A serious Williams and a smiling Quirt departed.
Once in the car and headed back to Beaubien, Quirt rubbed his hands together in near glee. “It’s moving along like clockwork. We should have this on a platter by tonight … tomorrow at the outside.” He turned toward Williams. “Just one thing: The part I don’t see as real. That plant, St. What’s-its-name …”
“St. Gabriel.”
“Yeah, St. Gabriel. It seems to be going full speed. I mean, that school building isn’t going to seed like so many institutions in this city. And, say that Bell has all these programs going … seems to me that the threat to close it down was pretty thin. How would Diego have handled all those kids, all those programs?”
Williams, driving east on Vernor, had just come to the complex that was Holy Redeemer. “This is how.” As they cruised slowly, Williams pointed out first the gymnasium, then the auditorium, followed by the elongated rectory embracing the corner of Vernor and Junction.
He turned south where, after the rectory, the huge church stood. Then an extended parking area where the teaching brothers’ home once stood. Then the school, which continued around the corner of Junction and Eldred. More school. A huge and largely unused convent. Then through an alleyway to more school and north on Calvary back to Vernor. “That’s how,” Williams repeated.
Quirt’s mouth hung open. “For Chrissake! I had no idea …”
“Just a mile down the road. He could have shipped the kids, the programs, the church services to Redeemer. But,” Williams emphasized, “a move like that would have disrupted the whole shebang. And for no good reason I can see except to neutralize Bell’s threat.”
“Okay, then, that wraps it up. And we got not one but two first-class suspects: Carleson and Bell. Both of ‘em have a credible reason to want the bishop out of the way. Carleson is forced to become an indentured slave—”
“A bit strong?”
“Sure. Okay. Carleson comes to Detroit expecting to have his own parish to run. Instead, he’s talked into apprenticing under the guidance of Bishop Diego—for what is promised to be a short time. But Diego keeps pulling strings to keep Carleson around to run errands, be a chauffeur and the like. And besides keeping Carleson on a tight leash, Diego is no sweetheart.
“Carleson was with Diego all the early hours of yesterday afternoon. He could have rattled the bishop’s brains before he joined the other priests on their way to the meeting. Before they leave, Carleson shuts down the alarm system for the front door. He takes the money Diego keeps in the office to make it look like robbery/murder.
“Then he comes back about midnight, fortuitously ‘finds’ the body, and calls us.
“Not a bad plan …
“Or … Bell is really as worried as he seems to be that Diego will close down his parish to keep Bell from broadcasting that Diego doesn’t give a crap for the spics.
“So how’s this for a scenario: Bell’s got a drinking problem. He even had a shot just to face us. He’s got this nagging grudge against Diego. There’s a priests’ meeting that’ll include just about all the priests in this neck of the woods. But not the bishop. Bishops aren’t welcome at what turns out to be these bull sessions.
“So he does just what he told us he did. He has some meetings. We can check that out. But I’m pretty sure we’ll find it’s so. No reason to lie about that.
“Then, he does what he says: He makes himself a drink—or two or three or more … whatever amount it takes to put him in a blackout. He said it himself: He doesn’t know what he did from the time he had his drinks until well after he finally got to the dinner, where he sobered up.
“We know he didn’t drink himself into complete unconsciousness and flop on a bed until the stuff wore off. He was still blacked out until after he got to the dinner. He musta actually driven there without consciously knowing that he did it.
“So, supposing that instead of driving directly to the meeting. Bell drives to Ste. Anne’s. If he rang the doorbell, Diego would certainly let him in. To do that, Diego would have to kill the alarm for the front door. Bell comes in. They go to Diego’s office. Bell is quite obviously drunk—and abusive. They argue. Bell clobbers Diego, leaves and goes to the meeting, where he sobers up. But before he leaves the rectory, he takes the considerable stash of petty cash.
“He knew it was there, okay. Did you hear him just now: He said that Diego kept a considerable amount around to quiet the natives—”
“Isn’t that an awful lot for a guy who’s dead drunk to do?”
“I’ll bet you I can find a hundred shrinks who can testify that it’s not only possible but not all that uncommon.
“Yessirree, this case is ready to bust wide open. We just need one more break. And I got a hunch we’re gonna get it. It’s right around the corner.”
“You forgetting about Zoo?”
“What about him?”
“He’s got some of the guys following other leads.”
“Tough luck. We got the goods.”
“But …”
“It’ll work out. Man, this is terrific! A bishop murdered and two priests the prime suspects.”
“What’s so good about that? I think it’s kinda sad.”
“You won’t feel so bad when you read about it in the papers. On the front page, yet!”
So that’s it, Williams thought. We’re going for the publicity.
On that level, he was forced to agree with Quirt: It was a story right out of the Middle Ages. As far as Williams was concerned, and prescinding from the publicity this virtually insured, the case against either priest was better than average. Both Carleson and Bell had motive and opportunity. Which was not even enough to arrest either one, let alone get an indictment or a conviction. Quirt might be celebrating a mite early.
They were terrific leads, though. And Zoo would have to agree.
Thinking of Tully, Williams wondered how he was doing. When last seen, Zoo was headed out to track down the guy who had angry words with Diego at the cocktail party yesterday afternoon. He was also going to sound out the street, on the chance that it was what it looked like—robbery/murder.
Williams shuddered to think how complicated life would get if this thing ended up on the street. The possibilities would spread to include everyone from acidheads to the desperate poor.
Meanwhile, Quirt was thinking about how happy Kleimer was going to be when he found they had not one but two priest suspects … and both of them real, genuine prospects.
Quirt hadn’t even thought about Tully since they parted earlier this morning. But there was nothing to worry about on that score. Carleson and Bell were bona fide suspects. Tully might even be a help in nailing one of them. Quirt began to chuckle.
Williams wondered, but didn’t ask.
Quirt was thinking that, left to his own m.o., Tully would probably spend weeks on a case like this.
That was an exaggeration. But Tully was known to be painstaking and methodical. Too much so for Quirt.
Yessir, it was a stroke of good fortune for everyone that he, Quirt, had been picked to lead this task force.
Good ol’ Mayor Cobb .
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Sergeant Phil Mangiapane chattered as he drove. Lieutenant Alonzo Tully listened only sporadically.
The lieutenant was lost in labyrinthine theories. He had been convinced that it was very possible—easy even—to dislike this Bishop Diego. The questions were: How many ways were there to do this, and how many people were involved in this dislike?
Father Carleson was one candidate. The interrogation at Ste. Anne’s rectory indicated that. Another possible candidate was this Father Bell. Quirt was following that.
Up to his metaphorical ears in bishops and priests and auxiliaries and pastors and threats to close parishes, Tully had given serious thought to seeking guidance through this ecclesiastical maze from good old Father Koesler. This priest had been of use in some previous investigations when things Catholic threatened to
obscure clues.
Little did Tully know that Father Koesler had been virtually waiting by the phone for just such a call. As the day wore on, the priest was taking care of parochial duties, but in a semidistracted way. In the past, he had been reluctant to take time from his parish to become a resource for the police. But now in this matter, he was almost eager to participate.
He had come very close to being part of this case from its inception. It was he, for instance, who had accompanied Father Carleson to the door of Ste. Anne’s. If Carleson had invited him in, Koesler would have been there when Carleson discovered the body. And so, Koesler made it a point to tune in to the hourly newscasts. But each was the same as the previous: There was no progress to report. Nonetheless, Koesler stood ready.
Only, no one was calling.
In Tully’s mind there was no point in seeking Koesler’s assistance … not just yet, anyway. Quirt and his team were covering the “Catholic angle.” Meantime, Tully’s crew was mostly on the street, tracing leads and seeking informants.
Tully, along with Mangiapane, was checking into the incident at yesterday’s cocktail party where someone had ripped into Diego. The ruckus had been quieted quickly. But, occurring as it did only hours before Diego’s murder, it certainly was worth checking.
The peculiar expertise possessed by Koesler was needed neither on the street nor in Tully’s exploration.
Mangiapane and Tully had just left the downtown headquarters of Comerica Bank, where they had spoken with Harry Carson about the fracas at his residence.
Carson had been cooperative to a point. He readily revealed the identity of the man who had accosted Bishop Diego. Michael Shell, a lawyer, had lost no time in challenging the bishop. An attendant had taken Shell’s coat, and no sooner had his arms left the sleeves than he had charged Diego.
Carson had stepped between them before anything physical could happen. He insisted they repair to the den and straighten things out. Things did not level off in the den. Shell was on the muscle, and Carson, to protect the bishop, stepped between them again. It was then the bishop declared he was leaving. After the bishop had departed, Carson had had strong words with Shell; the altercation had come close to ruining the party. Shell, in a huff, then left Carson’s home. The party wound down and died.
What was the fuss about? Carson would rather not say. It was a personal matter that the police might better discuss with Mr. Shell.
Tully saw no point in pressing Carson further. If they had need of him, Carson would be there. Meanwhile, no better next stop than Shell’s Southfield office.
As Mangiapane took the Nine Mile exit from the Lodge, Tully became aware that the sergeant was talking about Angie Moore, a member of their squad.
“… so, since Angie was off duty and on her way home, she didn’t pay much attention at first. Then, after a while, she thought there was someone following her. So she made a bunch of quick turns and, sure enough, the guy stayed right on her tail.
“Well, she was real close to home. So she just drove into the driveway and turned off the engine. Then she took her gun out of her handbag and waited.
“The guy pulled in behind her, got out of his car, came up and opened her door. ‘Whattya say, Babe, wanna get it on?’
“And the next thing he knows, he’s looking down the barrel of her service resolver. ‘No, and I don’t think you do either.’
“So the guy starts mutterin’ and sputterin’ as he backs—he backs —down the drive to his car. And he takes off without even turnin’ his lights on.” Mangiapane paused for the expected laugh.
“She should’ve headed for the nearest precinct station,” Tully said soberly.
“Yeah, Zoo. She said that too. Only she just didn’t think of it.”
Drawn as he was to the image of the creep finding his prospective victim with a gun in her hand, Tully began to chuckle. Mangiapane joined in. “It is funny,” Tully admitted.
With that, they pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the law offices of Shell, Shell and Brown. As they parked, Tully spotted a man entering a car. The man, carrying a briefcase, was obviously in a hurry. Tully thought he recognized the man from newspapers and TV.
As the man turned on the ignition he looked up to see two men standing directly in front of his Lincoln. The black man was holding up a police badge. The man hit the car’s window button.
“Michael Shell?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Lieutenant Tully, Detroit Homicide. This is Sergeant Mangiapane.”
“It’s about yesterday, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, look, I’m late getting downtown for a deposition—” Tully’s expression arrested Shell. “I know, I know: We can talk about it at headquarters or here. Okay.”
Shell’s office was of average size and, by anyone’s standards, grossly cluttered. In addition to a modest bookcase crammed with what appeared to be legal manuals, the room was filled with bric-a-brac, apparently souvenirs of past victories. It seemed unlikely Shell commemorated defeats.
After motioning them to a couple of upholstered chairs that were too large for what was left of this space, Shell picked up the phone. “Henry, will you cover my deps today?… well, as a matter of fact, right now. Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but something came up. No … no, Henry, that’s impossible. This is something I’ve got to— I’ve got to—take care of now … right now. And my client needs one of us for the deps. Okay, okay, Henry. Thanks; I owe you one.”
Shell took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then hung up. Tully took stock. Shell stood perhaps five-feet-six or -seven. Both his hair and his mustache were thick and dark. His glasses were near-Coke bottle bottoms. Overweight—lots of baby fat—about 210 to 220. Fast food on the run—but that was all the running he did. His own firm at a relatively early age. He lived for his work.
If Tully’s hypotheses proved true, he could extrapolate much of what went on in Shell’s life—at work and at home.
The scenario according to Tully: Shell was on his third marriage. Present wife blonde, a knockout, some thirty years younger. She has no children. He has two kids from his first wife, one from the second. Present wife knows where her ultimate well-being lies; she does not wander off on separate vacations. She supplies plenty of steamy, if brief, progeny-free sex. She tans at a studio. He is bright, totally aggressive, and has the utmost confidence in himself, especially if he can get past the judge and play to the jury. He works thirty-eight hours a day, spends most of his time seated, and eats whatever, whenever. If she plays her cards just exactly right, she’ll spend her golden years aboard an endless series of cruise ships while Mike tries to pass that Great Bar in the Sky.
Shell sat in his contour-fitted chair. From a desk drawer he took three candy bars. He offered two to his guests. They declined. Shell unwrapped one and bit into it.
So far, thought Tully, right on, dietetically.
“Coffee?” Shell’s guests declined. Shell poured himself a mug from a pot on a hot plate on a remote corner of his king-size desk. Eyebrows raised, he looked at the detectives. He knew, of course, why they were here. He also knew not to volunteer information. The conversational ball was, for the moment, in their court.
“You know that Bishop Ramon Diego is dead … that he was murdered.”
Shell nodded slowly. No “Shocking,” “Sorry,” “That’s too bad,” “That’s good,” or “I did it.”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Tully proceeded, “at a gathering at Mr. Harry Carson’s home, you had words—angry words—with the bishop.”
“That’s right.” Useless to deny it; there were a couple dozen witnesses.
“What was that all about? We know Mr. Carson was with you during the entire exchange,” Tully added, “but we want to get it from you.”
Shell took another bite of the candy bar. “It was about my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife and the bishop.”
“Your wife an
d …” This did not fit into Tully’s scenario.
“It’s complicated,” Shell admitted.
“Let’s try to simplify it,” Tully said. “Your wife. She’s your first wife?”
“Second.”
Fewer than expected.
“Here’s her picture …” Shell took a framed portrait from his desk and passed it to Mangiapane, who glanced at it and passed it to Tully.
Well, I never claimed to be infallible, thought Tully. She was a good-looking woman. But a beautiful dark-haired matron rather than the vapid blonde toy he had envisioned. “A recent photo?”
“Couple of years.”
“So, what about the bishop and your wife?”
“It started just after he got here from Texas. When was that … maybe a year ago. See, her maiden name is Ortiz … Maria Ortiz. She’s fluent in both English and Spanish. She’s quite active in Hispanic affairs—fund-raisers and like that. So, she was excited when he got here and became bishop … you know, God’s gift to the Latinos.” He grimaced. “Some gift!”
“What’s that mean?”
“She—Maria—introduced him to her friends—society, club women mostly. And that’s where he began to spend most of his time: bashes, soirees, tennis, golf. Oh, not always with the women; he’d pal up with the men too. But the men spent most of their days at work. So the bishop would be the fourth for tennis or cards. Offer the invocation at parties, then stick around for a few hours.”
A cynical grin appeared briefly. “Times when he would spend most of the day in high society must have been a relief for that poor schmuck priest … Carleson. At least the poor bastard didn’t have to play chauffeur those days.” It was a parenthetical remark.
“We were on thin ice then, Maria and me … have been for the last few years.”
“What’s the trouble?”
Shell hesitated. “You’d find out soon enough, I guess. It’s common knowledge in our group … and with the gossip columnists. She claims I spend too much time at work … neglect her for the business.”
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