“I told him to lean his head back, put some pressure on the bridge of his nose, and breathe out through his mouth and in through his nose. Pretty soon the bleeding stopped.
“That was about the extent of it.
“But when he sneezed, some of the blood must’ve hit the dashboard. I didn’t pay any attention, and I didn’t notice anything. That’s got to be what they found.”
The explanation sounded unconvincing. But Koesler had believed Carleson to this point. He Would stay the course even if he had to suspend disbelief to a degree. “If you’re so sure, did you give your explanation to the police?”
“Yeah, but they weren’t buying any of it.” He shook his head. “For the most part, they weren’t even listening.”
Koesler surmised that the officers preferred not to arrest Carleson before they had identified the substance and, at the same time they didn’t want to cloud the Miranda warning. “Are you sure … I mean are you certain that what they got from your dashboard was Bishop Diego’s blood?”
Carleson nodded, then hesitated. “No. I can’t be absolutely sure. What do I know? Like I said, I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even know there was anything on the dashboard except dust.” He shrugged. “But what else could it be?”
His brow knitted. “Maybe I’m just preparing myself for the worst. I don’t know. All I know is I’m pretty darn miserable. I wish I’d never heard of Detroit. I wish Ramon Diego had stayed in Texas until he rotted.”
Carleson did look drained. Koesler could think of nothing else to say. He put one hand on Carleson’s shoulder. The gesture was intended to be supportive.
At that moment there was a commotion near the door. Without knowing for certain, Koesler felt that the first “verdict” in this case was in. His grip on Carleson’s shoulder tightened.
The detectives, like the parting of the waters, peeled back to let Lieutenant Quirt through.
The lieutenant seemed barely able to control his pleasure. He squared off dramatically in front of Father Carleson. “Father Donald Carleson, I’m arresting you for the murder of Bishop Ramon Diego.” Without turning, he said, “Charlie, read him his rights, and book him.”
For Carleson as well as for Koesler time seemed to stand still. It was as if everything were happening in slow motion. Neither priest was able to focus on the words of the Miranda warning. Each of them had heard at least the beginning of the cautionary statement on TV and in the movies.
“You have the right to …” There was something about a lawyer and something about what you said could be held against you.
But none of this was truly sinking in.
Next, Charlie Whoever-he-was was taking Carleson away. And Koesler stood numb, unable to make sense of what had happened.
There was a sense of elation in the room. An arrest had been made in a complex murder case. By anyone’s standard, this was high profile. The media had concentrated its considerable attention on this case. And now it looked to have been solved in record time. Almost twenty-four hours to the minute.
Of course, not everyone was an instant convert to the validity of this arrest. But when they heard Detective Williams read aloud the finding of the crime lab—that the substance found in Carleson’s automobile was not only blood, but the same rare type as Bishop Diego’s—almost everyone was swept away with the sense of accomplishment.
Father Koesler, overwhelmed and confused, sought out Lieutenant Tully. In the emptying room, it wasn’t difficult to locate him. He was near the door, talking with several people. Koesler recognized Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore. The others he assumed were members of Tully’s squad.
As Koesler approached the group, he could hear Tully’s quietly earnest tones. While Koesler couldn’t make out every word, he gathered that Tully was ordering some of his people to thoroughly check out both Mr. and Mrs. Shell. Talk to friends and business associates and see what they had to say about the Shells’ relationship with each other and especially with the late bishop. Others were to return to the streets and see if they could break through the silence that had met their earlier attempts.
Koesler stopped short of the group and waited until Tully’s squad members had left. He was buoyed by the impression that Tully’s group, at least, was continuing the investigation. Tully’s expression invited Koesler forward.
“I couldn’t help overhear,” Koesler said. “I’m really pleased you haven’t given up the investigation.”
“This?” Tully motioned toward the departing detectives. “A precaution. From what I’ve heard, we’ve got a pretty good case against Carleson. But, you never know. There were other leads, some of them pretty good. If, by any chance, the case against Carleson doesn’t go down, that’s a bad time to have to go back to square one.”
In the moment it took for Tully to explain his continuing with the case, Koesler’s budding hopefulness deflated like a leaking tire. “Just finding that blood?” Koesler protested. “Father Carleson has an explanation of how it got on his dashboard.”
“So does Quirt,” Tully replied. “According to his scenario, this thing started sometime yesterday between when Carleson and Diego left the Carson residence and when they got back to Ste. Anne’s. Probably when they arrived at Ste. Anne’s. That part is incidental. Anyway, Carleson’s animosity toward Diego has already been established. Yesterday it exploded. Carleson struck Diego either with his fist or some hard object. Diego was hit flush on the nose, causing the blood flow, some of which got on the dashboard.
“Diego was unconscious. Probably Carleson then checked inside the rectory and discovered, as he’d anticipated, that the other priests were all in their rooms. He dragged the unconscious bishop into his office and propped him up in his chair. Then he got whatever weapon he used—a bat, a piece of pipe, a thick bottle—and struck the lethal blow. One very powerful blow and it was all over. We know that Diego sustained a nose injury and that there was blood. In the beginning, we thought the blow from behind had knocked Diego forward so he had hit his face against the desk top. But knocking him out in the car makes just as much, if not better, sense.
“Then Carleson took the money that he knew Diego kept in his office. He could have done anything with the dough. It didn’t matter—stash it, throw it away. The money wasn’t important. Killing Diego was. But taking the money could make it look like robbery/murder.
“Carleson, of course, knew the combination to the alarm system. So he was able to shut it down for the front of the rectory to make it look as if Diego had admitted his assailant.
“And there” —Tully spread his hands wide—” you have it Our crime lab established that the sample taken from Carleson’s car was the same blood type as Diego’s. In a few days they’ll be able to complete the DNA to determine that the two samples not only match—they’re identical. We’re pretty confident that’ll be the outcome.”
Koesler was glum. “There’s no chance that Father Carleson’s explanation is what really happened?”
Tully shrugged. “That possibility, along with the possibility that something may fall apart during the trial, is why I’m going ahead with the investigation. But—” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.” —I wouldn’t count on any miracles at the trial. Kleimer doesn’t fumble very often.”
“Kleimer’ll prosecute?”
“I would guess he’s on his way to the chief of operations right now. I’d say Brad Kleimer is a happy man. This case just could be his ticket to making his name a household word. I wouldn’t bet against it.”
There was a pause. Tully had things to do. But Koesler had been so cooperative, Tully was determined to leave the priest a satisfied customer.
“What’s going to happen now?” Koesler asked.
“You mean with Carleson?”
“Yes. All I know is right about now, Joe Friday says something like, ‘Book him on a 420 and turn him over to the psychiatrist.’”
Tully smiled briefly. “You mean, What do we really do now?”
Koesler nodded.
“Right now,” Tully said, “he’s going through the PCR—the preliminary complaint report. Charlie, the detective who took Carleson into custody, is probably typing the report. It just includes technical information: the date, time, location, and why he was arrested—for murder, in this case. They’ll write up an arrest ticket.
“Then they’ll make fingerprint cards—four of them. One for the feds, one for the state, and two for the city. Then he’ll have to wait for the fingerprint search, to find out if he’s wanted anywhere. And that, by the way, will tell him how he’s gonna be treated.”
“How he’s going to be treated?”
“The fingerprint search will take between two and three hours. The question is where’s he gonna wait and what’s he gonna do.
“A decision’ll be made whether to let him relax someplace like the Complaint Room, where he can watch TV if he wants to. Or whether he’ll be taken to a holding cell.
“If he doesn’t spend those two or three hours in a cell, eventually he’ll be released to appear—sorry, that’s sort of police shorthand. Whatever else happens, he’ll be going to court tomorrow. If we feel confident he’ll show up for court on his own, he’ll probably be watching TV during the fingerprint search. And he’ll probably be released to go home and return for his court appearance. If we decide that’s a bad risk, we’ll keep him in a holding cell on the ninth floor until court time.”
“Who makes this decision?”
“In a case like this, lots of people are in on the decision. This is going to be a media-crazy case. So everybody up the line is being informed, from Inspector Koznicki to Mayor Cobb.”
“What happens in court tomorrow?”
“Well, the prosecutor either will or will not recommend the issuance of a warrant. And a judge either will or won’t sign it. Put your bottom dollar on the warrant and the signing. Then, if everything goes according to Hoyle, we’ll arrest him again. He’ll be arraigned and the judge’ll set bail. Then, within twelve days—counting Saturday and Sunday—there’ll be a preliminary exam … sort of a mini-trial. A few people will testify, the object being to establish that there is reasonable cause to believe that a crime—murder—was committed—that it wasn’t an accident. The bail probably will be continued and, eventually, there’ll be a trial.”
“So,” Koesler said, “if I’ve got this right, what happens to Father Carleson now—whether he’s kept in a cell or not—is pretty important.”
“To him, definitely. Overall, yeah, it has its importance. That’ll probably be decided by Quirt and Koznicki.”
A detective approached. “Pardon me, Zoo, but the boss wants to see you. Now.”
Tully fixed Koesler with a look. “By Quirt and Koznicki and me.”
“Would you let me know how this goes?” Koesler asked. “I’ll wait here if I may.”
Tully nodded as he left.
It was a brief distance from the Homicide squad rooms to Inspector Koznicki’s small office. Tully was surprised to find Kleimer seated just outside the door. “Well,” Tully said, “I thought you’d be over at the chief’s office.”
“All in good time. All in good time,” Kleimer said affably. “May I accompany you?”
Tully smiled wordlessly, knocked perfunctorily on the Inspector’s door and entered, leaving Kleimer to tag along in his wake.
Koznicki and Quirt were seated. Tully slipped into the only other chair.
At the sight of Kleimer, Koznicki tensed and leaned forward in his chair, giving the impression that he was about to vault over the desk and assault the lawyer. Neither Kleimer nor Tully wanted that to happen. Kleimer didn’t want to die. Tully didn’t want to witness his death.
“You are not involved in this case at this point.” Koznicki spoke through clenched teeth.
Perspiration appeared at Kleimer’s hairline. “I’m just following through, Inspector. It just so happened that I chanced on this case shortly after the investigation began.”
Koznicki glanced at Quirt. The inspector very well knew how Kleimer had “chanced” upon his case. “It just so happens,” Koznicki borrowed Kleimer’s phrase, “that you are not supposed to be here now.”
“But …” Kleimer began to protest.
Pushing with large powerful hands, Koznicki half rose.
Kleimer turned so abruptly that he tripped over his own feet. He would have fallen had he not grasped the doorknob.
It was not the most graceful of exits. As Kleimer hurried down the hallway, he vowed that one day he would make Koznicki pay dearly for this.
Tully, hiding his smile in his heart, closed the door and resumed his chair.
“Lieutenant Quirt has reported our progress in this investigation,” Koznicki said. “We seem to have built a rather strong case on circumstantial evidence. What is your opinion, Alonzo?”
Having Tully brought into the decision-making process did not please Quirt. On the one hand, he had to admit that both he and Tully were of equal rank and that each commanded his own squad. But, on the other hand, he, Quirt, had been hand-picked to head this task force. In fact, he was honored that the hand that picked him belonged to the mayor of Detroit.
Soon, Quirt was certain, he would be the inspector in charge of Homicide. Kleimer would come through for him. Both he and Kleimer now had scores to settle with Koznicki—and a few others who had treated them badly. Given a little more time, they would straighten things out.
Tully shook his head. “This is Quirt’s collar. It looks pretty good. Carleson had motive and opportunity. The blood in his car is hard to explain away.”
Koznicki nodded slowly. “I think with what we can bring the prosecutor’s office, they will issue a warrant.” He seemed saddened.
The sadness was not shared by a supremely self-satisfied Quirt. “And I broke the case in one day. Twenty-four hours. That’s gonna make a lot of people happy, up to and including the boss—Mayor Cobb.”
Koznicki turned to Tully. “You uncovered no suspects?”
“Suspects? Sure. There’s the guy who had it out with Diego yesterday afternoon. A Michael Shell who claims his already shaky marriage was further damaged by Diego. There’s his wife, Maria Shell, who could’ve reacted to Diego’s manipulating her. And we’ve got a feeling that something’s going down on the streets.”
“What!” Quirt was incredulous. “Listen, we’ve got the guy: It’s Carleson. It’d be silly to wait another ten to twenty years while we interview every punk on the street. Come on!”
“Anyway” Tully said evenly, “we’re gonna check out these leads and see where they go.”
“You can’t!” Quirt was angry. “We’re goin’ to court tomorrow morning. What’ll it look like if we bring in a suspect for arraignment and you’re still working the case?”
Tully regarded Quirt. “What’ll it look like if Carleson is acquitted and we’ve got no other leads? Look at it this way, Quirt: At worst we’re covering your ass. You ought to be grateful.”
Quirt’s sputtering response was unintelligible.
Koznicki gave every evidence that he was pleased at Tully’s decision to continue his investigation. “One final decision before we go home, gentlemen: Where is Father Carleson now, and what do we do with him Overnight?”
“He’s in a holding cell.” There was belligerence in Quirt’s tone. “And that’s where he should stay.”
“You put a priest in a holding cell!” Koznicki was not happy.
“He’s a murder suspect,” Quirt said defensively. Much would now depend on whether Tully would support his decision.
“Your opinion, Alonzo?” Koznicki asked.
“I’d have to agree with Quirt. I know how you feel about priests, Walt But we’ve got to consider that not only do we not know much about him, nobody around here—not even the other priests—knows much about him. Like Quirt said, he’s the prime suspect. And you know what would happen if we released him from custody and, say, he killed somebody else tonight.…”
Koznicki bowed his head in agreement. “I believe you are correct, Alonzo. Should that happen, I would be looking for another job tomorrow.”
With that prospect, Quirt felt a passing urge to recommend the release-to-appear of Carleson, just on the off chance the priest would kill again and Koznicki would be somewhat prematurely out of the way. Quirt kept this urge to himself.
“Very well,” Koznicki said. “Father Carleson stays in holding.”
The meeting was over. Now Tully would have to inform the waiting Father Koesler that his buddy would be kept at least overnight. One of those messages that was never easy to deliver.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
It had been long and tiring—but at last this demanding day was at an end. That was the good news. The bad news was that tomorrow would be just as taxing.
Ned Ferris, chief of operations for the Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney’s office, leaned back in his chair as far as he could and stretched tired muscles.
Wayne County comprised many Michigan cities, chief among them, by anyone’s measure, Detroit. Detroit with its long, interesting history. Detroit, the onetime “Arsenal of Democracy.” Where they built—or used to build—cars. Detroit with its pockets of wealth and its acres of poverty. With that glorious river linking the Great Lakes. With consistently looming violence and murder, this prosecuting attorney’s office was among the busiest in the country. With the responsibility for, among other things, determining what charges to bring against suspects, and selecting attorneys to try cases, the position of chief of operations would not soon be out of business.
One element of current crime that most troubled Ned Ferris was child murder—children being murdered, children being murderers. This very day was a case in point.
A fifth-grader walking to school was gunned down when a driveby shooter missed a house in which his enemy lived. Talk about not being able to hit the broad side of a barn!
That was this morning. This afternoon, an eighth-grader had demanded an expensive jacket from a classmate. The jacketed youngster ran and was shot four times, twice to the head, twice to the back The boy was dead before he hit the ground. The shooter explained that it was his classmate’s fault He ran away after being ordered to give up his jacket.
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