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

Kramer knew that was true.

“Was anyone with you when the call came?”

“No one.”

Koesler tilted his head to one side. “Too bad. It would have been a tremendous help if someone had been there to corroborate the call. It’s also too bad that so few people will appreciate how small the odds are that there would have been anyone else around, especially on a Sunday afternoon. That’s about the only time a priest has to himself, whether he wants to be alone or not.”

“Absolutely.”

“So the call comes. A sick call?”

“Yeah. The guy who called—”

“It was a man? You’re sure?”

“He didn’t seem to be disguising his voice at all.”

“You recognized the voice?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“He said there was this lady who was real sick and needed a priest. And he gave the address.”

“Which was way out of your parish. But it didn’t matter because it was pretty close to downtown and there wouldn’t be many priests around that area, especially on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Exactly.” Kramer was buoyed by the simple fact that Koesler seemed to understand so much more readily than the attorney. Both Johnson and Koesler were on his side. But Koesler understood completely and immediately.

“Then?”

“The rest of it is part of the record. I got there expecting to find a woman on her deathbed. I figured I’d have to call a doctor for her. I tried to get the guy who called to do that, but he hung up before I could do it. And I thought I had better at least take a look before I did it. So I went.

“When I knocked on the door I was surprised that she could invite me in with such a strong voice ... I mean for a dying woman. Then when I entered the apartment, she let out a scream and pulled this huge knife. I didn’t know what the hell was happening but I didn’t want to get all carved up for my trouble. So I got my knife out . . . to sort of establish a Mexican standoff, you know.

“There was a lot of yelling. We were both yelling at each other. Then the cops busted in . . . actually it would have been sort of comical if it hadn’t turned out to be so tragic.”

Koesler, who had been nodding his understanding and agreement throughout Kramer’s narration, said, “Okay, you were set up for this. There’s no doubt about that. But how?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Kramer chain-lit another cigarette and coughed.

“Whoever did it knew, or guessed, that the police had certain areas of the city under surveillance. Or maybe he actually saw the police patrolling that area. Somebody who had it in for you. Anybody come to mind?”

Kramer gave the question only a moment’s thought. “No . . . nobody . . . not anybody vindictive enough to go to all the trouble.”

“A good point. That was a lot of trouble to go to. Anybody who felt he had some score to settle with you could have found a helluva lot of easier ways to do it.”

Koesler paused and rubbed his chin. “But then why didn’t the police buy your story? It seems perfectly logical to me.”

“They kept saying it was too impossible to be a coincidence.”

“What was?”

“That I was dressed as a priest. And, as we know from the papers, so was the killer.”

“So? Priests are not supposed to wear their uniform because some criminal decides to dress like us?”

“No, it was more than that. I drive a black Ford Escort. So did the killer.”

Koesler was about to interject a thought, but Kramer continued. “Then, there was my knife. Again, the papers said that the prostitutes had been stabbed.”

“But a knife! Lots of people carry—”

“They were most persistent about the size of the knife. I’m not sure why. Then there was something about my belt . . . its size, its width. I don’t know what that was all about. I asked them. But they seemed determined to wait until I tell them. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to tell them.”

“Isn’t there any way of finding out?”

“Tomorrow, I think. My lawyer spends tomorrow, or part of it, with the prosecutor. He described the legal process. I think it’s called discovery. He gets to find out what they think they have against me. We have a right to that information before the preliminary examination on Thursday.”

“This is all happening so fast.”

“Maybe. Or not so fast. There’s no way I can get out of here too soon.”

Kramer reached for another cigarette, then thought better of it and tapped it back into the package. Koesler visualized Kramer’s lungs begging for mercy.

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Koesler wished he had a pad. Evaluating a situation like this seemed to work better when one could write out the possibilities. “It’s obvious somebody framed you. That you were set up last Sunday is patent. It didn’t take too much imagination to figure that you would respond to that sick call. Or that you would be wearing your clericals. Maybe one of the younger priests would show up in a turtleneck and jeans. But our vintage would come in roman collar.

“The guy—whoever it is—knows you drive a black Escort. He knows you ordinarily carry a knife—but then, you always have. He knows something about your belt, which, for some reason that we are likely to discover tomorrow, is important to the police.

“Okay, all of that information is not all that hard to come by. It’s easily available to anyone who knows you even in the slightest way.

“Who would do this to you? It’s got to be obvious: the real killer. For two consecutive Sundays he went about killing defenseless women and setting you up at the same time.

“All this guy had to do was know just a little bit about you—things he could find out merely by observing you. Then he could dress like a priest, drive a black Escort, carry a knife—with which he could kill—and do whatever he did with a belt like yours. It wasn’t all that hard.” Koesler felt the exhilaration of having solved the puzzle. Or at least part of the puzzle.

“That’s got to be it. That’s really got to be it.” Kramer, in that distracted automatic manner of a smoker, selected another cigarette and lit it, using the second and final match the guard had provided.

“That leaves the big question ...” Koesler seemed deep in thought. “Who is it? Who did it? And, now that I think of it, how did he know that a witness—and he always took the chance of being seen by somebody—how could he know that a witness would confuse the two of you? How could he guess that a witness might identify you as the one who did it? Luck? That seems improbable. Coincidence? I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t all he’d have to know,” Kramer suggested, “is what my lawyer told me: that witnesses are likely to go into a line-up already programmed to identify somebody? They had all of us—there were seven—dress totally in black. Right away that makes us look an awful lot alike. And the woman who identified me seemed to spend a God-awful amount of time doing it . . . or at least it seemed that an awful lot of time elapsed. Maybe the killer was counting on the witnesses acting or reacting like witnesses usually do. Or maybe it was blind luck . . . or just a coincidence. After all, how could the killer know there would be witnesses?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. That’s the only piece that doesn’t seem to fit with the puzzle. Did he know, did he have any reason to guess, that this might happen? That someone would mistake you for him? I don’t know. It bothers me.”

“Well, anyhow, I feel better. Just going through this with you has lifted a weight off my shoulders, Bob. You know, I know—we both know—I couldn’t have done it.”

“Yes. But realistically, Dick, that may not be enough. I know in our form of law in this country, an accused person is innocent until proven guilty. But in our case, we may have to find the guilty party before—” Koesler stopped in midsentence and looked intently at Kramer. “What did you just say?”