Tully looked at the others, the three who had already invested so much time, effort, and brain work in this puzzle. He threw this latest ingredient into the pot. Koesler looked first startled, then thoughtful. Oddly, neither Moore nor Mangiapane changed expression. At first, Tully thought their lack of response was due to the newness of the hypothesis, but Mangiapane’s low-keyed, “Great minds run in the same channels,” followed by Moore’s smile of accord, gave him to realize that, in the words of countless comedians, the feeling was mutual, and that his two chief assistants had indeed been operating on the same channels.
“Well,” Tully concluded, “whichever, or whatever, or whoever is carrying out these killings, I repeat: We’ve got to make sure the perp isn’t lucky again. And, speaking of luck, have our guyshad any?”
“Some,” Moore.said. “Talking to some of the friends and associates of Carson and Stapleton, it seems that both those guys have something going for them. We haven’t found anybody yet who can be specific, but several acquaintances have said that Carson has been bragging about something he’s been doing diat will shake things up in the local Church. And, oddly, Stapleton has been doing somewhat the same. Only he doesn’t seem to be braggings-maybe threatening is a better word. And whatever it is that Stapleton’s doing he claims is going to affect the whole damn Church-worldwide.”
“It’s not possible, is it,” Koesler asked, “it’s not possible those two could be working together?”
“Anything’s possible,” Tully observed.
“Do they have alibis for this afternoon?” Mangiapane asked.
“They seem to have come up short again,” Moore said. “Carson is on suspension from the post office. He claims he was home at the time of the shooting. Stapleton was driving to a meeting downtown, alone. There’s no way to substantiate either claim. It’s just their word. But, so far, that’s it.”
“Okay…” Tully slapped the desk top, then stood. “Let’s get back on the street. Make sure everybody’s got the word about how the perp’s M.O. has changed. The planning from here on in … if there are any more hits planned-and I feel there will be-from now on he’s liable to be sloppy. Or, if we’re dealing with two or more nuts, the M.O.’s liable to change totally. We’ve got to hope for some kind of a break. Meantime, double up the protection for the nun. And get on the possibility that somebody at the Pontch Wine Cellars might identify either Carson or Stapleton.
“Let’s hit the bricks,”
The three rose and prepared to leave, though Koesler surely was not going to “hit the bricks,”
“Oh,” Tully said in afterthought, “and Father Koesler: If you think of anything, call-doesn’t matter when. Call here, They’ll know where to find me.”
Tully was still banking on Koesler’s coming up with some sort of Churchy insight that might break this puzzle open. In this, Tully was much more optimistic than was the priest himself.
The walk home, from police headquarters to St. Joseph’s, was not a great distance, but it was bitterly cold. Gratiot Avenue was not that far removed from the Detroit River and its icy breezes, and there was that unprotected overpass across the Chrysler Freeway.
As he walked, Father Koesler thought of Clete Bash, and how, earlier this very day, he too had walked a downtown street. He had had no way of knowing he was heading toward his final moment on earth. When it came right down to it, no Detroit priest or nun-or anyone employed by the archdiocese-had any clue as to whether they-any of them-were on this madman’s list.
There were no lights on in the ancient rectory when Koesler let himself in. He went directly to the kitchen. It was the warmest room in the old building. There he found a note from Mary O’Connor telling him his dinner was in the oven and giving specific instructions on how to heat it. He thought the instructions a bit much, but then he remembered a time he had put a frozen dinner including the cardboard box containing it into the oven to heat. Over the years, Mary had come to know him better than he knew himself.
He followed her instructions to the letter.
He felt frozen to the bone. So he mixed himself a Scotch and water. The first sip sent a welcome wave of warmth through his still-shivering body. He glanced at the afternoon paper’s front page. No mention of Father Bash’s murder. It must have happened too late for their deadline. The story surely would be the top headline in both morning and afternoon papers tomorrow.
To be followed by … whom? Sister Joan? Would the killer, now in seeming haste, double back and pick off the one target he seemed to have missed? Would all the present police protection scare him off? Could anything frighten off a person that determined on a plan of destruction?
Sister Joan … something rattling around in his memory.
Sister Joan was the first intended victim … or so the theory went. But her executioner failed, and so he moved on to the second, then the third, then the fourth victims, never returning to the first failed effort.
Hadn’t Koesler been thinking of something similar recently? Something in the liturgy?
Of course; it was the feast of St. John the Apostle and Evangelist.
Koesler dug out his copy of The Oxford Dictionary of Saints. John suffered “(according to ecclesiastical tradition) under Domitian’s persecution, from which, however, he escaped alive and ended his days at an advanced age at Ephesus.”
But legend had it that all the apostles died martyrs. Even though John did not actually die for his faith, the Emperor Domitian did his level best to try to make John a martyr. And despite his escape, the Church considers him a martyr.
Like St. John, Sister Joan escaped her executioner. Somebody who was well instructed in Christianity would be familiar with the St. John legend. And whoever was responsible for this series of murders very likely would fit that profile. So Sister Joan, if Koesler were correct, would no longer be a murder victim candidate. She hadn’t been murdered any more than St. John had. But both had been handed “the palm of martyrdom”-honoris causa, as it were.
His first impulse was to call Lieutenant Tully and inform him of this new line of reasoning. Instead, he paused. He felt that he was on some sort of deductive roll. Now that he had a clear impression of how this still-living nun fit into the picture, he might be on the verge of identifying that elusive thread that tied this string of murders together.
Something … something … something. It was something someone had said. The clue was so close at hand, lurking just on the edge of his mind. He was sure that if he could just relax and let his mind take its own tour in a stream of consciousness, it would surface. He took another sip of his drink. He was relaxing and his mind seemed right on target.
Meanwhile, his dinner was not only badly overdone, it was on the verge of catching fire.
Sure enough, the front pages of both the Detroit News and the Free Press were full of Father Cletus Bash’s murder at midday on Washington Boulevard. That was the lead story and it was amplified both on page one and on the jump pages by sidebars covering the brief history of these serial murders and reports on the progress and lack of same of the police investigation.
Buried somewhere in the midst of these stories was the announcement by Robert Meyer, acting spokesman for the archdiocese of Detroit, to the effect that, immediately following Father Bash’s funeral, Cardinal Boyle would leave on a combined spiritual retreat and vacation. The Cardinal’s doctor was quoted as saying there was no emergency, but that the prelate was in need of some rest and solitude. Recent events and the tragic attacks on Church leaders had taken their toll. As his doctor put it, the archbishop needed to recharge his batteries.