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

So he’d listened to Bush. Then the call late last night. His strong inclination to postpone the dinner invitation into infinity. But Bush had been insistent—and there was Koesler’s reluctance to refuse anyone. Then, dinner tonight. One last look at the photo study of the mutilated prostitutes. The very last second glance at those pictures and spotting the fatal flaw.

Especially that he, Father Koesler, should spot the final clue. He who had always been so poor at paying attention to detail.

Yes, if it was not a miracle in the technical sense, surely in a more popular sense it was miraculous.

At any point, this easily might not have happened. Had he been in the lobby of the morgue seconds earlier or later, Agnes Blondell would have missed him. Had he firmly refused Arnold’s dinner invitation, he never would have suspected, let alone stumbled upon, the telltale pictures.

And if none of this had happened, like as not the doomsday predictions of almost everyone else would have come to pass. Father Kramer probably would have been convicted.

So why didn’t he feel better? Why was there no ebullience?

Koesler was not sure. Maybe because he was forced to trade one soul for another. What had Bush become that had not been programmed beyond his power to control? What a painfully shameful way to treat a child! Shuffled from home to home, ending in a brothel. How much genuine responsibility did Arnold Bush have to shoulder for his crimes? How guilty was he in the eyes of God, the most understanding judge of all?

It was, any way it could be considered, a tragedy.

Perhaps that was why there was neither relief nor joy in Koesler’s heart. He had simply traded one tragedy for another.

Meanwhile three innocent women had become homicide victims. The time had come to pay the price.

Bush lit another cigarette. All evening, at great personal discomfort, he had abstained from smoking for the sake of his party for the priest. It no longer mattered. In a short while his life of freedom, such as it was, would be at an end. The police would be here. Called by the priest.

Called by the priest?

Bush had killed before. Could he not do it again? With this priest out of the way he would be free.

It was a consideration.

But, in the end, no more than a consideration. It was one thing to snuff out a whore. Whores had snuffed out his youth often enough. It was quite another thing to kill a priest. No, he was deeply enough into this without descending further.

Whether he had picked up the vibration of Bush’s thoughts or not, Koesler hastily moved to the phone. He thought briefly of dialing 911, the emergency number. He dialed the home of Inspector Koznicki.

38

It had been a frenzied evening. All in all, a memorable night.

Inspector Koznicki had arrived at the Bush apartment within a half-hour of Father Koesler’s call. However, the first to arrive had been the uniformed police Koznicki had sent to secure the scene and begin the necessary procedures of arrest and the gathering of evidence. Then it had become a chain reaction. Koznicki had been followed by Lieutenant Tully, whom the inspector had called. Then came Officer Mangiapane whom Tully had summoned.

The Miranda Warning was given and a now sullen Arnold Bush interrogated. He waived his right to have an attorney present. Still, he was less than cooperative. Most questions were answered with monosyllabic grunts.

When the police technicians arrived, Koesler and Koznicki left. By mutual agreement, they regrouped at Norman’s Eton Street Station, a converted early railroad station managed by James McIntyre, one of Koesler’s parishioners. Besides being a good restaurant, Norman’s afforded Koesler undisturbed seclusion. The manager saw to that. Before leaving Bush’s apartment, Koznicki invited both Tully and Mangiapane to join them at Norman’s once the statement had been taken and the booking and processing had been completed at headquarters.

Mangiapane had been flattered by the invitation. Tully would much have preferred to skip the engagement, but, from long association, he could tell when one of Koznicki’s courtly invitations was, in reality, a command performance.

As yet alone, Koesler and Koznicki had been seated at a balcony table. Most of that section had been vacated by that hour of the evening. Koesler nursed a glass of Chablis while Koznicki sipped a port.

“What will happen now?” Koesler asked. “I mean, to Arnold Bush?”

“To Bush? I assume he will be charged with murder in the first degree. Three counts. It seemed that he was ready to confess to that charge when we were at his apartment, although he said too little for us to know what the outcome will be.” Koznicki glanced at his watch. “They should have taken his statement by now.”

“And Father Kramer?”

Koznicki brightened. “He should be freed tomorrow morning. One of two things could happen: His attorney could request a writ of habeas corpus, a move he could make tonight. But I doubt he will do that either tonight or tomorrow. More probably, he will wait for our recommendation, after which the prosecutor’s office will move to dismiss the charges against Father Kramer.”

“And then he will be free?”

“And then he will be free.” Koznicki looked intently at the priest. “I must say I find your reaction to all this somewhat surprising, Father. You discovered the evidence that will clear Father Kramer. His freedom has been your goal from the outset. And now to be the instrument that accomplishes that goal . . . well, I should think you would be extremely happy. But I must say you are not the picture of joy.”

Koesler smiled. “Sorry, Inspector. You’re right: I should be happier than I am. And I don’t know whether I can even explain. I guess I just don’t do very well in the abstract.”

“The abstract?”

“I didn’t realize it all these years, but my notion of jail and imprisonment was an abstract perception. I’ve seen jails in movies and on TV. I’ve read about people being imprisoned by rightful authority and by tyrants and terrorists. I’ve visited people in prison. But it wasn’t until I visited Dick Kramer in jail that the reality hit me. I think I might be able to adjust to almost everything about prison life except the essence of it all—being locked away. Lacking the freedom to . . . be free.

“Now in a very brief time, I’ve come to know Arnold Bush. To know how he became what he is. I guess I just can’t be happy about a human being I know and understand being locked up, probably for the rest of his life.”

“But Father,” Koznicki spread his hands open-palmed on the tabletop, “this Arnold Bush has murdered three women!”

“He says one.”

Lieutenant Tully had arrived.

“One?” Koznicki was clearly startled.

Tully and Mangiapane seated themselves.

“That’s what Bush claims,” said Tully. “He admits to the murder of Mae Dixon, but not the other two.”

“How could that be? How could that possibly be?” Koesler spoke more loudly than he intended. The intensity of his tone drew a waiter to the table.

Tully ordered a light beer, Mangiapane a regular. Neither Koesler nor Koznicki reordered.

Mangiapane scratched his head. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. We got him. We got the pictures he took. We got the knife. We got the belt. And, best of all, we found the branding iron.”

Koznicki seemed especially pleased. “You found the iron.”

“Yes, sir.” Mangiapane was far from being on a first-name basis with the boss. “We got it. But he claims he can’t tell us what the inscription means. Said he copied it. And he still won’t admit to more than the last murder.”

“If he will not admit to the first two murders,” Koznicki said, “does he have an alibi for the first two Sundays?”