Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

  Quirt’s face was expressionless, but he was listening intently.

  “But …” A gleam appeared in Kleimer’s eyes. “… ‘Bishop Killed by Priest.’ Now we really got something! This is right out of the Middle Ages, Thomas a Becket and all that.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Just remember this: ‘Bishop Killed by Priest’ is going to be written up forever. And that’s just how long our names are going to be in the public eye. It’ll be the biggest bust you ever had or ever could have. And,” he added with some satisfaction, “the biggest conviction I ever had.”

  Before the lieutenant could respond, Kleimer swept on. “Now, get this: I’m not suggesting that you rig this investigation. But let’s say if one of our priest suspects does prove to be the killer, he didn’t do it for the money. Now don’t get me wrong …” He waved his hand. “I’m not saying a priest couldn’t steal money. But … Carleson and Bell both hated this guy’s guts.

  “So now what does it look like? Like somebody got in here for the purpose of robbing the bishop and, for some reason—or for no reason—killed him.

  “But I ask you, George: If I’m a priest, and I got to get rid of this guy, how do I throw the cops off the trail?”

  Quirt’s visage slackened in the light of recognition. “You take the money. You don’t spend it right away. Maybe never. And we go out on the street where Zoo is, and we start looking for some loser out there who has suddenly started buying acid like he never has before.”

  Kleimer said nothing. He extended his hands, palms up. A grin lit his face. Then he grew grim again.

  “And let’s think of this: No matter who you arrest, and no matter who I convict, that’s no sign that the poor schmuck is guilty. Let’s face it, if that were the case, there’d be no innocent people in prison. And you and I know that not everybody who’s in jail is necessarily guilty.

  “The upshot of all this, George, is that if you arrest some punk and I get a conviction, we might very well be sending a loser—an innocent guy, but a loser—to prison. And neither one of us is going to profit from it. The story’ll be dead just like the publicity we won’t get.

  “On the other hand, if we arrest and convict a priest, he may or may not actually be guilty. But we’re going to get ourselves some media exposure we couldn’t buy.… Have I made myself clear?” Kleimer’s extended trip through a tortuous path of rationalization was concluded.

  “Perfectly.”

  “I’m grateful to you, George. And just to prove it … I hear that Koznicki will be looking for a new number-two man to back him up in Homicide. You know Hunter’s taking an early leave. I’ll just see what I can do to get the right man in that job.”

  Quirt was grinning from ear to ear.

  Kleimer gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and left.

  Quirt knew what he had to do. But for a few moments he would savor his prospects.

  Quirt understood Kleimer’s motives and aspirations as well as his own. The two were cut from the same cloth.

  For months—no, more like years now—Quirt had been observing Kleimer’s unswerving, persistent ascent in the prosecutor’s office. With some 170 lawyers and legal interns on the staff, a person could get lost in a hurry.

  Kleimer reminded Quirt of Silky Sullivan, that marvelous racehorse of yore. He had a habit of getting out of the gate slowly, and in no time he was lost in the pack near the rear. But, if you knew what to look for, and kept your eye on him, he would just gradually—almost leisurely—move along, overtaking one horse at a time until, approaching the finish line, he would be in the lead and pulling away confidently.

  So it had been with Kleimer. He had moved up through the ranks steadily. At one point, he was one rung removed from chief prosecuting attorney. That, under a previous administration, was the highest-profile position in the office. Of course it was not the prosecutor, but, arguably, as far as media attention, and as a recognition factor, the C.P.A. got more ink, more coverage and exposure than even the boss. Kleimer was on the edge of genuine fame.

  However, under the present prosecutor’s administration, the attorneys were required to specialize in various categories of crime. So that they would become expert in specialized fields. For all practical purposes, that nipped Kleimer’s career just as it was about to come to full bloom.

  But just as that door was closed on Kleimer, he surreptitiously opened a window.

  Most of the court cases in any large metropolitan venue are handled backstage. Out-of-court settlements and plea bargains clear a good percentage of the docket. Lots of other cases come to trial, but by general consensus, the media pass on them.

  Then there are the crimes particularly heinous, bizarre, or abhorrent, as well as those involving the rich, famous, or celebrities that show up on the screen, the front page, and the top of the newscast. By no means always, but increasingly, the attorney of record and the talking head on television was Brad Kleimer.

  Most readers, listeners, viewers, simply took it for granted that if a crime was notorious enough, Kleimer would be trying it.

  Quirt was watching and learning.

  As often as feasible, Kleimer tried to insinuate his presence early on in these cases. He became the presence whom police technicians had to walk around.

  When it came time to assign the case to a prosecutor, Kleimer frequently could claim truthfully that he had been in on that case from the beginning and was far more familiar with it than anyone else on the staff.

  There were times when this argument was dismissed. For one thing, nearly everyone on the staff was on to him. He was neither Mr. Popularity nor Mr. Congeniality.

  But—and this was a large condition—he did get his share and more of convictions. Kleimer had a talent not only for coming up with favorable rationalizations but also for getting judge and jury to go along with his predisposed logic.

  Thus, even though the method of his success was no secret to others on the staff, he still got much more than his share of plum cases.

  While Quirt watched this recurrent yet successful technique with fascination, he could only guess at Kleimer’s goal. Though the possibilities were obvious.

  One day Kleimer would cash in on all this valuable publicity. He certainly wasn’t building this reputation just to remain anywhere near his present position. He would assuredly move on—very likely into elective office. Perhaps prosecutor. More probably, governor, Congress, a presidential administrator. Who knew; maybe even president of the United States.

  Nothing mattered to Kleimer but his advancement. He would sacrifice anything to be Somebody. This ruling passion had already cost him his marriage and the custody of his children. That hurt. But it was a price to pay for his advancement, and by damn, he would pay it.

  Once Quirt had learned what was going on, he’d decided to attach himself as securely as possible to Kleimer’s coattails.

  For Quirt too had aspirations. He did not want to spend his time until retirement in the police horse stables or watching over parking meters. His first desire was Homicide. That was where the preponderance of action was. That was a unit so elite that, in the early years, one needed a sponsor even to be considered for admission.

  Quirt sowed his seeds of cooperation with Kleimer very carefully. Of course, there were severe limitations to what Quirt could do for Kleimer. But, as one of the patrolmen frequently first on the scene of a crime, he could at least try to guess where these cases might go. Each time he found one that was promising, he would call Kleimer.

  Kleimer could recognize a promising source when he found one. It was clear that the higher this patrolman advanced, the more fruitful a source he would be.

  Kleimer found a sponsor for Quirt and he was admitted to Homicide.

  Quirt, in turn, was not without talent. His investigations of homicides, while tending to be shallow, were bolstered by some pretty good instincts, as well as considerable luck. Quirt was a true believer in the tenet, I’d rather be lucky than good.


  In due time, Kleimer needed only minimal influence to see his protégé move up to the rank of lieutenant—and become head of one of Homicide’s seven squads.

  This, for Quirt, was almost enough. He would have been happy to remain right there until retirement beckoned.

  However, a satisfied Quirt was not desirable as far as Kleimer was concerned. A satisfied Quirt would be complacent and not at all motivated to cue Kleimer into promising cases.

  So it was simply a matter of advanced planning for Kleimer to suggest that the number two spot in Homicide might be in Quirt’s future. Quirt’s ambition was renewed.

  The important thing, as Kleimer saw it, was to keep the carrot just beyond Quirt’s grasp. A hungry Quirt resulted in prime tips for Kleimer.

  If everything worked as planned, there would come a time when Kleimer would need no help from any police officer. He would be far above that. Once he had advanced beyond the prosecutor’s office, he would drop Quirt like a child’s outgrown toy. Nor would Kleimer care that he was responsible for having someone promoted way above that individual’s competence.

  Neither Kleimer nor Quirt cared for anything or anyone but themselves.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Father Don Carleson briefly considered visiting Father Koesler. Further thought convinced him that would not help.

  Carleson was deeply disturbed, nervous, anxious, and felt great stress. Any conversation with Koesler would necessarily concern Diego’s death. Definitely counterproductive.

  No, he would do what he’d told the police he was going to do: visit the sick at Receiving Hospital.

  He parked in the underground garage and took the elevator to ground level but headed for Emergency rather than the general reception area.

  Receiving’s Emergency Department was an exemplar of such facilities. In addition to the usual everyday outpatients, there were the medically uninsured who wandered in instead of consulting a private physician they couldn’t afford. Ambulances disgorged the injured of the inner city. The ER staff never knew from one day to the next what fate was about to hurl at them.

  In short, the perfect place to distract one from personal preoccupations.

  As Carleson entered the waiting and intake area, he heard a fast approaching commotion behind him. He hugged the wall as three occupied gurneys raced past, propelled by EMS personnel. From their faces, Carleson knew this was no ordinary emergency.

  The EMS teams peeled off into various trauma rooms. Organized turmoil became routine in each compartment.

  Carleson, careful to stay out of the way, listened just outside the doorway of the first room. With the arrival of the gurneys, an overpowering stench had pervaded the entire area. Carleson could not identify the odor. But if the entry doors had not been left open, everyone in the area could well have passed out.

  Work in this first unit was cursory. It was obvious this victim was dead on arrival. The staff knew they were just going through the motions. But they went through the motions anyway.

  One of the EMS drivers was standing next to Carleson. “Ain’t this somethin’, Father?”

  Carleson’s nose wrinkled. “What on earth is that?”

  “Oh …” Seemingly for the first time, the driver realized his clothing was tainted. “This stuff? It’s sewer slime.” He grimaced. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how in hell—oh, ‘scuse me, Father—I don’t know how we’re gonna get it out of our trucks.”

  “Those people were in a sewer?”

  He nodded. “They were supposed to clean it. The first guy barely got down the ladder before the fumes got to him and he keeled over. That sh—uh, stuff was about a foot-and-a-half thick. The second guy went down to rescue him. He keeled over. That’s the guy in here” —he gestured—” who was DOA. Then the third guy went down. Gutsy. He was just barely able to get the first guy up and out before he da—darn near passed out.”

  He moved on to the next trauma unit. Carleson followed.

  Things seemed less chaotic here. “This—if I remember right—this is the third guy,” the driver said. “The only one who got out safely.” He addressed one of the nurses. “How’s he doing?”

  “Pretty good. He’ll make it. He’ll probably be ready to be released after they oxygenate him.”

  Carleson could see her relief. “He’s the father of the kid” —she indicated the third trauma room—” in there.”

  Carleson and the driver moved on to the last sphere of this three-ring circus. An ant colony was filled with white-and green-clad people squeezing by each other and calling out to one another as they maneuvered.

  One of the nurses who had been with the dead man was now taking in the activity. She turned to the two men standing beside her. “It’ll be a miracle if this guy makes it.” She smiled at Carleson. “That would be right up your alley, wouldn’t it, Father?”

  The priest smiled and shook his head. Miracles had never been his strong suit, and never less so than lately.

  As Carleson proceeded through Emergency, he marveled at how easy it was. Receiving Hospital prided itself on its security. They functioned on the theory that they expected trouble—which expectation was regularly fulfilled.

  All well and good when it came to extroverted troublemakers who were loud and/or violent. At the first sign of that sort of trouble, the hospital security force as well as Detroit police assigned to the facility would smother the fracas like foam on a fire.

  But what of the casual intruder?

  A hospital this size had a staff so large it was virtually impossible to keep track of everyone. Anybody could stuff a stethoscope in a pocket or drape it around his or her neck, and most people—visitors and staff alike—would simply assume he or she was merely a doctor visiting patients.

  Or, of more immediate moment, what of himself? What gave him license to walk wherever he wished? Only the sliver of white at the collar of his black suit.

  In an institution that boasted of its tight security, anyone in clerical garb could nevertheless travel unchallenged through the general areas of the hospital, such as patients’ rooms.

  Of course Carleson had the advantage of being known by many in the hospital, particularly the Emergency staff. As part of his missionary training, he had become a paramedic. This had prepared him to administer, in effect, first aid.

  However, it did not suit his personality to observe restrictions when the needs of people cried out for assistance. More often than not in areas he had served, there was no doctor for uncounted miles. So Carleson elected to do whatever he could to respond to the sick.

  Even when procedures clearly exceeded his training—surgery and the like—he would pray and then act. In every such instance, if he had not acted, the individual would have died anyway. The worst that could happen, then, would be death on a makeshift operating table instead of death in a hut or in a jungle. More often than not, the patient survived. That Carleson freely attributed more to prayer than to his meager skill.

  He never spoke of his medical operations in the bush. It was among those thorny topics better left unmentioned.

  Yet, in some extrasensory perceptional way, the medical staff of the average hospital somehow sensed the link that joined Father Carleson to them.

  So it was with Receiving Hospital in Detroit. Other religious personnel might be able to enter restricted areas, but they very definitely would be limited in where they could go and what they could do. Nothing of an offensive nature. Just a firm easing of the person out of sensitive areas.

  But based on that implicit camaraderie, Carleson virtually had the run of the place.

  Today the hospital was doing for Carleson what he had hoped—distracting him from his personal concerns and letting him lose himself in the lives and pains of others.

  All Emergency personnel who were not otherwise engaged were either inside or at the door of Trauma Room Three, where a senior resident, numerous interns, nurses, and technicians were doing everything
possible to save a young man who had been overcome by toxic fumes.

  Carleson continued on his unplanned tour through Emergency toward the hospital proper. He smiled as he passed a gurney on which sat a rather good-looking man engaged in a seemingly reasonable discussion concerning treatment for pain. The doctor was insisting on a prescription for Motrin. The patient was arguing, with decreasing composure, in favor of codeine.

  Carleson well knew the powerful difference between the two analgesics. He also knew the young man was going to need a fix of something soon or he would slip into withdrawal symptoms.

  At this point there was still an element of humor in the exchange. Before long, the black comedy would disintegrate in the face of the patient’s desperate craving for drug release.

  There was nothing Carleson could do about it. No prayer or blessing, no offer of understanding and friendship could supersede the patient’s yearning for oblivion.

  The young doctor was being quite resolute … although in actuality, there was little else he could do. Inevitably, what was now a fairly amicable difference of opinion would segue into a demeaning—even violent—pleading, demanding in the face of intractable refusal.

  Carleson moved on.

  An elderly man whose face testified to his having weathered many an intemperate northern season sat gingerly on a gurney. Loudly he gave witness that these doctors and nurses were badly underpaid. For this unsolicited testimonial he received affectionate support from the staff. At Carleson’s approach, the man generously included the priest among those insufficiently compensated. Carleson thought the man didn’t know whereof he spoke. Nonetheless, the priest gave him a bright smile and a thumbs-up.

  The attendant, about to wheel the man to surgery, informed Carleson that the patient had tucked a pint of liquor in his back pocket, then absentmindedly plumped himself down on a cement curb, thus emptying the precious liquid directly into the sewer to the delight of thirsty rats. And, of course, lacerating his rump.

  He certainly didn’t seem to feel any pain. Undoubtedly he had consumed some of the contents before the container smashed.