Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

  This, while it can be a serious problem depending on circumstances, is still one of the easiest cases to process. Koesler had handled several over the years. One first secures a recent copy of the Catholic’s baptismal record. Recent, because when a Catholic marries, the fact is noted in the baptismal record. Now, the fact that the record is issued without notification of marriage indicates that the Catholic has never contracted a Catholic—i.e., valid—marriage.

  Next, one secures a copy of the marriage certificate signed by the officiating party not a priest. Finally, both parties of the first marriage are questioned, and both testify that they were married in civil law and that the marriage was never convalidated. Additionally, there may be a demand that witnesses be called to testify to the truthfulness of the parties.

  But … there it is. The simplest of all Catholic marriage cases. After that, it goes steadily uphill.

  Many, perhaps most people, assume that Catholic laws on marriage and remarriage affect only Catholics. Not so. Good old Canon 1060’s “Marriage enjoys the favor of the law …” applies, in the eyes of the Church, to everyone. So, for instance, two Protestants marry and divorce. Later, one of them wants to marry a Catholic and, since the previous marriage involved no Catholics, assumes there will be no problem. Then, the surprise: Church law assumes that Protestant, Jewish, Islamic, whatever, marriages are valid. The non-Catholic will bear the burden of proving to the Church’s satisfaction that the previous marriage was invalid—null—from its very inception.

  There are countless variations of these processes. But the point is: It’s not simple.

  Of the matrimonial court procedures of the Roman Catholic Church, there are those who say it is a “healing” process that helps people learn what went wrong and how they might improve.

  Others claim it is the “shark in the pool syndrome.” As in: A motel resident goes to the pool and finds a shark in it. He complains to the manager, who explains that the shark is quite benevolent. The resident insists it has nothing to do with benevolence; there should not be a shark in the pool.

  Father Koesler felt that the Church should not necessarily be in the business of granting or withholding annulments. After the misery of a divorce, the Church should be in a welcoming, not a judgmental mode.

  He flipped pages until he came to Canon 1141: A ratified and consummated marriage cannot be dissolved by any human power or for any reason other than death.

  At last, something that endures until death do we part.

  By “ratified” is meant mutual consent, freely given between baptized persons and with no impediment blocking validity, to be followed by sexual intercourse.

  The Catholic Church considers all marriages indissoluble to a certain degree. Only the ratified, consummated marriage is absolutely indissoluble.

  It seemed this was the sort of marriage had by Brad and Audrey Kleimer. It was this sort of marriage that Father Carleson seemed to have dismissed in witnessing the subsequent marriage of Lou and Audrey Schuyler.

  To witness the Schuylers’ marriage, Father Carleson would have to be, in effect, ready to flush 146 laws down the drain.

  Father Koesler was left disheartened. Could Brad Kleimer be right? Was Father Carleson willing to brush aside any law he judged inapplicable? Even the law against murder?

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Brad Kleimer’s desk looked as if a flamingo had been shot while flying over it. Pink slips were scattered about profusely. Undoubtedly the result of his having received lots of calls while he was out, plus his secretary’s abandoning any effort to keep them in a neat pile.

  It didn’t matter. This put him pretty much in the driver’s seat. He would be busy on the phone, but he would be able to discard the inconsequential calls while taking the others in the order of his choice.

  He fingered through the messages, casually dropping many in the wastebasket. He was disappointed that there was no call from any of the national media or networks.

  That would come. All he had to do was get reinstated as the designated trial attorney. And the slip he was now fondling just might open that door. That call was from Ned Ferris.

  It had to be a green light. The chief had no reason to call him now unless it would be about the Carleson case. If Quirt had failed, the call would’ve been from him.

  With some satisfaction, Kleimer dialed the number. “Chief?”

  “Brad. Listen, there’s been a reevaluation on the Carleson trial.”

  “Oh?” Kleimer tried to mask his smug triumph. He wanted to give the impression of surprise followed by gratitude.

  “Yes. The boss wants you to try the case.”

  “That’s great news, Ned. I had pretty well figured I was out of it. I’m really grateful. The boss does know about that marriage business, doesn’t he?” Of course he does, thought Kleimer.

  “He’s aware, yes. And he wants you to get it out of the way as quickly as you can. It’s manageable, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely, Chief. Right off the bat, I can tackle the issue. After all, it makes no difference to me what my ex-wife does. My responsibility ended when she remarried a year ago. The final bond was dissolved then. When she married her present husband, the alimony—which was all that was left of our marriage—ceased. After that, she could’ve had her marriage blessed by a rabbi or a priest, or an ayatollah for that matter. Obviously, it made no difference to me. It’s no more than a coincidence that the priest who killed his bishop also blessed her marriage. If anything, that’s her problem.”

  There was an extended pause before Ferris said, “Sounds good. Just get it out of the way early on.”

  “Absolutely. The only thing is that I wish I could get into it. Witnessing her marriage, it turns out, was a damn good example of how impulsive and spontaneous the priest is.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “Just that the guy apparently didn’t touch all the bases in his Church law. It seems he just up and did it. It’d be a good example of how the guy functions. If he feels something needs doing, he does it. If a bishop needs to be disposed of, he eliminates him.”

  “Hmm … not bad …” Pause. “But don’t touch it! The boss was very clear he wanted this marriage of your former wife taken out of the picture early, once and for all. He doesn’t want a single juror to think you’ve got any kind of vendetta going. No confusion. Not a doubt. I can’t emphasize that too strongly.”

  “I read you loud and clear, Ned. I’ve got some people looking into Carleson’s past. I’m sure we’ll find all we need and more to show what kind of guy we’re dealing with.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  “Will do.”

  As he replaced the receiver, Kleimer felt good—very, very good.

  Leafing through the remaining pink slips, he found none that needed urgent attention. Still, he ought to get through them as quickly as possible and clear the decks for a really intensive investigation into Carleson’s past—and present.

  The phone rang. You never knew; it might be a network.

  It was George Quirt.

  Kleimer felt magnanimous. Quirt it was, after all, who’d done the leg work to get Kleimer back on the case. “I owe you, George.”

  “Yeah you do. But I gotta tell you, it was downhill all the way. I didn’t even have to go through all our reasons. I was about to tell him how you’ve been on this case from day one. Remind him of your track record, about the fact they’ve got Cone on their team.

  “But I didn’t have a chance to get them on the table. The mayor’s man like to hit the ceiling as soon as I told him the chief took you outta the trial. That’s it! That’s all I had to say. He went right off to see the mayor. And, I found out from some other guys that the mayor is having one of those days. He ain’t seeing anybody. But to brass tacks: Did you get the call? Was it from Ferris?”

  “Yup. Obviously, the mayor had an offer my boss could not refuse. Pretty tricky with the mayor in city government and us in the county. Anyway, howe
ver he worked it, it happened in a hurry.

  “But listen, George, you can free yourself up now, can’t you? I mean, you haven’t been shanghaied by that movie bunch, have you?”

  “I’m keeping my distance. It’s getting so I can smell them.”

  “And you can clear some of your people to sniff around Carleson’s doings?”

  “We’re kinda loaded as usual. But I think I can cut a couple of the guys loose for it.”

  “Can you spare Williams and his partner?”

  “I guess … that what you want?”

  “For now, yeah.”

  “You got it.”

  “Stay in touch.”

  “You bet. How else am I gonna be close enough to you to collect on all these IOUs you been handing me?”

  “That’s the boy, George.”

  They laughed and hung up.

  Kleimer was only too aware of Quirt’s extensive limitations. He knew that Quirt had risen to his present position through a combination of luck, elbow grease, and, mostly, having excellent personnel on his squad.

  It was not all that difficult to wring deals from Quirt by dangling rewards; his cravings were near insatiable. After that, it was important to ease George out of the nitty-gritty and get him to sic one or more of his excellent staff onto the investigation. This is what Kleimer had just accomplished. He was content.

  The phone rang. One of these calls simply had to be a network.

  Not this time. “This is Father Koesler. We met just a little while ago.…”

  “Yeah, right. What’s on your mind, Father?”

  “I haven’t been able to think of anything but your visit since you left.”

  “Yeah, you were a lot of help. I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Kleimer. I’m afraid that you have a wrong opinion of Father Carleson. He really is a very fine priest. From what he’s told me of his work in the missions, he’s a dedicated Christian. That he might take a human life is … well, it’s just beyond imagination.”

  Kleimer was chuckling to himself. “Don’t worry, Father. That’ll be the argument of the defense attorney. The thing is, I’m not going to be a part of the defense. I’ll be prosecuting.”

  “I understand that. But you seem to have the notion that Father Carleson is the type who would justify the means by the end. And I want to assure you that even if he might handle a marriage problem with more charity than a strict interpretation of law, that has nothing to do with his deep and abiding respect for life.”

  Koesler could almost hear Kleimer’s head shake.

  “Father,” Kleimer said, “you didn’t do anything. So stop feeling guilty. I got this idea all by myself just in talking to you about Carleson and my former wife. But you should remember that you are not going to convert me into a Carleson believer. Even if I wanted to—and I don’t—my job is to prosecute him. So, first chance I get, I’m gonna check out the books at Ste. Anne’s and the parish where Audrey was baptized. I don’t expect I’ll find any notation that would indicate that this wedding is recognized by the Church.

  “But that’s okay, Father. If this works out the way I think it will, this’ll be one more indication that I’ve got the right guy. I’ll be prosecuting the right man.”

  Kleimer could almost hear Koesler’s shrug. “There’s nothing I can say that will influence you or change your mind, is there?”

  “No. Not really. But I insist I owe you one. How about coming up to my place some evening? You like classical music? I’ve got some recordings. You like any kind of music, I’ve got it. We could toss down a few … get to know one another better.”

  The offer was not one of unalloyed generosity. Koesler had proven himself a useful resource person. He very well might serve as such again. Kleimer would like to have this priest in reserve for future use.

  Koesler, for his part, would respond only to an offer he could not resist. Which, in Kleimer’s case, would be a summons to confer sacraments in extremis. And, since Kleimer was not Catholic, Koesler was not likely to take Kleimer up on his invitation.

  But the priest did not wish to needlessly offend the attorney. “Thank you very much for your invitation. I’ve kind of fallen behind in my parish duties the last day or so.” That much was true. “How about I take a rain check?”

  “You got it, Father. Any time.”

  This day was beginning to redeem itself. Kleimer was retrieving his self-satisfaction with interest.

  And there was still the national media to come.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Free at last.

  Thanks to the good offices of Father Dave McCauley of Ste. Anne’s parish, Father Don Carleson had escaped the mob of newspeople who had pinned him down after his release on bail.

  They had their job to do. Carleson was able to admit that. He understood it. But he didn’t have to like it.

  It was nightmarish. First, there was the swarm of reporters who pressed in around him, firing questions; the print people scribbling notes that later they would organize into a story with, they hoped, a snappy lead; the radio news hounds thrusting microphones like voodoo rattles at his jaw.

  The ones he minded most were the photographers and camera people. He found it most difficult to give any thought at all to what he was saying, as he tried to answer the questions shot at him from every side, while cameras clicked relentlessly in his face and the shoulder-balanced TV equipment loomed like hungry vultures, zoom lenses lunging in at him.

  Fortunately, after some fifteen minutes of that steady, persistent interrogation, Carleson noticed McCauley in his car with the passenger door ajar. He calculated his angle of escape and bolted, pursued by the cameras and the yawp of shouted questions.

  Fortunately, too, McCauley placed himself at Carleson’s disposal. Nothing was prescribed. Whatever Carleson wanted to do was fine with McCauley.

  After a moment’s thought, Carleson opted for the freedom of movement his own car would afford. He had no clear idea of what he would do now. But his own car, with no passenger, would provide unencumbered mobility and opportunity for thought.

  They drove to Ste. Anne’s, where Carleson showered and changed last night’s slept-in clothes. Then, before the media could catch up—for they, too, had decided to try Ste. Anne’s—he drove off. Aimlessly at first, he kept the car in motion, trying to decide what he might do to forget himself and his troubles.

  He recalled a saying of his mother’s. She was fond of reminding him of the man who considered himself destitute because he had no shoes until he saw a man with no feet. Or, as his father expressed the same idea, if someone hits you on your toe with a hammer, you’ll forget every other misery you’ve got.

  With a slight smile, he headed for what had become a home away from home—Receiving Hospital.

  As usual, he left his car in the parking garage and went through the Emergency entrance.

  Immediately, he sensed a difference. It was as if the familiar staff were shrinking from him—or was it merely his imagination at work? Certainly he was conscious that being charged with murder simply had to change the way people related to him.

  Suddenly, from among those who seemed to be standing back, a man stepped forward briskly. It was Dr. Schmidt, a most capable young intern. “Yo, Father Carleson, read any good murder mysteries lately?”

  It broke the ice. All the others, none of whom seriously thought this popular priest could have murdered anyone, gathered around Carleson, offering support.

  Smiling and shaking hands, Carleson said, “I know this is a cliché, but you’ve really made my day.”

  Camaraderie was so thick and spontaneous that it seemed as if it were a birthday celebration.

  In the next few seconds, everything returned to normal. Business was slow at this moment; no one had been rushed in for some time. A few patients were reclining or sitting on gurneys with Emergency personnel asking questions or administering medication.

  As Carleson made his way to th
e door leading to the hospital proper, he was flagged by a nurse who had been talking to one of the resident surgeons. Carleson, with an expectant look, crossed to them.

  “I was just telling Pete here about something funny that happened yesterday, Father,” the nurse said. “I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

  Carleson tightened the small circle with his presence. There was no doubt in his mind, he could use some diversion.

  “This happened to my pal, Annie, who works in oncology,” the nurse said. “She had a patient who’d been hanging in there by a thread for several weeks. He’s got a wife and two kids, both girls, teenagers.

  “About a week ago, we got the wife’s permission to take the guy—Clarence—off life support. They expected him to check out rather promptly after that. But he didn’t. He’s been in a coma pretty much since then. The doctor’s been wanting to get Clarence out of here—home or a nursing home—but everybody’s afraid to move him. He could check out easily while he’s getting transferred. In general, nobody quite knew what to do, how to handle it.

  “Then yesterday, Annie took the wife aside and explained about giving him permission to leave.”

  The resident nodded knowingly; Carleson looked puzzled.

  “See, Father,” the nurse amplified, “sometimes a moribund patient will hang on to life because he thinks there are things unresolved that he has to take care of. He thinks he’s needed, and somehow that gives him enough will power to fight off death.

  “So, anyway, Annie tells the wife she ought to make it clear to Clarence that he can let go.

  “Later, Annie is walking down the corridor and she can hear Clarence’s wife yelling. She’s yelling, obviously ’cause Clarence is in this coma. And she yells, ‘Clarence, I forgive you every mean, rotten, nasty, vicious thing you’ve ever done to me! Girls, kiss your father good-bye! Clarence, die already!’