Chameleon (37 page)

There was no help for it; they’d have to proceed on the basis that they didn’t know which basis to proceed on: Was there one killer with two M.O.’s, or two or more killers with God knows how many M.O.’s?

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.

No specific destination or duration was mentioned, only that he would be sojourning in a warmer clime for as long as it took to get those batteries recharged.

Cardinal Mark Boyle lived in what was by just about anyone’s standards a mansion. It was located in Palmer Woods, a square mile enclave just inside Detroit’s northern limits. Mansions are plentiful in this luxurious section, but the former residence of Bishop Michael Gallagher and Cardinal Edward Mooney and present residence of Cardinal Boyle well overshadowed its surrounding homes.

Traditionally, the neighborhood is quiet, elegant. But with the market value of these homes, one could expect little else.

It was quiet on this beautiful winter evening. Clear skies, lots of stars; only a quarter moon that shed little light. The drowsy dark was pierced only occasionally by a streetlight.

The streets were empty, except for the occasional car that would creep over the slippery pavement and turn in at a driveway to be tucked into its garage for the night.

One such vehicle, a late model black four-door Taurus, inched along the street, but did not turn in at any driveway. Instead, it circled the neighborhood as if the driver were on a sightseeing tour of the mansions. It drew no attention; one would have to have been watching the streets for some time and with concentration to note that the same car had passed not once but several times. And no one was paying that sort of attention.

Finally, the Taurus pulled to a stop on Balmoral. The driver got out of the car and opened the rear door. Out popped a Heinz 57 mutt with a stubby, furiously wagging tail; The man attached a lead to the pup’s collar, which was devoid of any identifying tags or license.

He set off at a normal pace, pausing only when the dog investigated a tree or a fire hydrant. To anyone who might have paid him any mind in the dim light, he was a neighborhood resident, home from a day of wheeling and dealing, walking his dog after dinner. The dog was a perfect pretext for strolling through the neighborhood.

Man and dog turned onto Wellesley Drive. Still no one on the streets. No cars going home anymore. Lights on in most of the houses, but recessed into the interior, perhaps the dining area.

There it was: the mansion by which its neighbors were measured.

The man did not break his pace, but proceeded until he was enveloped in shadow. There he stopped and unhooked the lead from the dog’s collar, stuffing the lead into his coat pocket.

Freed, the little dog pranced along happily, hoping to find a warm place to spend the night.

The man cautiously approached the mansion, careful to stay in the shadows. His black garb helped conceal him. He headed along the side of the huge house toward a room that showed a light from inside. He knew the room was a study.

Slowly he approached the lighted room. As far as he could tell, it was the only light on in the entire mansion. That was fitting. The occupant resided with no companion; the help lived in the distant interior. The occupant undoubtedly had finished dinner and was commencing an evening of reading and study before an early retirement.

The man studied the ground. There were no footprints. The sidewalk, as well as the walkways leading to and around the house, were totally cleared of snow. He had expected no less.

He drew nearer. The room lay behind lace-curtained French doors.

He stood looking into the room. He could not see clearly because of the filmy curtains, but he could make out the tall, slender, cassocked figure. This was the man he would kill. This was the man he had to kill.

His face was almost pressed against the door’s glass. Still he was unable to discern details clearly. The lighting was indirect—and there were those damned curtains.

From an inside coat pocket he drew a many-bladed knife. One of the blades was a glass cutter. He would effect entry through an adjoining room. But first, just on the off chance …

He tried the doorknob. It turned. Very, very careless. It certainly simplified his objective. But, very, very careless.

He opened the door quietly, just enough to step into the room. He closed the door behind him, again quietly, never taking his eyes off his target. Even in the dim light, no one could mistake the distinctive Cardinal-red of the wide cummerbund and zucchetto. The cassocked figure was standing at a table, his back to the intruder.

As the man took a cautious step, a board creaked.

“Hello, Quent. I’ve been expecting you.” The cassocked figure turned slowly.

The Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey gasped. His gasp was followed by another small sound of surprise. “Bob? Bob Koesler?” Jeffrey stepped in front of a large chair and lowered himself into it, burying his hands in his coat pockets as he sank into the upholstery.

His mouth hung ajar as he fought to conquer his astonishment. Koesler’s expression was both inquisitive and kindly as he Stood facing Jeffrey. The two men remained motionless, as if caught in one of television’s freeze-frames for several moments.

“How … how did you know?” Jeffrey stammered finally. “Was it the clue I gave you? Did you catch my hint?”

“Not right away, Quent.” Koesler sat back against the table. “It began at Archbishop Foley’s wake. A couple of the guys were talking about a lot of things: vacations, the Cardinal … and a party they were going to after the wake. They were going to play cards—poker. One of them complained that, with the out-of-towners who would be playing, the poker would be deadly serious and professional—no wild card games.”

Jeffrey nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“That was the seed,” Koesler said. “Later, I thought about the game I sat in on the other night. Young and Bash and you and I.

“Now, nobody in the diocese is more famed as a serious and professional poker player than you. And yet, one of the times it was your deal, you called one-eyed jacks wild.”

Jeffrey could not suppress a broad grin. Not unlike a teacher encouraging a pupil who was on the right track.

In fact, Jeffrey’s reaction was encouraging Koesler as he continued. “That also was the night you remarked that Church law held all the cards.

“Then I thought about how I tried to explain the administration of the Detroit archdiocese to a policeman, and I remembered the part the—at that time three—murder victims played in it.