William Kienzle - Marked for Murder - The Father Koesler Mysteries:

“It . . . it’s possible. Sunday afternoon, most priests are out of the rectory. Besides, he . . . he didn’t have to call every parish in the city before he got me. We’re not that far from downtown.”

“So, all the other priests go out Sunday afternoon—except you?”

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t say that. I said m-most priests.” Kramer had never in his life stammered. Then again, he’d never been in such a situation before.

“So, you were home this afternoon ...at the rectory?” Tully kept up the interrogation as if no one else were in the room.

“Yes.”

“Anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Were you also home the past two Sunday afternoons?”

Kramer pondered for several moments. “Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Convenient.”

“What . . . what’s that supposed to mean?”

Tully picked up the knife the priest had dropped. “Tell me, Father . . .” there was a mocking tone when he pronounced the priest’s title, “is it your usual practice to enter a room where there’s somebody sick or somebody who wants to see a priest with a drawn knife?”

“I ain’t sick and I didn’ wanna see no goddam priest,” the woman said.

The other three seemed to have forgotten her. They continued to do so.

“The knife was in my pocket when I came in here.”

“That’s not what the lady says.”

“She . . . she’s lying.”

“Like hell I am!”

“Guess it’s her word against yours.”

“But I’m a priest!”

Tully shrugged.

Kramer found it hard to believe the officer would not honor a priest’s word. Nothing more was said for a moment. Kramer fumbled for a cigarette and lit it. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked after the fact.

“Mind if I see the lighter?” Tully reached toward Kramer, who surrendered the lighter.

“Nice,” Tully said. “Big.”

“I smoke a lot.”

“Big enough to heat, say, a small branding iron if there wasn’t a hot plate handy.”

“Huh? What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Father Kramer’s attitude became assertive. “I think it’s just about time for some explanations from you. I mean, I was called out of my rectory this afternoon and asked to visit someone who needed a priest. I went way out of my way to make a sick call. I didn’t break into this place. I knocked on the door. This woman invited me in. Then, for no reason, she pulled that huge knife out of the drawer. So, naturally, I drew my knife—in self-defense.”

“Pretty big knife.” Tully hefted the weapon. “Now why would a priest be carrying such a big, sharp knife?”

“I’m a carpenter as well as a pretty good mechanic. I always carry it with me. Frequently I’ll whittle on some wood.”

“Okay, go on: You say she pulled a knife, so you did too. Then . . .?”

“That’s it. I asked her to put her knife away. And she started screaming at me. That’s when the two of you broke down the door.”

Tully turned to the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Mae Dixon.”

“Okay, Mae, the next time you tell your story, you’re gonna be under oath. If you lie then, it’s perjury. And if you change your story too many times, nobody’s gonna believe you. You see Officer Mangiapane over there, taking notes, writing all this down? Well, it’s part of the record. It’s admissible in court.

“Now, if you change your story in court, the judge is gonna have two different accounts from you about this. What’s he gonna believe? You might be tellin’ the truth in court. But if they don’t believe you then, that’ll be perjury. And that’s jail for a long, long time.

“So, how about it, Mae? You want to tell us the story the way you’d tell it in court?”

She thought this over. “Okay. I don’t know how the hell he happened to come here. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Just takin’ the day off, like.”

“You weren’t ‘expecting anyone’? You are then . . .”

“A hooker. God, you’re gonna find that out anyway. Yeah, I’m a hooker. But I wasn’t gonna screw today. Then all of a sudden, there’s this knock on the door. I thought maybe it was one of my regulars.”

“No appointments? You get Johns just any old time?”

She cackled. “These days I’m lucky to get any tricks at all, Sonny. But it wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, a long time ago, they were waitin’ for me to have time for them. But, God, that was a long time ago.”

“Go on.”

“Where was I?”

“You heard a knock on the door. You thought it might be one of your regulars.”

“Yeah. That’s right. So I just said, ‘Come on in.’ Hell, no use lockin’ that door; all you have to do is push it . . . locked or unlocked. God! Look what you did to the goddam thing! It’s in splinters.”

“Okay, then what?”

“Where was I?”

Tully sighed. “Someone knocked on the door. You invited him in even though you didn’t know who it was.”

“You don’t understand. Regulars do that. They just come on up. If I’m busy, they wait.”

Tully couldn’t decide whether the idea of people waiting in line for Mae was funny or was going to make him sick. “Then what happened?”

“Well, this guy, this priest, I guess, came in. He surprised me. I mean, he wasn’t no regular. I never seen him before. And he’s all dressed in black. Then I saw his collar. That’s when I went for my knife.”

“So,” Tully said, “he didn’t have a knife in his hand when he came in.”

She worked her mouth as if chewing on her next word. “Well, no . . . not ’zactly . . . not really.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah . . . but what else could it be? I saw them stories in the papers and on TV—about how this guy dressed like a clergyman was killin’ us. When it happened the second time, why, hell, wasn’t a hooker in town wasn’t on her guard. And by damn, I wasn’t goin’ down without a fight. So I got my knife. Then, quick as a wink, don’t he pull out that shiv and shake the blade out real professional. And that’s when I started yellin’. I guess I didn’t expect any help . . . not around here. But I thought if I started yellin’ I might scare him off. Then you guys come stormin’ in like gangbusters.

“I didn’t know what the hell to think. I’ll tell you, I never thought I’d be glad to see a cop!”

“Is that what this is all about?” Kramer said. “It’s just a case of mistaken identity. Whoever phoned me was either a practical joker or he was confused about the address. When I came in, this lady simply confused me with someone else.”

Kramer looked from one officer to the other, not sure whether it would be possible for him to just walk out.

“That’s the way you see it, Kramer,” Tully said, “but that’s not the way I see it.

“On two consecutive Sundays, a man in black, with a clerical collar, driving a black Ford Escort, has been selecting over-the-hill white prostitutes to kill and mutilate. I had a hunch he’d do it again on the third consecutive Sunday afternoon—today. Then you drive into this red-light district in a black Ford Escort, dressed in clerical clothing and collar. You head for the apartment of a woman who fits the general description of the previous two victims. You’re carrying a knife that could gut a deer. Guess who I think you are?”

“You can’t . . .” Kramer was perspiring freely. The apartment was warm, but that had little to do with the sweat that soaked his underclothing.

“Remember last week, Kramer,” Tully continued, “when you went back to your car after you killed Nancy Freel? You were going back to mutilate her. Remember just before you reentered the building, you looked to one side and maybe you saw the woman who was watching you? Well, she’s our eyewitness. And she’s going to identify you.” Tully was almost nose to nose with Kramer.