Chameleon (17 page)

“Then came the murder of Lawrence Hoffer. I suspected there might be a connection because both Joan Donovan and Hoffer were part of the administration of the local Catholic Church. And that proved to be correct. We compared the slugs that killed the Donovan woman and Hoffer and—they matched.”

“And,” Koesler said, “at the time Larry was killed Mr. Reading was already locked up.”

“Correct. Now, let me tell you something about the ammo used ’cause it tells us quite a bit about the killer,” Tully said.

“The bullets were 158 grain, half-jacketed, flat-nosed, downloaded .38 caliber. Does that have any significance for you, or mean anything special?”

Koesler shook his head.

“Not familiar with guns?.”

Koesler shook his head again.

“Okay,” Tully said. “This kind of bullet is ordinarily used for target practice. Particularly because of its flat nose, it makes a nice, neat round hole in the paper target. That way it’s easy to see where all the bullets hit the target even if more than one bullet hits almost the same spot. Okay?”

Koesler nodded.

“Okay. Now, when this kind of bullet—one with all the specifications I mentioned—is fired point-blank into, say, a person’s head—the way Donovan and Hoffer were hit—something very specific happens.

“Because it’s down-loaded, it’s not likely to exit the body, the head. Because it’s half-jacketed, it holds together; it doesn’t expand when it hits its target. Because it’s flat-nosed and doesn’t exit the body, it causes one hell of a lot of damage.” Tully looked expectantly at Koesler. “See?”

Koesler pondered for a moment. “Not really.”

“Okay.” There was no good reason why a priest inexperienced in ballistics should grasp the significance of what the perpetrator intended. But he had hoped Koesler’s deductive powers would be sharper. Still, Tully reminded himself, he had sought Koesler’s input because of his familiarity with things Churchy, not because he might be able to interpret a murderer’s mind.

“What this comes down to,” Tully explained, “is that, one, the killer wants to finish his victim with a single sure shot. So he uses a flat-noser that will do a maximum amount of damage in the victim’s head.

“Two, it’s down-loaded, so it will remain within the victim—so we’ll have no trouble finding the slug.

“Three, it’s half-jacketed, so it holds together and we’ll be able to easily make the ballistics comparison and identify the slugs as coming from the same gun.” Tully stopped and again looked expectantly at Koesler.

“So,” Koesler said, thoughtfully, “the killer is being careful to make certain that you are able to recognize when it is he who is operating. Other people would be able to use a .38 in the commission of a crime, in a murder. But he alone owned and operated the gun that killed Helen and Larry.”

It was Tully’s turn to nod.

“And if there were a copycat killer around,” Koesler continued, “he would know from what you released to the news media that you had proof from ballistics that the same gun was used to kill Helen and Larry. And since only the police knew what ballistics showed, there was no point in trying to copy the murder.”

“And …” Tully prompted.

“And …” Koesler repeated, then thought for a moment. “… and you are also sending a message to the killer that you understand what he is trying to tell you in his peculiar selection of the bullets he’s using.”

Tully thought there might be hope for this man.

“This,” Koesler continued, “reminds me of some of the other homicide cases I’ve been involved with.” Pause for further thought. “Now, I don’t want to appear ungrateful that you bothered to take me all through this … but I’m still in the dark about how I can possibly help you.”

Tully looked away as he spoke. “We know a murderer has struck twice in a very definite pattern. He may prove to be—if he is not already qualified as—a serial killer. With the murder of Lawrence Hoffer, it becomes far more likely that his first intended victim was Joan—not Helen—Donovan. The only connection, as far as we are able to tell just now—for want of a stronger connection—is the rank Joan and Hoffer hold in the Church structure. Quite frankly”—he looked at Koesler—“we don’t know where he goes from here.

“He may be done. If he is, what he has accomplished is not at all clear. And I get the impression, from the pains he’s taken to help us recognize the slugs, that he wants to make his purpose clear—very clear.

“So, where does he go from here?”

Tully paused. Koesler deemed the question unanswerable.

“Does he go back to first base?” Tully asked finally.

“You mean Sister Joan Donovan? Is it possible the poor woman’s life is still in danger?” Koesler asked. “After all she’s gone through?”

Tully shrugged. “If it’s a case of mistaken identity, then he killed the wrong woman. The ‘right’ woman is still out there. Alive. Or …”

“Or?”

“Or … something else. What? We don’t know. And this is where you come in.”

“I don’t—”

Tully cut in. “I find myself in a tightly specialized territory: department heads in a Catholic Church structure, the administration of the archdiocese of Detroit. I might as well be in the middle of a maze.”

Koesler could see the difficulty. This structure—“the staff”—with which he was so familiar could easily intimidate one who was a stranger to it. “What can I do?”

“For starters, give me a map so’s I can feel a little more at home in this maze.”

Koesler smiled. So absorbed had he become in the business at hand that he no longer felt the cold. “Okay. For starters, here’s the basic chart.” He opened a desk drawer and drew out an 8½ X 11 brochure consisting of just four pages.

“And that …?” Tully asked.

“… is a phone directory of archdiocesan department numbers, along with the business phone numbers of just about everybody who works in the administration.”

Tully looked interested. He slid his chair closer.

Koesler looked up from the brochure to see Tully separated from him only by the width of the desk. He turned the brochure around so it was facing Tully. The priest opened the brochure and began to explain as he ran his finger through the listings. “Now, these are—”

“You can read upside down?”

Koesler grinned. “A leftover of my days as editor of the
Detroit Catholic.
They were still using Linotypes back then, and when they put the type in the galley it was upside down and backward. If you wanted to find something before they ran a proof of it, you had to get used to reading things upside down. It’s not a skill that comes in handy every day, but now and then …”

“Um,” Tully said, creating the impression that Koesler’s explanation was more than was needed to understand a marginal accomplishment.

“Anyway,” Koesler proceeded, “the important part is right here …” He outlined the area with his finger. “All the archdiocesan departments are listed in alphabetical order, with the exception of the first listing.”

“The Cardinal’s office,” Tully read. “The big boss comes first. Makes sense.”

“Yes, outside of the Pope himself, the Cardinal is the big boss. Now, the abbreviations in the parentheses are simple. Opposite the Cardinal’s office you see (C2), which means the Chancery Building, second floor. The other abbreviations are (G), the Gabriel Richard Building, just on the southwest side of Michigan Avenue and Washington Boulevard—”

“Yeah, I know where it is.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no; don’t leave anything out,” Tully insisted, “Anything you can think of, say.”

“Okay. The only other abbreviation besides the Chancery and Gabriel Richard Buildings is SHS, which stands for Sacred Heart Seminary. Know where that is?”

“Chicago Boulevard?”

“And Linwood. That’s it.”

“Good God,” Tully exclaimed as he ran his finger down the columns, “there must be … seventy-three offices!”

Koesler was smiling. “The bureaus do tend to grow like Topsy. But it’s not as complicated as all that. You’re counting each and every office. There aren’t that many actual departments. Just count the listings that are flush with the left margin.”

Tully did. “Twenty-two. Not much better.”

Koesler shrugged. “There’s no helping it. That’s how many there are. And I must confess, I don’t know a great deal about many of these offices.”

“That’s okay.” Tully studied the listings for several minutes. “I can get my people to call on all the offices listed here and get that straightened out. For now, tell me what you can about the people who head these departments.”

“A big order.”

“But you know them.”

“Pretty well.”

“Well, take the ones who got us started on this: the nun and Hoffer.”

“Sister Joan Donovan? Right. She belongs to a religious order, the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary—or IHMs. They’re a teaching order. And that’s what Sister Joan did, for many years: taught. Then things began to change. Because of a Church council called Vatican II.”

“Okay. I’ve read about that. What happened to her?”

“Like lots of other nuns, she stopped teaching and went into another line of work. In her case, Joan got into parish ministry—working in a parish, doing a lot of things priests used to do back when there were lots of priests.”

“Holding Sunday services?’

“Not Mass. Sometimes when there’s no priest around, nuns or even laypeople conduct prayer services. But Mass is much more than that for Catholics. Only a priest can offer Mass. But Sister Joan did lots of other things, like counseling and visiting the sick and, of course, some office work too.”

“But how did she get to be … what?”

“Delegate for religious?”

“Yeah.”

“Appointed. Kind of elected. But basically appointed. The powers that be recognized that she was popular with many of the nuns. They realized that she’d have to be effective as, in effect, their representative. Then, for formality, the Cardinal appointed her to the position.”

“She could have made some enemies among the nuns?”

“Enemies?”

“It’s not a friend wants to kill her.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely.”

“Okay, how about Hoffer?”

“That’s something else. Assigning a job like his to a layperson is a very recent phenomenon. In the not-too-distant past, positions like that were always handled by priests. Probably not as well as they are now,” he added.

“Not as well?” Tully was surprised. “The priests weren’t trained for specialized jobs?”

Koesler pondered the question before responding. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. When an academic degree was called for, priests were sent away to get the appropriate certificate. Social workers, for instance, got an MSW. Or priests who were assigned to teach in the seminary were sent to graduate school, although sometimes in a field that didn’t interest them.

“Or take my case: I was named editor of the
Detroit Catholic.
No academic degree was required, so I got none. Matter of fact, after my appointment was published, a priest friend called and asked if the archdiocese had spent a penny getting me ready for the job. I had to admit he was right in his assumption—not a cent. Then he said”—Koesler chuckled—“‘Well, it won’t be your fault when you flop.’”

The faintest trace of a smile crossed Tully’s face.

“Even more peculiar,” Koesler continued, “—and you may find this hard to believe—but in most of the special assignments, the priests didn’t want them in the first place.

“You see, all these men I’ve been talking about, they all went to a diocesan seminary to become parish priests. That was their choice. If they had wanted to be social workers, if they had wanted to be teachers, they wouldn’t have gone to an institution that exclusively turned out parish priests. If I had wanted a career on a newspaper, I’d’ve gone to Marquette or the University of Missouri. I would have gotten a job at a newspaper.”

“Seems like a funny way to run a railroad.”

“We did what we were told. But back to Larry Hoffer, God rest him—”

“Excuse me,” Tully interrupted, “but before you get into that, could we have another shot of that coffee?”

“Certainly.” Koesler rose and picked up both mugs. “I’ll be right back.”

Fortunately, Irene Casey had made more than enough for refills. Thus saving Lieutenant Tully from a memorable but awful experience.

While Tully waited for Father Koesler to return with the coffee, the lieutenant let his concentration relax a notch.

He studied the room. Real wood paneling with meticulous detail. This was an old, old house. He reflected that Koesler, and, he supposed, all priests—at least the ones Koesler called parish priests—lived where they worked. Not many people did that anymore. In a situation like this, the demand on one’s time went on around the clock.

Although he himself did not live where he worked, Tully thought wryly, he worked where he lived. And it was to her everlasting credit that Alice recognized that and tolerated it. All too frequently, he took his work home with him in the form of reports, assignment rosters, or just a preoccupation with a case he happened to be investigating. Had he been required to punch a time clock, in all truth he scarcely ever would punch out.

Tully was a dedicated cop. None could deny that. In fact, very few officers cared to match his dedication.

Yet, as he thought on it, he figured that most priests would have to be as dedicated to their calling as he was to his. The very condition of working and living in the same space, especially in a service occupation where people sought help at any hour of the day or night, demanded close to total dedication.

He’d never before looked at it in this light. But then, to date, he’d seldom thought about priests. If he were a prayerful man—,which he most definitely was not—he would have prayed that he would never again get involved in a homicide case that had any religious overtones whatsoever. Immediately after that nonprayer, Koesler returned with two steaming mugs of—blessedly—Irene’s coffee.

“Now, where were we?” Koesler said as he settled into his chair. “Oh, yes: Larry Hoffer, God rest his soul.” He took a sip of coffee, set his cup down, and throught for a minute. “Larry was a good example of what seems to be happening more and more these days. A growing number of men and women are turning to some sort of Church work after they retire from their secular careers. More men than women—although I think that will even up as women’s careers more nearly match men’s. The problem, of course, is that the Church can’t match the salaries and benefits offered out in the world.