Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

  “Now the demeaning treatment of priests has all but completely disappeared. There aren’t that many priests around and it’s a buyer’s market. There are so few priests left that they become pastors far, far sooner than in the past. As a result, there just aren’t that many priests who are assistants. If a priest is a pastor and he’s lucky enough to have help in the person of an assistant priest, that assistant is likely to be treated very, very well. If not, the assistant may request a transfer. And he’ll probably get it—and the pastor will be all alone. As his reputation spreads, no one will go to work with him.

  “So the relationship that grew up between Father Carleson and Bishop Diego was, I think, so rare as to be unique.

  “From my conversation with Father Carleson last night, I would guess that he’s been sticking it out partly out of respect for Cardinal Boyle, who was the main reason Don chose Detroit for his diocese. And also partly because he was convinced it couldn’t go on much longer.”

  “I gather you like your Cardinal,” Tully said.

  “I do.”

  “Then how come he didn’t do something about this problem? I presume he has the power to do it.”

  Koesler shook his head. “Not everybody is a saint. Now, Cardinal Boyle doesn’t have many flaws that I know of. But one flaw might be his appreciation of his fellow bishops. It’s a large, select, exclusive, and inbred club. Cardinal Boyle is a member in very good standing. It would be most unusual for him to intervene in another bishop’s affairs. Most unusual … but not impossible.

  “That’s why I think the Cardinal doesn’t realize how impossible the situation had become. He would be reluctant to step in, but if he knew …

  “That’s the only sense I can make of it: He didn’t know.

  “What made it worse for Don Carleson was that he’s no fledgling priest. He’s a mature man and he’s been very much in charge of everything wherever he has served. From what he told me, he is not the type to debate a course of action endlessly. Someplace in the Gospels, Jesus says, ‘Be ye not hearers of the word only, but doers.’ That’s Don Carleson: a doer.”

  Tully nodded. “And now that the bishop is no longer humiliating him and cramping him, he’s his own man once again. Interesting. With the death of Diego, a man gets rid of the guy who he thinks is seducing his wife. A woman gets revenge for having been manipulated. A priest doesn’t have to worry about losing his parish. And another priest can go around singing, ‘Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!’ And we haven’t even heard what our detectives have picked up on the street.” He shook his head. “It’s rare that one death clears the decks for so many people.”

  The phone rang in the front offices, as it had several times during Tully’s visit. Either Mary O’Connor was handling the calls herself or she was taking messages for Koesler.

  The click of Mary’s approaching footsteps said that this call was different. Either it had to be for Tully or it was an emergency for Koesler.

  It was for Tully, and he could take it in the kitchen.

  “Zoo” —unmistakably it was Mangiapane—” this is Manj.”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “You better get down here.”

  “What happened?”

  “They found something in Father Carleson’s car. They think it’s dried blood. They took it down to the lab. Quirt is all over it, he’s so sure it’s Diego’s blood. Anyway, you better get down here.”

  “Manj, just where the hell is ‘here’?”

  “Oh, sorry, Zoo. We’re at headquarters and just about everybody’s here, including Carleson and that prosecutor, Kleimer. This comes about as close to a lynching as I’ve seen; If that sample they took doesn’t turn out to be Diego’s, I think Quirt will have a heart attack.”

  We should be so lucky. “I’ll be right down, Manj. Hold the fort and check to make sure we’re legal on all the procedures.”

  He hung up and returned to the dining room. Father Koesler was not going to be happy with this news.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  As often as Koesler had visited the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department—which was not all that frequently—his overwhelming impression was that it was a busy place. Very, very busy. The present activity did nothing to mitigate that impression.

  People shuffling papers, walking purposefully from room to room carrying files, talking to others as paths crossed; people intently talking on the phone, or just as intently listening.

  Quirt’s task force had occupied Squad One’s large but now crowded rectangular room. Mangiapane, evidently on the lookout for Tully, stood in the hallway just outside the door. When the sergeant spotted Tully approaching with Father Koesler, his face lit up. “We’re still waiting for the lab results, Zoo.”

  “They lifted the substance from Carleson’s car? Where?”

  “The dashboard, passenger side.”

  “Warrant or consent?”

  “Consent.”

  “Did he sign?”

  “Yeah, Zoo.”

  Tully partially turned to Koesler to explain. “From the top, it doesn’t help Carleson that the substance was on the passenger side. We know that Carleson drove Diego. So, whatever it is, presumably it came from Diego.

  “Ordinarily, we’d have to get a warrant to search a car. That is, unless the owner gives us permission, which Father Carleson did. But in Detroit we devised this document that, in effect, attests to the granted permission. That way, if we get into court and the defendant denies giving permission, we’ve got the document that he signed giving permission. They sent the sample to the Police Crime Laboratory.” He turned back to Mangiapane. “When’d they do that, Manj?”

  “Couple hours or so.”

  Tully turned back to Koesler. “It shouldn’t be long now. With a priority like this, they usually come up with an answer in two or three hours. They probably want to be extra precise on this one, so it may be more like three.

  “You probably remember some of these people.…” Tully’s gesture indicated those in the squad room.

  Koesler, a bit taller than Tully, had no trouble seeing everyone in the room.

  “The guy sitting on the desk just in front of us, chewing on the unlit cigar, is Lieutenant Quirt. Like I told you, he’s heading this task force.”

  Noted, thought Koesler. He studied Quirt for a few moments, then looked around at some of the others. As Tully had said, there were a few familiar faces. One of the unknowns, a heavyset man, stood out in that he was carefully, expensively groomed; his three-piece suit was definitely not off the rack. “Who is that gentleman?”

  “Which one?” Tully followed the line of Koesler’s gaze, at first unsuccessfully.

  “The three-piece suit.”

  Tully spotted him. “That is Bradley Jefferson Kleimer, an assistant prosecuting attorney for Wayne County. And he shouldn’t be here.”

  “Shouldn’t be here?”

  “You ever see that TV series, ‘Law and Order’?”

  Koesler nodded. “I’ve always thought it was well done. Though I must admit, I don’t know how it stacks up against real life.”

  “Pretty good. The prosecuting attorneys for a big city usually number lots more than two. And there are some other mistakes they make. But one thing they do well is to separate police and legal work. Cops carry through the initial investigation and maybe make the arrest—on that program, they always make an arrest. They turn over all they’ve found to the prosecuting attorney, who takes over. Somebody in his office will determine what the charge will be—or if there will even be a charge. That office decides it all: whether there’ll be plea bargaining, how much bail to request, and the rest.”

  “What you’re saying” —Koesler was paying close attention—“is that police work is still going on. No arrest has been made. So—what did you say his name is?—Kleimer is here a bit prematurely.” He looked puzzled. “So, I give up. Why is he here now?”

  “He wants
this case. He wants to prosecute it. It’s a celebrity trial. A bishop is murdered. That’s gonna get lots of ink locally—nationally—hell, probably internationally. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled this stunt.”

  Koesler thought for a moment. “Yeah, I remember that name. I’ve read about cases he’s handled. I’ve seen him on TV and heard him interviewed on the radio. He always came on like the celebrity prosecutor. But, now that you mention it, it’s the defendant who’s usually the celebrity.…” Koesler hesitated. “But he does, doesn’t he … usually get convictions, I mean?”

  Tully, his expression unfathomable, nodded. “That’s the only reason the police cooperate with him at all. Most of us don’t like him personally. He’s a headline-grabbing son—He’s a grandstander. But cops like to see bad guys put away. So, more often than not, they cooperate with Kleimer. Some cops go a bit further.” He paused. “Let’s say it’s no accident that he’s on this scene, laying claim to it, and that Quirt is leading the investigative task force.”

  Koesler was appreciative of Tully’s ability to enlighten effectively as well as succinctly. Tully was grateful that Koesler was such an apt pupil.

  Tully, with the easy familiarity of one in his own work space, continued to survey the room. “Back there in the corner” —Tully indicated the far reaches of the squad room—“there’s your man, looking like he hasn’t got a friend in the world—which may be damn near true right now.” Tully inclined his head in Carleson’s direction. “You might want to talk to him.”

  Koesler brightened. “I would indeed. May I?”

  “Sure, go ahead. Nothing significant’s gonna happen until we get the lab report.”

  Koesler made his way through the swarm, conscious of the quizzical stares following him. Outside of Father Carleson, he was the only one in clerical garb.

  He was halted halfway toward Carleson by a man who stepped directly in his path. “Excuse me,” the man said in a friendly manner, “I’m Brad Kleimer from the prosecutor’s office. And you are …?”

  “Koesler, Father Koesler.”

  “Is that K-e-s-s-1-e-r?”

  “No, the German way: K-o-e-s-l-e-r.”

  “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  Koesler was tempted to ask Kleimer the same question, and, utilizing what he’d gleaned from Lieutenant Tully, add that whatever Kleimer was doing here, he shouldn’t be here in the first place.

  But, true to his innate courtesy, Koesler replied only, “I’m here with Lieutenant Tully.” That seemed inadequate, so he added, “A few times in the past I’ve supplied information to the police when questions regarding Catholicism or the Catholic Church were part of their investigation. I’m also a bit of a friend of Father Carleson. I was just on my way to visit with him, if you don’t mind.”

  Kleimer made no move to get out of Koesler’s path. Rather, the attorney studied the priest for a few moments with an expression of dawning recognition. “Yeah,” he said finally, “I remember. I’ve read about you in the papers. But you haven’t been on TV, have you? I don’t remember seeing you.”

  “No, I haven’t. You didn’t miss me. I’m surprised you remember me at all.” Koesler had the impression that according to Kleimer no one’s fifteen minutes of fame began until the TV cameras were there to film it.

  “What was it you said you helped with?”

  “When the police need some insights into things Catholic. There are times when, without an insider’s direction, the Catholic Church—its rules and regulations—can seem a bit of a maze.”

  “I see,” Kleimer said. “As when a bishop is murdered?”

  “Well, not on the surface, I suppose. But there can be complications like—oh—the role of an auxiliary bishop or the possible values of priests.” Koesler found this conversation increasingly awkward.

  “Interesting.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind …”

  “Oh, you wanted to see Father Carleson, didn’t you? Sure. Go ahead.” He stepped aside.

  Tully, meanwhile, was trying to find out what news there was from the street.

  Odd; there wasn’t much. That was ominous.

  “Ordinarily the Latinos are tight,” Sergeant Moore explained, “but this is different No leads or breaks at all. Vice cooperated with us. We called in our markers, talked to our snitches—all we could find quickly. But … nothing.”

  “What’s the water temperature?”

  “Warm,” Mangiapane said. “Maybe under the surface it’s boiling. Something’s going on out there, Zoo. Like, overnight there was new bread on the street. But we can’t find anybody who’ll say how much or who’s dealing.”

  Tully ran his tongue between his lips and teeth almost as if trying to taste the object of all this secrecy and silence. “The guys turned all the screws?”

  “Tight as a drum,” Mangiapane replied.

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s it. Nada. Zilch.”

  “Now,” Tully said, “we ask ourselves what does all this mean?”

  “All that new money on the street,” Moore speculated, “and close to five grand may have been taken from Bishop Diego just last night. A connection?”

  “Could be,” Tully acknowledged. “But then, why this solid brick wall? Given all the pressure we put on, how come we’ve got no names? If some punk hit the bishop for as much as five grand, and if this punk starts stockpiling dope, you’d think there’d be a leak someplace down the line.”

  “Maybe it’s not a punk,” Mangiapane said. “Maybe it’s a big hitter.”

  “Maybe,” Moore offered, “it’s a punk—but maybe areal dangerous punk. Maybe it’s fear that’s keeping everybody quiet.”

  “Two very good maybes,” Tully said. “If either of them eventually points to the killer, we’ll have to program our investigation to find a really big hitter or a very dangerous punk. We gotta get back on the street and start looking for somebody who fits one or the other of those profiles.”

  “But Zoo,” Mangiapane said, “what about Father Carleson?”

  “The fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”

  Father Koesler had finally made his way across the crowded room. As he neared Father Carleson, the priest’s face lit in recognition. “Boy,” Carleson exclaimed, “are you a sight for sore eyes! Welcome …” He hesitated. “… friend?”

  Koesler smiled warmly. “Of course, ‘friend’; what did you think?”

  “Right now, I can’t be too sure. But if anybody ever needed one, I sure do.”

  “I think you’ll find you have lots of them. Maybe not in this room, but certainly among the priests and people who know you.”

  Carleson smiled wryly. “What? They think I killed Public Enemy Number One?”

  Koesler was instantly quite serious. “Of course not. Because they know you didn’t do it.”

  “That ‘they’ definitely excludes most of the people in this room.”

  Koesler looked about. His gaze met the deadly serious expressions of the detectives around them—some covertly glancing at the two priests who seemed to have sealed themselves off from the larger group. Reluctantly, he had to agree with Carleson’s dark observation.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” Koesler asked. “You haven’t been arrested.”

  “You know that?”

  “I’ve been with Lieutenant Tully for the past few hours. So I pretty well know what’s going on.”

  “Tully. The nice-looking black guy? He sure didn’t have much to say when I was being questioned at Ste. Anne’s.”

  “This is a task force. I gather it’s kind of rare for them to put together one of these things. But Lieutenant Tully isn’t in charge … which is, I think, a mistake. Lieutenant Quirt’s the one in charge.”

  “That’s not good news to me.”

  “But you haven’t answered. What are you doing here?”

  “I kept saying yes. Yes to looking through my car. Yes to coming down to headquarters while they were processing What they found
in my car.”

  Noting Koesler’s expression, Carleson concluded the question was not yet satisfactorily answered. “It just seemed to be delaying the inevitable,” he said. “They assured me they could get a warrant to search my car. They didn’t look like they were kidding. So I agreed to let them look. Even signed a paper giving permission. Don’t know why I had to do that: I’d already agreed.

  “Anyway, they scraped something off the dashboard. That’s what they’re examining at, I think, the crime lab.

  “As to why I’m here: They asked if I would accompany them and wait for the results of the test. Well, they took my car down here. So it seemed sensible to go along. I wasn’t going to go far without a car, and I didn’t want to impose on anybody by borrowing a car.

  “So, here I am.”

  From an offhand manner, Carleson grew quite somber. “Bob, I’ve got a hunch I’m not going to leave here anytime soon.”

  Koesler was shocked. “Why? Why do you say that? Hey, we’ll probably leave here together. Let’s go to Carl’s Chop House. On me.”

  Carleson shook his head. “I’m pretty sure what they’re going to find.”

  “You … you are?” Koesler was almost afraid to ask.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s blood. I wouldn’t be that sure except they seem to be that sure. They haven’t said it in so many words, but that’s what they believe. I know that.”

  “Blood!” Tully had said “substance,” and Koesler hadn’t given it any further thought. “But how …? Whose …?”

  “It didn’t make any impression on me at all at the time. It happened a couple, three days ago. I was shipping the bishop somewhere—I forget where. It doesn’t make a great deal of difference. But he sneezed. Diego sneezed. And the sneeze was the beginning of a nose-bleed. I didn’t pay much attention. I was driving and looking out for traffic. I didn’t know he had a problem until he complained. Then I glanced over at him. He was holding a handkerchief to his nose, and the handkerchief was bloody.