night as he riffled through his files when the problem of El’s funeral had occurred to him. Ordinarily, he felt no responsibility for the final disposition of the bodies in cases he worked on. If he had, with Detroit’s homicide rate, most of his waking hours would be spent arranging funerals.
El was different. She had friends. It wasn’t that. But none of her friends would be in a position to secure for her what she certainly would have wanted: a Catholic burial. He—Alonzo Tully—was the only one who might be able to pull it off.
But he wanted more than simply a Catholic burial. When the idea first came to him, he, as had Walt Koznicki, initially thought of one of the core city parishes. He knew he wouldn’t have to look far to find one of those dedicated priests who not only would handle the funeral but would do so graciously.
Tully wanted more.
El had lived most of her life well beyond the outer fringe of polite society. He wanted her to have in death what, in life, had been beyond her wildest expectations. He wanted her funeral to be held at a respectable, reasonably well-off suburban parish.
He had liked the idea from the first moment it had occurred to him. But which parish? He had no time, especially with the complex puzzle of her death to solve, to shop around in the ’burbs for a priest brave enough to take on what could easily become a most controversial requiem. He was not acquainted with any priests, in or out of the city.
Then the figurative light bulb had lit over his head: Walt Koznicki’s friend.
Tully, as well as everyone else in homicide, was aware that over the recent years, this priest—Koesler—had participated in some investigations. Always there had been something “Catholic” about the case, something that a priest would be familiar with.
Tully had never had any direct dealings with this priest. But it was common knowledge in the department that Koesler and Koznicki had become close friends.
That, then, was the key: Get Koznicki to ask his friend.
He was sure Koesler would not refuse the request. Tully would contact the priest later, when he had time—whenever that might be—to take care of the details. But for the next few days, it would have to be one thing at a time.
He entered the vast, nearly empty lobby of the morgue.
“Hi,” Tully greeted the receptionist. “The M.E. start yet?”
“He just went down.”
Tully took the stairs to the basement. As he neared the autopsy chamber, that distinctive odor that early on had made him gag became pervasive.
Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann was at work.
Stretched out in long aluminum trays were three corpses. In front of each was a lectern on which was a form with the outline of a human body. Normally, the M.E. moved from one body to another, making notations on each chart, indicating the location of injuries, wounds, and the like.
But today Dr. Moellmann was giving his undivided attention to the body on the middle tray.