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

The problem was, what message did the ritual convey? It did not seem manifestly symbolic. What could it symbolize, the garroting, the gutting, the cross? That damned cross! The message was in those words. It had to be.

Tully had checked with the M.E.’s office periodically throughout the day. But, as yet, nothing. All they would tell him was that they were working on it.

Otherwise, it had been a day like so many he had spent in past investigations. A day where you take on the street and the street people. People who knew nothing. People who knew something, but weren’t going to help a cop.

The owner of the greasy spoon remembered El. She was a regular, a regular in that restaurant of ill repute and a regular on that corner. He remembered serving her the hamburger, the remains of which Moellmann found partially digested in El’s stomach. But he’d read the early Monday papers and knew what happened to El, so he knew nothing more. Whether or not he could have helped, it was obvious he wasn’t going to.

Much more disposed to cooperate were the street hookers. On the one hand, one of their number had been murdered and each knew, at all times, that the same could happen to any of them. So the quicker the weirdo John was put away, the safer life would be for all of them. Additionally, many, particularly the older women, knew Tully from his days on the vice squad. They knew him to be eminently fair, even understanding and, more’s the miracle, often kind.

Thus, Tully experienced a great deal more cooperation than did, say, Mangiapane. Even so, there just was not all that much information available.

By far, Tully’s most significant breakthrough came from a woman who was both a friend of El’s and beholden to Tully for past favors.

This woman had been working the street a few blocks from El’s corner. Yesterday had been particularly slow, she said, so she had been able to be more aware of details than she ordinarily would.

It had been late afternoon, maybe about five, when she noticed something a little out of the ordinary. A black four-door sedan—a Ford, she thought, though she couldn’t come up with the exact model; but it was black and so was the driver—no, wait: He wasn’t a black—although she had thought he was the first couple of times she saw him. Yes, she saw him more than once because he seemed to be circling the same several blocks. About the third pass, she could tell he was white, but he was wearing black: black hat, black coat, collar pulled up

She figured the guy was cruising, looking for a party. She would have pursued him more aggressively, but it was so damned cold she was almost frozen.

What was so peculiar was the number of times he circled. Most tricks go around a couple of times making their selection. This guy kept going around and around—like he was looking for something else.

This meshed with Tully’s hypothesis that the perpetrator took care to make sure El’s buddy was nowhere in sight.

Intrigued by this somewhat erratic behavior, the woman, against her better judgment—what with the cold and all—walked over to Third to see the man’s next pass. There she saw somebody—she was sure it was El—get in the guy’s car. But dammit, she didn’t get a number. Nonetheless, it was another piece of the puzzle. A puzzle he was going to solve. Of that he was certain.

Tully had no problem finding St. Anselm’s. His years on the force had made him familiar with all sections of the metropolitan area. Anselm’s was just north of Ford Road, set well back on West Outer Drive. As he saw it now, under a light cover of snow, with the Christmas crèche still up and the facade of the church illuminated by soft floods, it looked like a lovely Christmas card. El would enjoy being buried from this church.

Father Koesler, in cassock, collar, and soft slippers, answered the rectory doorbell. Tully figured the slippers indicated either that the priest had sore feet or hoped their meeting would be brief, as bedtime was calling.

Koesler greeted the officer and led him into the main office, which was none too large. At this hour, and given the identity of his guest, Koesler might have held their meeting in the rectory’s more comfortable living room. But in his phone call, Inspector Koznicki had briefly explained what it was Tully wanted. Koznicki had suggested nothing. He asked the priest for no favor, only cleared the way for the appointment.

Although Tully had noticed the priest at Police Headquarters several times over the past few years, he had always been too occupied to take much note of Koesler. Now, one on one, Tully took a closer look.

The priest was taller than he had appeared at a distance—maybe six-foot-three. His thinning hair was completely gray and the cassock’s sash did not conceal a slight midriff bulge. The glasses were bifocals. There were no facial wrinkles, only a hint of laugh lines around the eyes to betray his late fifties age.

Tully sat in one of the two visitors’ chairs. “I came to arrange for a funeral, Father. I never did this before.” Help me, his expression said.

“That’s what Inspector Koznicki said. It’s for that woman who was killed yesterday?”

Tully nodded.

“Horrible,” Koesler said. “The paper said her body was mutilated.”

“Uh-huh.” Tully was not about to confide details. In truth, Koesler did not want to know.

“Well, Lieutenant, a couple of questions do come to mind. First, was the woman—Louise Bonner—was she a Catholic?”

“Oh, yeah. I knew her pretty well. Every once in a while she’d talk about growing up Catholic. She even attended a Catholic school. ’Course, she didn’t go to church much lately . . . what with her, uh, profession and all. Is that a problem—that she didn’t go to church very often?”

Koesler smiled. “It used to be. But not so much anymore.”

Since the inspector’s call this morning, Koesler had been reluctantly awaiting this appointment. Instinctively, he was opposed to holding the rites at St. Anselm’s. He feared there would be a lot of publicity, not to mention notoriety, attending such a funeral. St. Anselm’s needed neither publicity nor notoriety.

So, off and on through the day, Koesler had been formulating reasons why Louise Bonner could not be buried from his parish. The primary and overwhelming reason her funeral should not be here was, of course, that there was no reason why it should. At least no reason he could think of. Now he began exploring the soft underbelly of the matter.

“These few times Louise attended church,” Koesler said, “did she ever come to St. Anselm’s?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I didn’t think so. Does she have any relatives in this parish?” If she did, Koesler was not aware of any.

“Not that I know of.”

“Then I must assume Louise lived somewhere in Detroit and probably dropped in at some of the central parishes. Or maybe one particular city church.”

“If she favored one church over another, I certainly didn’t know about it. She was the type who would go in on the spur of the moment. So she probably went to a lot of different parishes . . . is there a problem about that?”

“The central problem I’ve got, Lieutenant, is: Why St. Anselm’s? We don’t know that she ever attended this church. She has no relatives here. There’s just no connection at all.”

“That’s a problem?” Tully was being naive, and he knew it.

“The problem, as I see it, Lieutenant, is that there is no reason to have Louise Bonner’s funeral from this parish.”

Tully shrugged. “She’s gotta be buried.”

“But why St. Anselm’s?”

“Why not? Look, Father, I went over this with Walt Koznicki earlier today. The point is, El was a Catholic. She was even kind of proud of it. She went to church sometimes . . . oh, nothing regular; she was never specific. Not with me. I couldn’t put my finger on any one parish, Detroit or the suburbs, and say, ‘Yeah, I know she attended there.’