“Well, very good.” Seeing it was not Koesler’s coffee. “One more then.”
“What now?” Koesler asked as he poured coffee in both cups.
“Now?”
“The disposition of these cases. Like they used to do on the TV ‘Dragnet’ series. What’s going to happen?”
Koznicki rarely indulged in speculation. He firmly believed that police work ended in the courtroom. From that point on, it was up to the justice system. However, he couldn’t help but have an opinion based on years of experience. He could not bring himself to withhold that opinion when his friend asked for it.
“Arnold Bush,” Koznicki said. “I do not see any way for him to avoid murder in the first degree. If that is the verdict, there is a mandatory sentence of life in prison with no possible parole. The only way out, short of death, would be a pardon by the governor.”
“And Father Kramer?”
“Ah, yes, Father Kramer. That is another question. I believe we have just heard the totality of his defense in Dr. Scholl’s explanation of a dissociative reaction. Father is blessed with one of the finest defense attorneys possible. But even with a far lesser lawyer, I feel Father’s plea would be ‘not guilty by reason of insanity.’ And I believe that will be the verdict.”
“Then what will happen to him?”
“If that is indeed the verdict, Father will be sent to Ypsilanti for sixty days, to be examined and evaluated by forensic psychiatrists. Then, dependent on their findings, he would be committed to a state facility until he is pronounced cured.”
Koesler pondered for a moment. “Then there is a chance he will be free someday?”
Koznicki nodded as he blew over the surface of his hot coffee and tasted it. He wondered if there were any diplomatic way of suggesting that Father Koesler take a lesson or two in coffee-making from Mrs. O’Connor. Or from anyone, for that matter.
“And then what?” It was Koznicki’s turn to ask.
“Then?”
“If and when Father Kramer is pronounced cured and released from custody, what will happen to him then? What will the Church do?”
“A good question.” Koesler sipped the coffee. He could not tell the difference between Koesler-brewed coffee and anyone else’s. “I’m not sure. I think it would be impossible for him to return to a ministry here. Not with all the notoriety of this case.”
“But Father, the publicity has been nationwide. For all practical purposes, worldwide!”
“You’re right. It has. So then what? A missionary to the backwoods of some Third World country where there hasn’t been any news of anything? Something hidden away in one of the chancery offices? I don’t know. This sort of thing scarcely happens. Only once in my lifetime—and this is it.”
They were silent for a time. Koesler picked up one of the cookies Mrs. O’Connor had thoughtfully put out. He nibbled as he mused. Suddenly he brightened. “I think I have a solution, Inspector. But you’re going to accuse me of having watched too many soap operas.”
“I would never do that to you, Father. Your solution?”
“A good part of Dick Kramer’s treatment, rehabilitation, what-have-you, will consist in coming to terms with himself—and with his priesthood. It is distinctly possible that in the time he is in therapy he may evolve a whole new outlook on life—life in general, his personal life, his life in the priesthood.
“I could well imagine that when he walks away from prison he may walk away from the priesthood as well.”
“You really can?”
“Uh-huh. It would solve a lot of problems—for himself and for the Church. The Church really has no place to put him. And he must learn to live with what he’s done. He’ll have his hands full just doing that.
“Which leads me to my final thought for Dick Kramer: Call it a wish or a prayer—but I hope he will marry Sister Therese Hercher.”
Shock passed over Koznicki’s face.
“With his most peculiar set of circumstances,” Koesler continued, “I expect he could get one of those rare laicization decrees that would enable him to marry in the Church. Therese could comparatively easily be released from her vows. It certainly would not be the first time in modern history that a priest and a nun would marry. She fairly worships him—a fact that has been evident to nearly everyone but him. And he will need her. He will desperately need her.
“And that, Inspector, is as close as I can come to a happy ending. And it’s a long way off with plenty of ‘ifs’ all around it.”
Koznicki touched napkin to his lips. Koesler helped him into his coat and accompanied him to the door.
“Giving it some thought,” Koznicki said, turning back at the doorway, “I very much like your scenario for Father Kramer. And I join you in your prayer. But one final question, Father. Before you found the motto of Pope Pius, did it never even once enter your mind that Father Kramer might be guilty?”
Koesler smiled. “Just once. Officer Mangiapane told me about the show-up when that eyewitness identified Father Kramer. I was sure she was mistaken. Then, when it seemed certain that Arnold Bush had committed all three murders, I had to wonder. The witness said the man she saw on those front steps had ‘kind eyes.’ Bush’s eyes are hard, even cruel. Father Kramer has the gentle eyes.”
They bade goodbye.
As Koesler closed the door, he realized he had to add one plea to his prayer for Father Kramer. That one day he might be able to forgive himself.
42
In the background, on TV, the Red Wings were playing the Black Hawks. As with any time a Detroit team played a Chicago team—football, basketball, baseball or, in this case, hockey—there were no holds barred.
Neither Alonzo Tully nor Alice Balcom were paying much attention to the game. Each worked very intensely at very difficult jobs and whenever possible they spent quiet times together.
Tonight they were intertwined at one end of the couch. Tully was massaging Alice’s shoulders and neck. Alice emitted periodic sighs of pleasure and unwinding.
“It’s all over, isn’t it, Zoo?”
“Over? Not hardly; the Wings are down by only two goals.”
“Not the hockey game, Zoo; the case. The Cass Corridor Slasher.”
Tully snorted. “Goddam, I’m not sure. Everytime it looks like we’ve got a lock on it, something else develops.” He paused. “Forget it. You’re right. It’s dead now. It’s over.”
“And Kramer is guilty of the first two?”
“Pleading insanity.”
“Will it stick?”
After hesitation: “Probably.”
“Are you sure?”
Pause. “No. That’s up to the court. We got the guy.”
“And the third was a copycat.”
“Yeah. Bush. Arnold Bush.”
“One thing I can’t figure. The other guy—Bush—he set up Kramer, didn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But how did he know Kramer did the first two?”
“Blast Yzerman! Can you beat that! Gets a penalty while we’re two goals down and five minutes left in the game! . . . What? How did he know? He didn’t know. What he knew was we released an artist’s sketch of the killer. Bush knew the sketch resembled him. He also knew he looked like Kramer. The killer dressed like a priest, drove a black Ford, looked very much like both himself and Kramer. After that it didn’t much matter.
“As far as Bush was concerned it didn’t make much difference whether Kramer was the guilty one or not. Though the possibility there was a third look-alike out there dressing like a priest, et cetera, was pretty slim.
“Bush, of course, knew the killer’s M.O. He saw the results of it in the morgue. His plan was to set Kramer up, have him arrested. If Kramer actually was guilty, so much the better. If he wasn’t, like as not the real killer would lay low for a while and see what happened to Kramer—who might just take the fall. Then, as soon as Kramer is out on bail, Bush had one free copycat murder at his disposal, which would satisfy his need for revenge on whores and which could be dumped on Kramer.