29

 

There was almost no need for refrigeration in the Wayne County Morgue this day. The furnace wasn’t working. The chill was not only felt by Dr. Wilhelm Moellman; he also communicated frost.

As this emergency autopsy began, Moellmann was breathing hard, emphasizing the fact that everyone’s breath was visible.

Standing near the metal table were Koznicki and Tully. On the table was the unclothed body of Dietrich Schinder. Positioned near the door were Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore, ready to carry out any mission on which they might be sent.

Koznicki and Tully leaned in toward each other so they could communicate in whispers and not unduly disturb the already agitated medical examiner.

“Any break in that leak?” Koznicki asked.

“We’ve cleared all our people,” Tully said. “It just has to be one of the EMS guys.”

“What about the seminary?”

Tully wiggled his fingers to make sure they could still move. “Prints all over. It looks like the place hasn’t been dusted since it was built.”

“Witnesses?”

“No one. Not a thing. It’s hard to imagine that building was ever filled. But they tell me it was packed some thirty years ago. Now even when the students are there, it’s mostly empty. And it’s Christmas break The few who are there now are mostly the ones who’re going to take part in the pope’s visit.”

“None of them can be helpful?”

Tully shook his head. “They’ve been impressed with the kind of neighborhood they’re in. After supper, it’s mostly into their assigned rooms and lock up for the night. Some go for a snack before bed. But it’s pretty solitary.”

“So …” Koznicki blew into his cupped hands. “… we do not know what brought Father Hanson out of his room and to that stairway?”

“Not a clue. He could’ve been going for a snack. He could’ve been taking a constitutional. My guess is he was called out of his room by someone or something. I don’t see the guy who killed him just waiting patiently for him to come out of his room and conveniently go to the stairwell so he could be thrown down the stairs.’

“Or …” Tully looked thoughtful. “… maybe he just happened along and saw something somebody didn’t want him to see … and he was killed not because of who he was, but because of what he saw ….”

“There was a phone in his room?”

“Uh-huh. But no one who roomed in that vicinity can recall hearing a phone ring. Of course, no one was paying any attention. Still, it’s so quiet in those halls that a ringing phone might knock you out of your chair.”

“A knock on his door?”

“Possible … but why would he go with someone he didn’t know?”

“Why wouldn’t he? Why would it enter his head that anyone—especially anyone in the seminary—would want to kill him?” Koznicki tipped his head toward the body that was being autopsied. “The late Cardinal may have gone with someone he did not know ….”

“That was an odd thing he said on the phone: ‘This time, no murder.’”

“Yes. It is almost as if the Cardinal had something to do with what happened to Father Hanson … short of murder, that is.”

“Well, Koesler and Smith said as much.” Tully wiggled his toes; he felt as if they might break. “They tell me it would’ve been fine with Schinder if Hanson had turned out to be a no-show.”

“That does not mean he wanted Father murdered. Just that he preferred that Father not deliver his paper or take any part in the symposium.”

“Think that might be it, Walt? Maybe Schinder contracted with somebody. They didn’t necessarily need to know each other. Schinder wanted Hanson out of this conference. Somebody fouls up. Maybe they’re trying to kidnap Hanson from the seminary. He puts up more of a fight than they counted on. Somebody gets carried away and breaks the guy’s neck. Then they throw the body down the stairs to make it look like an accident.”

Koznicki nodded slowly. “In that case, perhaps they called the Cardinal this morning to arrange a meeting. The Cardinal, in this scenario, is eager to meet with them. There were those besides Father Hanson that the Cardinal would wish silenced, yes?”

“Yes. Just about every liberal speaker on every panel.”

“So,” Koznicki continued, “the Cardinal could think there was a breakdown in communication. And that is why he might say, ‘This time, no murder.’”

They stood in silence now, stamping their feet quietly.

“Sadly,” Koznicki said finally, “our scenario does not lead us to this.” Again he nodded at the corpse.

Tully nodded. “Why would they kill him?”

“Why would they break his neck?”

“A disagreement? He wouldn’t pay? He wanted to call the whole thing off?” Tully enumerated possibilities as they came to him.

“But why a broken neck? Not a popular method of murder by any means.”

Running low on theories, they stood again in silence.

Dr. Moellmann cleared his throat, his traditional signal that while the autopsy was not completed, there might be something the investigating officers should know.

Koznicki and Tully moved to the table. The late Cardinal looked the worse for wear.

“Just for a moment, and not for the record, I will deal in a comparison between the deaths of the priest early this morning and the Cardinal here.”

Exactly what Tully and Koznicki wanted to hear. Moellmann could with every justification have dealt with the two deaths as two separate entities. The police wanted—needed—the comparison.

“First of all,” the M.E. said, “cervical fracture was the cause of death in both cases.” He looked up and over his glasses at the two officers. “But, there is a slight initial difference. The priest’s neck was broken to the right as if the killer were right-handed. This neck was broken to the left … as if, in this case, the killer was left-handed. However, this does not mean all that much.”

Nothing much so far. The first question on the officers’ minds was whether this was a copycat murder or perpetrated by the same person who killed Hanson. And Dr. Moellmann knew that. He enjoyed toying with people—to a point.

“Look! See this … at the crown of the head. See this depressed fracture leaving a semicircular mark?”

The two officers were leaning over the body, carefully following the M.E.’s directions.

“Now, see beneath this fracture, the bone fragments lie inward. I would say a blunt instrument, perhaps a small hammer.”

“That the cause of death?” Tully sounded disappointed.

“No. No, the fractured cervix is the cause of death. Just as with the previous victim … what was his name?”

“Hanson.”

“Yes, of course. Both died of a broken neck.”

“Unusual?”

“Unusual? Yes, I would say so. But with Schinder here, his assailant rendered him unconscious before breaking his neck. However, in striking the victim as he did, the perpetrator removes all doubt about the cause of death.

“Remember, Hanson had fallen, been pushed, thrown down the stairs. There was an effort to confuse the issue, to mislead us. Did the priest accidentally fall down the stairs and in the process break his neck? Or was his neck snapped and then, to try and fool us, was he hurled down the stairs?”

At this point, the doctor paused a moment so everyone could recall that, far from being misled, he had discovered the telltale marks of the killer.

“In this case”—the doctor indicated Schinder’s body—“there is no effort to disguise the cause of death.”

“Maybe,” Tully ventured, “Schinder started struggling—fought back And the perp clubbed him. Then he broke his neck.”

“Perhaps. That is for you to decide. But, one last thing that may interest you. See, the ring finger on the right hand is missing. As is … a ring.”

“Where do you see that, Doc?” Tully asked.

“The marks on the finger stump. There is the indentation made by a ring that fitted tightly. It looks as if someone tried to remove the ring and did not succeed. But he wanted the ring badly enough to amputate the finger to get it.”

“Maybe in a hurry.”

“Perhaps. But it is interesting, is it not, that the earlier victim, Hanson, was wearing a ring. I distinctly remember that. It struck me as odd that a priest would wear a ring. I didn’t think they did that. Now a bishop …”

“Manj …” Tully spoke without taking his eyes from the corpse. “Hop over to headquarters and get the Hanson evidence bag.”

“Right!”

Moellmann returned to the autopsy.

“Angie,” Tully said to Sergeant Moore, “stay with this in case something else comes up.”

Tully and Koznicki started up the stairs. “I must return to my assignment, Alonzo,” Koznicki said. “Keep me apprised of your progress. And let me know should you need help.”

Actually, Koznicki could have continued with this investigation. But he was confident of Tully’s ability and the inspector wanted to demonstrate that confidence.

Waiting in the lobby were Fathers Koesler and Smith. Pat Lennon also was there. There was no law that said she couldn’t be. Tully’s option, should he want to get away from a media representative, was to consult with the priests behind closed doors, probably at headquarters. But an instinct told him Pat might prove useful. And he knew that should anything need to be kept secret, he could depend on her—as long as the need was authentic.

With nothing to distract them, not even an autopsied body, the three waiting people felt near frozen. Koznicki continued out the door, leaving Tully to continue the investigation.

“The subject is rings,” Tully said. “Do priests or bishops wear rings on their fingers?”

Koesler and Smith looked at each other, wondering which would address the question.

“There is an old Latin aphorism,” Smith said. “I won’t go into the Latin, but what it means is, ‘He who wears a ring is either a bishop or a fool.’”

“I take it then,” Tully said, “that priests normally don’t wear rings.”

“First,” Koesler spoke, “I’m sure the aphorism Father Smith quoted is not directed at married people wearing engagement and wedding rings. It does apply to priests. For a bishop, his ring is part of what he wears—like his clerical suit, a pectoral cross, or, during a liturgy, his vestments. And it’s worn on the right hand. It used to be a Catholic custom when greeting a bishop to genuflect and instead of shaking hands, kiss the bishop’s ring.”

“‘Used to’?” Tully said.

“Not many bishops expect or want that sort of homage. Certainly Cardinal Boyle did away with that practice as far as he was concerned a long time ago. And that goes for the Detroit auxiliary bishops as well.”

“It gets to be confusing when greeting a bishop for the first time,” Smith added. “You never know whether he wants that sort of fealty.”

“But,” Tully said, “bottom line: Bishops wear rings … right?”

The two priests nodded.

“And priests?” Tully asked.

Neither Koesler nor Smith jumped on that question.

“I guess,” Koesler said finally, “the answer is yes and no.”

“I think,” said Smith, “that the 1917 Code of Canon Law— that’s Church law published in 1917—permits the wearing of a ring by a priest to commemorate the earning of a doctoral degree. I assume the latest version of church law—1983—gives the same permission.”

“But generally,” Koesler said, “priests don’t wear rings.”

“According to Doc Moellmann,” Tully said, “Father Hanson wore a ring. And”—he turned his head to look at a somewhat out-of-breath Mangiapane—“here it comes now.”

Mangiapane handed Tully a small package. Tully opened it, pulled out a ring, and showed it to the priests. Lennon studied it also.

“During the autopsy,” Tully said, “the M.E. removed this from Hanson’s finger.”

“Oh, yes,” Koesler said. “There’s an inscription on the inside. ‘To Father Dan—a Doctor at last. Mom.’ It would have been a commemorative gift from his mother on the occasion of his getting a doctorate. And on either side of the stone: ‘C.U. Theo.’ From Catholic University, in Washington, D.C. Probably a doctorate in theology.”

“Pretty stone,” Lennon said. “Looks expensive.”

“I think so,” Tully said. “We’ll have it appraised. Now, the late Cardinal Schinder wore a ring?”

“He was a bishop,” Koesler said. “I think certainly he wore a ring—”

“Any idea what Schinder’s ring looked like?” Tully cut in.

“Yes,” Smith said. “I remember because it was different. Well, let me put it this way: Lots of bishops own a ring like Schinder’s, but few wear it. It was a ring given to each of the bishops of the world who attended the Second Vatican Council. It was a plain gold band—no stone. The front, or top, of the ring was shaped sort of like a miter. And on the front was a kind of imagery—the Apostles and a dove, the Holy Spirit.

“There was an inscription too … something like Concillio Vaticano Secundo. It was a little thicker than a wedding ring.

“As I say, all the bishops in the world who attended Vatican II were given these commemorative rings. Most everybody keeps them in a safe place, I suppose. Very few ever actually wear them. Cardinal Schinder was one who did. At that dinner last night, I noticed it.”

“But,” Koesler observed, “you asked whether the Cardinal had a ring and wore it. Does that mean it’s gone? Somebody took it?”

“Exactly.” Tully decided not to go into the manner in which it was removed. “It’s one of the circumstances that makes us think Hanson and Schinder were not killed by the same person. We had to know what Schinder’s ring looked like. I think if we find the ring we’ll find the perp.

“Manj …” Tully turned to Mangiapane, who, despite the cold building, was perspiring freely from his speedy round-trip to headquarters, “get Angie from downstairs, then meet me at headquarters. We gotta get everybody we can looking for that ring.”