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

“Oh?”

“The bruises on her neck. Strangled. If she was alive when he cut her, blood’d be all over. She had to be dead at least a little while. When you’re strangled, you quit breathing, but your heart keeps pumping for a bit. Her heart was gone when she was cut.”

Mangiapane edged next to Tully at the tub. “What’s that on her tit? Looks like a cross.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I’ve heard about being religious, but that takes the cake.”

“No, it looks fresh. Looks like it was burned into her. Maybe between the strangulation and the gutting. Or, maybe after he cut her. But it looks fresh.”

“You mean he branded her!”

“Looks like it. Check it out with the M.E. when he gets here. The marks on the neck, the branding, the time frame for the gutting . . . the whole shot. Write it all down . . . everything.” Tully had been making notes from the minute he’d entered the apartment. “You’re gonna do the SIR . . . the Scene Investigation Report.”

“Okay, Zoo.”

“And don’t write ‘tit.’“

“Huh?”

“If we get to court, our report could be an exhibit. So be professional.” Tully turned to leave the bathroom. “Take a look at the rest of the place.”

Mangiapane found Louise’s purse. He gingerly spread it open. “There’s some money here, Zoo. Can’t tell how much, but I seen a twenty and some tens.”

“Uh-huh. But then just a thief wouldn’t have any reason to cut and brand her.”

“Here’s her wallet. Maybe it’s got her ID.”

“Her name’s Louise Bonner.”

“Huh?”

“Most called her El.”

“You know . . . er . . . knew her?”

“When I was in vice.”

Mangiapane paused in his search and stood open-mouthed. “Holy hell, what a fluke! You knew her!”

“More than that. She’s been one of my better sources over the years. That’s what I’ve been wondering about. I don’t know how far this coincidence is gonna stretch, but . . .”

“But . . .?”

“El’s given me some great leads. There have been times when I got to close cases just ’cause of the inside track she gave me.”

“You think that had anything to do with this?”

“Could be. One thing for sure: Whoever did it is telling us something.”

“You mean like the Mafia with the dead fish for somebody they’ve drowned or the privates in the mouth for somebody who broke the omerta? ”

“Uh-huh. Whenever they catch up with a snitch they usually deal with ’em something like this. There’s no way they could know that I’d be on the response team, but it was my source they offed. I gotta find out if there’s a connection.

“Now, what I want you to do is start the report. Draw a floor map of the whole place—just approximate distances, but get everything in. Check those things with the M.E. When the techs get here, I want shots of everything. But tell ’em to pay special attention to those marks on El’s neck and the brand. Also, take some close-ups of the burners on the stove. He probably used one to heat up the cross. See if you can find the goddam thing. And make sure her hands are bagged before they take her down to the morgue.”

Mangiapane was taking notes furiously. He had the three-page investigation form but he knew instinctively, and was learning empirically, that Tully expected much, much more than the information demanded by the form.

“Right, Zoo. What are you going to do?”

“I want to talk to that girl.” Tully flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “Arlene—El’s buddy. The uniforms are holding her in their car.

“Then the two of us are gonna ring some doorbells.”

3

It was bright and very early the next morning when Zoo Tully settled in at his desk. At just seven o’clock, he had entered Police Headquarters at 1300 Beaubien. Everyone seemed surprised to see him check in so early. Especially astonished, though concealing it, was Inspector Walter Koznicki, head of homicide. He had no way of knowing that he was the reason for Tully’s early appearance.

Koznicki habitually arrived well in advance of nearly everyone else in his division. In addition to his devotion to his job, there was a practical reason for his punctuality. The Scene Investigation Reports of the previous day were routinely arranged on his desk. His job was to review each report and assign the investigations to specific officers.

Tully busied himself at his desk, reviewing cases his squad was working on. But he frequently checked his watch, waiting for the right moment to interrupt his superior.

Now.

Tully knocked at the open door. “Walt, got a minute?”

“Certainly. Come in, Alonzo.” Koznicki was one of the few who did not use Tully’s nickname. But then Koznicki never used anyone’s nickname.

“I want the Bonner investigation.”

Koznicki was not surprised at Tully’s brusqueness. The lieutenant was a direct person and Koznicki appreciated that fact. He also appreciated, in more than one sense of that word, that Tully was one of the division’s best and most successful investigators.

Yet Koznicki hesitated. Only someone with a lieutenant’s rank or higher could have made that request expecting that it would be granted. A P.O., investigator, or sergeant would have been forced to go through channels.

The fear was that an officer might want to work on a case in which he had an emotional involvement. The thinking was similar to that which argued against a surgeon’s operating on a close relative. In either case, emotions or prior involvement could easily cloud an otherwise sound judgment. So, even though it was a lieutenant making the request, Koznicki was somewhat hesitant to grant it carte blanche without additional information.

With a gesture toward a huge carton labeled “Homicide-Prostitutes,” Koznicki asked the logical question. “What is so special about the Bonner case?”

“She was one of my snitches. In fact, one of my better sources.”

“So you feel somewhat involved? Responsible, in a sense?”

Tully knew the inspector was testing for an emotional tie. He also knew that though he was emotionally involved he must not let that bit of truth escape or Koznicki might deny him the case.

“Walt, there’s a good chance whoever did this hit her because she was my snitch. It could have been retaliation for some lead she gave me.

“And if that’s a fact—if she was executed because of some information she gave me—then there’s a connection with me. When I come across the perpetrator, I’ll know him. Or, put it another way: I know him already. He’s gotta be a case I worked on—but one that El gave me a lead on. So, among other leads, I can check my files and my memory for the guy who connected El with me.”

This was true enough and it skirted his emotional involvement.

“You are basing this on the modus operandi?”

“Uh-huh. It looks like a mob hit. Somebody kills a prostitute, he kills a prostitute. He doesn’t gut and brand her. There’s some kind of message in that. But it’s different from anything I’ve ever seen.” He pointed at the carton at the foot of Koznicki’s desk. “I’ll bet in all the cases you’ve got in that box, there’s not one like this one.”

Koznicki shook his head. “Not to my knowledge.

“All right, Alonzo, the case is yours. What have you got so far?”

“Besides hunches, not much. El had a buddy. She was too street smart not to. Arlene’s the name. But she wasn’t much help. She wasn’t around when El was picked up. Which means either that our perp was lucky or he knew enough to survey the area until El was alone.”

“Had Bonner told her buddy about any especially weird characters she had been with? Any threats?”