William Kienzle - Chameleon

“The report I heard said she was killed at St. Leo’s convent … at least that’s where they found her body.”

“Wait a minute: Sister Joan lives at St. Leo’s. Everybody knows that. Was her sister visiting her?”

“I don’t really know. The report was kind of sketchy and I’m not sure of all the details. I guess the body was found sometime this morning-not too long ago; there’s nothing in the paper about it.” A playful expression crept into Mary’s eyes. “It’s times like this that I wish I knew someone who knew somebody in the police department so we could find out what really happened.”

Only gradually did what she was saying dawn on Koesler, “You mean-” He smiled as he shook his head. “Oh, no!”

“Just think, we’d be the only civilians in this area who would know what the police know.” Her suggestion was made mostly in jest.

“You make much-much too much-of my contacts with the police, Mary. Just because I know a few names in the department doesn’t mean I can get any special treatment,”

He was being unassuming.

He had, in the course of several homicide investigations, collaborated with the Detroit Police Department, and over the years he’d become fast friends with the head of the Homicide Division, In any case, it was the furthest thing from his style to bother an extremely busy police force just to get a little gratuitous information. But she was teasing, and he knew it.

“Did the report you heard have any other details?” he asked.

“The only other thing I remember is the address of the victim.”

“Which was?”

“Thirteen hundred Lafayette.”

Koesler’s eyes widened. “That’s right in our backyard.”

“That’s probably why I remember it.”

The area in the immediate vicinity of St. Joseph’s church comprised a potpourri of cultures. On its northern side were a string of small businesses and a rundown residential area. Many of the houses were vacant. But between the church and the Detroit River were a series of high-rise apartments, some of them swank. In the latter group was 1300 Lafayette.

Parishes in that area, principally Old St. Mary’s and Sts. Peter and Paul, as well as St. Joseph’s, more or less scrounged for members. But, of all the churches in that general location, St. Mary’s and St. Joseph’s were the most popular. Although Holy Family had its own faithful circle.

Still, it was difficult to distinguish who of those attending the various Masses considered themselves parishioners and who were regular free-lancers.

Thus the there fact that the deceased had lived in St. Joseph’s neighborhood and, being the sister of a nun, probably was a Catholic, was no indication that she had actually joined any of the parishes. Koesler would have to wait until the dead woman’s photo was inevitably published in the papers to see if he recognized her. “I guess I’ll have to wait till I see her picture in the paper before I can tell whether she looks familiar … or ever attended Mass here,” Koesler said.

As usual, Mary O’Connor had a better idea. “Why don’t you attend the wake? Then you can get a better idea than any newspaper picture can give you. Besides,” she added, “I’ll bet Sister Joan would be grateful if you showed up.”

“As usual, Mary, you’re absolutely right. I’ll do it. Sister probably could use a few extra friends just now.”

Mary rose and moved to the hallway leading to the front offices. “I guess this means you’re not going to call your friends in the police department.” She was smiling.

“Absolutely not. For one thing-though realistically there’s not much chance of its happening-I don’t want to be anywhere near police headquarters or even in the consciousness of any of the officers when they investigate this case. The murder of the sister of a nun is just the sort of case that I might get roped into. And, in the immortal words of the late Samuel Goldwyn, when they get going with this one, I want to be included out.”

A vague sense of frustration rather than obligation prompted Lieutenant Tully to attend the wake for Helen Donovan.

There being no other surviving close relatives, Sister Joan Donovan had made all funeral arrangements. A central west side funeral home was selected, mostly because it was handy to St. Leo’s where the Mass of Resurrection would be offered.

Joan had expected some sort of opposition to her request for a Catholic burial. Helen’s Catholicism had been virtually nonexistent since she had escaped from parochial school. Joan was reasonably sure she’d be unable to locate anyone who had seen Helen inside a church-any sort of church-for a goodly number of years.

But the nun had been most pleasantly surprised and relieved when, far from official prohibition, retired bishop Lawrence Foley had assured her that he himself would celebrate the Mass. And that was doubly providential since St. Leo’s pastor was somewhere in Central America. Foley solved her problem of having to find a priest to fill in during the pastor’s absence.

Tully was unaware of all that Joan had feared and accomplished in the brief time since her sister’s murder. He was aware that Catholic Church law might deny Church burial under stated circumstances such as in the case of a lapsed Catholic or a suicide. But what sort of burial rites Helen Donovan was accorded did not concern him. What did bother him was the lack of progress in her homicide investigation.

The paraffin test had established nothing. The result was negative in the case of both Sister Joan and Henry Taylor. But then, in both instances, the time was marginal. If either had fired a handgun, proof might have surfaced in the test. On the other hand, so many hours had passed since the shooting that any trace on the subject’s hand could have faded from recognition. So in the end there was no proof of anything. The lapse of time might have ruled out a positive result.

Or it was just as possible that neither of them had fired a gun.

As it happened, there was no cause to further detain Taylor, Cautioned that he might be needed to answer more questions, he was released, to return to Toledo undoubtedly a chastened husband, firmly resolving never again to stray, Until the next sales trip.

Nor had there been any breakthrough in hunting down the johns listed in Helen’s book. Most of the men were easy enough to locate. Many of them were considered prominent in anyone’s roster of Detroit’s movers and shakers. Noted figures from the business, political, entertainment, and sports worlds had been among Helen’s clientele. Some members of Tully’s squad took special delight in any investigation that legitimately called for the grilling of powerful and pompous men. Gratification aside, the interrogation of all Helen’s clients had turned up nothing. Not even any additional likely leads.

Of course, that segment of the investigation was not yet complete. But with all these dead ends, hope dwindled that any breakthrough was in the cards, at least from that direction. So, uncertain of what he might accomplish, or even what he was looking for, Tully had come to the wake.

It was a small funeral parlor-too small. Tully had no idea why this mortuary had been selected. Whoever was responsible seemingly had not anticipated this mass of people.

Tully tried to study each individual he could isolate in the throng. The room was too congested for him to see everyone. In the far corner, clustered at the rear of the room, were five, maybe six women who shared Helen Donovan’s line of work. He knew them from his years on the vice squad. They spied him at about the same time he spotted them. They smiled and nodded recognition. Though Zoo was on the opposite side of the law, they were not hostile. In their dealings, Zoo, as they all knew him, was always fair, frequently even tolerant.