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

But today Dr. Moellmann was giving his undivided attention to the body on the middle tray.

Tully and Moellmann knew each other well. The detective attended autopsies on his cases faithfully. And although Moellmann tended to play the flamboyant showman, Tully knew the doctor was one of the most competent medical examiners in the country. Perhaps in the world. Each respected the other’s professionalism and expertise, even if the two were locked into role playing.

Though Moellmann became aware of Tully’s presence, he did not turn to formally acknowledge it. “Your case, Lieutenant?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Interesting. Very interesting. I don’t believe we’ve had one like this before.”

At this point, Tully guessed why Moellmann was giving his exclusive attention to the corpse of Louise Bonner. Like a psychotherapist who has treated too many emotionally disturbed people, the M.E. had autopsied so many corpses that the bodies virtually had lost their distinctiveness. There were so many shootings, drownings, asphyxiations; deaths from sharp and blunt instruments; traffic deaths, OD’s. The medical examiner reaped the maimed shells of what had been God’s most intricate creation. Though it might be noted that Moellmann believed neither in any afterlife nor in God. His incredulity was his peculiar reaction to his work.

Thus, just as the psychotherapist who is sated with manic-depressives, phobics, and the like, so was Moellmann inundated with death pure and simple. The psychotherapist’s interest might be whetted by a rare psychological aberration. Moellmann clearly was excited by the challenge offered by this mutilated body.

“Was strangulation the cause of death?” Tully asked.

“What?”

It was as if Moellmann had been roused from some private reverie. “Oh . . . yes, it certainly seems so. Yes, asphyxial death. There’s a tremendous fullness of blood in the internal organs. But she was not eviscerated until at least—oh, ten minutes after death. Otherwise, the heart would still have been pumping and she would have lost much of this blood.”

Moellmann moved back and forth between the body and the lectern. He made many notations on the chart.

Tully next spoke when Moellmann turned his attention to the mark of the cross on Louise’s breast. His face was only inches from the body as he studied the branding.

“So . . . ?”

“Mmmm . . .” Moellmann touched the edge of the mark. “. . . unquestionably makes this one unique. Makes it a ritual. A ritual killing.”

Ritual. Tully’s brain went into quickstep

He would have to enlist the aid of the news media. This murder, unlike many other killings in Detroit, would make the news—at least the local news. The police as well as the medical examiner’s staff would have to keep certain details from the media. At the same time, they would direct the media not to divulge certain other details to the public. This sort of crime could more likely be solved if the authorities alone—besides the killer, of course—knew all the details.

“What do you make of it, Doc?”

“It’s a cross, of course. The mark seems to have been made by some metal instrument. Very thin. We’ll get exact measurements. Heated. Was there a stove in the room?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then heated over the stove. There may be two parts to this instrument.”

“Huh?”

“The vertical mark is more clear, more burned in, than the horizontal mark. Possibly the thing comes apart. Then he would have to put it together—fit one beam into the other, as it were. . . . Wait: This is interesting.”

Moellmann was now using a magnifying glass. “There’s some sort of . . . something on this horizontal mark. It looks like letters of some sort. Perhaps just the upper part of letters. It isn’t clear because the breast curves just there. It appears he may have wanted to leave a message of some kind, but failed. Maybe because he hadn’t counted on the curvature of the breast.”

“Can you get me that, Doc?”

“We’ll have enlargements made. But I don’t know that you’ll be able to make heads or tails of it.” Moellmann continued to study the marks. “Definitely the top portions of letters. But it’s almost impossible to supply the bottoms. I can’t make any sense of it. It might be four words. There’s one open space on the left side of the vertical bar and one space on the right side.”

“Nobody knows anything about this but us,” Tully cautioned.

“Of course.”

“It’s the best we’ve got so far.”

“The belt that was used to strangle her was one inch and seven-eighths wide.”

Considerably wider than the average belt. That was unusual—and helpful. Anything unusual was helpful.

From the scrapings taken from under El’s fingernails, it was determined that the belt had been of black leather. Evidently she had clawed at it while being garroted.

The remainder of the autopsy reverted to the routine. It was established that the deceased’s stomach was nearly empty except for the remains of a hamburger. Tully recalled a greasy spoon near the corner of Third and Willis, El’s prime place of business. She had probably stopped sometime yesterday afternoon for a snack. Maybe the proprietor or some of the customers had noticed something.

It was worth a try. Tully returned to headquarters, picked up Mangiapane, and returned to the area in Cass Corridor that belonged to the hookers, their pimps, and their Johns.

Meanwhile, eventually, the autopsy on the body of Louise Bonner was completed. One of the attendants put Louise back together and sewed her up.

The attendant who ministered to Louise had taken an extraordinary interest in her from the very beginning of work today. In fact, he had almost come to blows with another attendant over custody of Louise’s body. The scuffle had to be broken up by the technical assistant who was supervising the attendants. Both men had been warned at this time that they were on probation and could be dismissed summarily. But for a little while, the tussle had been the prime topic of conversation among the technical assistants.

Until that moment, only a few of the assistants had even known the name of Arnold Bush. Now his name would become almost an “in” word and Bush would become the subject of ribald humor, most of it having to do with necrophilia and his willingness to do battle over a dead whore.

But the jokes for the most part were exchanged behind Bush’s back. For Arnold Bush had a short fuse and, despite a very commonplace appearance, he was uncommonly strong. He was a loner. And, especially after this morning’s brief turmoil, he was left alone.

The attendant Bush had vied with for custody of Bonner’s body had bruises on both arms. He showed the bruises readily, hoping for some sympathy. The marks of Bush’s fingers were clearly evident. Anyone who could cause such injury simply by grabbing another’s arms was given a wide berth.

Thus no one else challenged Arnold Bush’s claim to exclusive care for the remains of Louise Bonner.

4

It was nearly ten o’clock when Alonzo Tully approached St. Anselm’s rectory. He had phoned earlier to make sure that, first, Walt Koznicki had contacted Father Koesler regarding El’s funeral and, second, that this would not be too late to call on the priest.

It had been a busy day. Tully was tired with that peculiar enervation that comes after pursuit down a series of blind alleys.

Which was not to say there hadn’t been any progress. The M.E. had been particularly helpful. Now, if only they could determine what words, what message, had been burned into El’s breast. That might clarify the entire mess. That could be the key.

Ever since this morning’s discovery of the partial lettering, Tully had been certain that his initial premise was correct. This was a mob-sponsored killing in retaliation for El’s having given him some tip, some information.