Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

  “How did you break it?”

  Tully shifted in the uncomfortable straight-back chair. “Remember way back when the Kingfish wiped out almost all Mad Anthony’s brain trust?”

  Koznicki could not suppress a brief smile. That incident had marked the beginning of his near father-and-son relationship with Tully. “I remember it well. You were in the forefront of that investigation. You were as responsible as anyone for getting the conviction of Kingfish and his men.”

  Tully’s hand attempted to wave away the accolade. “In any case, right after that Tony Wayne gave me one wish—sort of like a stingy genie. I didn’t take him up on it then. Yesterday, I called in my marker with Mad Anthony. He gave me Julio Ramirez.”

  “You have him?”

  “He’s in Receiving.”

  “Receiving! What is his condition?”

  “O.D. He’s critical.”

  Koznicki shook his head slowly. “He may die. If he lives, he may be brain dead. Of what—”

  “He’s the one,” Tully interrupted. He seldom did that to Koznicki. “It’s Julio. Wayne gave him to me on a platter.”

  “That is all very well,” Koznicki said, “but he may be dead on that platter. Do we have any witnesses? Any corroboration?”

  “Not yet. We’re still working on it. The important thing is we’ve got the perp. Everything else should fall into place. How about letting us work up this case full time?”

  Before Koznicki could reply, there was a knock on the door of the glassed-in office. They could see it was Lieutenant Quirt.

  “Come,” Koznicki called.

  Quirt had news that he knew would displease Tully. He knew Tully hadn’t bought Carleson as the killer. But now there was no longer any doubt. “Walt, it’s a new ballgame.” He paused to let the drama he was trying to create sink in. The three looked at him expectantly.

  “He did it again,” Quirt announced.

  Still no reaction.

  “Carleson—the priest. Last night. He killed again!”

  “What!” All three were as a Greek chorus.

  This was the reaction Quirt wanted.

  “Explain!” Koznicki demanded. Koznicki disliked such showboating. He considered it unprofessional.

  Quirt, oblivious to Koznicki’s reaction, forged on. “Last night, around midnight” —Quirt referred to his notes—” Carleson left Ste. Anne’s rectory and drove to Receiving Hospital. There he went to the room of an elderly man, a patient that he, Carleson, visited regularly. He entered the man’s room and smothered the patient, probably with a pillow.”

  His listeners appeared dumbfounded.

  “How do you know all this? Do you have proof?” Koznicki asked.

  “Okay.” Quirt was on a high. “First: This elderly patient was one Herbert Demers. He was a parishioner at Ste. Anne’s. There are so few people still living in that parish, we were told, that it isn’t uncommon for there to be just one parishioner in the hospital at one time.

  “Second: After Carleson got out on bail, we did some backgrounding on him. Part of his routine was visiting this guy almost every day. Along the way, Carleson got chummy with a lot of the hospital personnel.

  “Third: This Demers was in a coma pretty much all the time. He couldn’t speak for himself, and the last word of his next of kin was ‘to do everything.’ So they were keeping him alive—and that’s about all.

  “Four: One of the nurses stated that Carleson had talked to her about euthanizing the old man. She said Carleson had told her that the old guy some how got a message to him to ‘help me die.’ Anyway, that’s what Carleson said. She also said that just yesterday she heard Carleson shouting to the old man to let loose and die. That didn’t work.

  “Five: Two of the Emergency personnel testified that last night, just before midnight, they saw Carleson going into the hospital. The night nurse on duty on Demers’s floor stated she saw Carleson go into the old man’s room.

  “This morning they found Demers dead. They were about to release the body when I recognized that the dead guy had been visited all the time by this priest who had already been indicted for one murder. Plus the priest had been a one-man cheering section to put this old guy out of his misery. So I ordered an autopsy.

  “Six: I just got word from Doc Moellmann that Herbert Demers was murdered. The doc said there were pinpoint hemorrhages in the old man’s eyelids and cheeks. There were bruises on the gums. The nose was almost broken. The doc said it was …” Quirt paused for effect. “… homicide.”

  There was dead silence in the room for several long moments. Not one of the three officers could make sense of what Quirt had just said. It was like going from A to Z without touching any of the intervening letters.

  They were convinced Julio Ramirez was the killer of Bishop Diego. The only question was whether he would survive to be tried for the crime. It was as if a puzzle had been solved and all that remained was to put the pieces together. Having solved the puzzle, everyone expected that putting those pieces in their proper places would be simple.

  Now, out of the blue, here was Quirt with a story that blew the pieces in every which direction.

  “Has Father Carleson confessed to any of this?” Koznicki asked.

  “No.” Quirt seemed unconcerned by the priest’s denial.

  “His explanation for all this?”

  “Well,” Quirt began, “he was smart enough not to deny that he went out last night. See, there was a service for the bishop in Ste. Anne’s church last night. Carleson didn’t attend. But after the service, some of the priests got together in the rectory. Carleson had no way of knowing whether any of the priests would go to his room—see how he was, that sort of thing. Since Carleson was out murdering that patient, he couldn’t claim he was in his room. Someone easily could’ve known that he wasn’t home—”

  “So,” Tully broke in, “if he didn’t claim to be home, where did he say he was?”

  “A sick call.” Quirt was near laughter. “He claims he got a call about 11:30. He and the bishop shared a private line. He claims someone called and gave him an address on McKinstry near Clark Park … said there was a dying woman there who asked specifically for him. Says he went immediately.”

  “And,” Koznicki said, “at the house, is there anyone who can corroborate?”

  Quirt smirked. “No such address, Carleson says. He says he drove to the spot where the house should be. The address he says he was given doesn’t exist. Says he drove around for a while. He thought maybe the guy had been confused and had given him the wrong numbers. He went up and down the street looking to see if he could find any commotion. Maybe somebody on a porch looking for him. Maybe an EMS truck. After all, the guy said the woman was dying; maybe the guy called 911 after calling him.

  “Anyway, that’s what he says. A whole load of hospital people say something different. They put him at the scene of what Doc Moellmann says was a homicide.

  “What we got here, obviously,” Quirt concluded, “is a real wacko priest. You remember, Walt—you okayed the voucher—we got Williams at Maryknoll HQ in New York checking for anything fishy in Carleson’s background. As time goes on, we need that less and less. Now we know we got a priest who sees a bishop making life miserable for a lot of people—hell, maybe that’s what bishops do. So, what does Carleson do about it? He offs the bishop and tries to make it look like a B and E. But he doesn’t realize he’s got the bishop’s blood splashed in his car.

  “So he’s indicted. But he makes bail. Now he’s got a poor old duck who just won’t die. So what does Father Carleson do? Even though he just got out of jail on a murder charge, he puts a pillow or something over the old geezer’s face and smothers him. It’s supposed to be a natural death. But Carleson forgets that a good number of hospital personnel can recognize him. And they do. On top of that, he doesn’t know that the method of murder he used leaves evidence—evidence that Doc Moellmann found.

  “We got a wacko priest. He goes around killing people who caus
e problems.” Quirt’s voice rose. “This guy is damn dangerous!”

  Koznicki appeared—reluctantly—convinced. “What action have you taken?”

  Quirt hesitated. Before reporting to Koznicki, he had called Kleimer. In retrospect, that didn’t seem a smart move. He hadn’t done this by the numbers. So he mentally erased a few moves and hoped he could retrace a few steps. “I think we have to contact the prosecutor.”

  Koznicki would have wagered his last dollar that Quirt had already briefed Kleimer.

  Perhaps it was the expression on their faces or their overall reaction to his news; Quirt had the impression that Tully and Mangiapane had also been talking to Koznicki about the Diego case.

  Why were they in Koznicki’s office? Even more, why weren’t they at all enthusiastic about the final nails in Carleson’s coffin?

  At length, Tully spoke. “I’m afraid we have an embarrassment of riches. We’ve got the Diego killer!”

  “What!” It was Quirt’s turn.

  Tully explained, with some patience, how he had come upon his version of Diego’s murderer. Patience was required in the fact of Quirt’s frequent protestations that the case had been closed and the task force dissolved yesterday—as in, “How could you continue working the streets? The case is closed!”

  Finally, Tully managed to complete his explanation.

  “One thing seems clear, gentlemen,” Koznicki said. “We have two disparate and distinct suspects in the murder of one man. They could not both have done it.”

  “Look, George,” Tully said, “from the beginning of the case we’ve been torturing the flow of the investigation to try to come up with a priest suspect.”

  This statement stung Quirt—because it was true. Kleimer wanted the scenario to read, Bishop killed by priest. That way lay global headlines. But Quirt would refuse to admit the truth even if now he was sincerely convinced they had the right man in Carleson.

  Tully continued. “If we had let the evidence lead us, we would have seen it as a street crime. Someone who knew Diego kept a significant stash on hand just got in, killed the bishop, and stole the money. It was that simple. And the guy who did it is Julio Ramirez.”

  “And where did that name come from?” Quirt immediately answered his own question. “From Tony Wayne—Mr. Crime of the Metropolitan area. What a fantastically reliable source! And that’s it: You got no eyewitness or confession. And if this guy croaks, you don’t even have a suspect.

  “Where we got the killer priest. The kind of ink he’s been getting up to now makes him look like a male Mother Teresa. So he helps us by offing the poor old vegetable in Receiving. If there wasn’t anything else going down, Carleson certainly would be in Jacktown for the Demers killing. But now he’s gonna be sent up for Demers and Diego. Or,” he nodded at Tully, “do you have another explanation for the Demers murder?”

  Tully wished to high heaven that he had some reasonable, credible explanation for the idiotic, self-destructive action taken by Father Carleson last night. But Tully could find nothing that would explain away the killing of Demners. So the lieutenant sat and steamed.

  There was a short period of silence during which Quirt savored his victory.

  “George, you had better inform the prosecuting attorney,” Koznicki said finally. “They will want to get a judge to revoke bail. And then prepare to take Father Carleson into custody and process him all over again. Make sure that this is done by the numbers.”

  With a smile he couldn’t contain, Quirt nodded and left the office to continue the process he had already begun. He would do this by the numbers. But the numbers would be slightly shuffled.

  Largely because there was nothing left to say, there was no further conversation in Koznicki’s office. In a matter of moments after Quirt had departed victorious, Tully and Mangiapane wordlessly left.

  As they walked back to the squad room, Mangiapane suggested softly, “I think I smell an insanity plea coming up.”

  “It’s about the only thing that might save him. But I don’t know if even that would work.”

  But Tully had all but dismissed Carleson’s plight. The lieutenant’s thoughts were absorbed by Tony Wayne’s contribution to this case: one Julio Ramirez. With this latest development, it now seemed certain that Carleson had killed both Diego and Demers. Domers, as far as Kleimer was concerned, was frosting.

  Tully could grasp the connection between Demers and Diego even better than Quirt.

  If Carleson had been innocent of Diego’s murder, there would be no reason to act precipitately regarding Demers. But if Carleson knew himself guilty and was convinced that he would be convicted of killing Diego, the priest would know he would be imprisoned and thus unable to free Demers from pain and helpless misery.

  Yeah, it all made sense. The killings went together. But what in hell was going on with Tony Wayne? Did he turn in Ramirez as a sacrificial lamb? And why?

  As Tully and Mangiapane entered their squad room, which was now filling, Angie Moore called out. “Zoo, you got a call from the patrolman at Receiving who’s baby-sitting Ramirez. He says there’s a big guy who wants to see Ramirez—a really, really big guy. Says his name’s Albert, Albert Salveigh. The patrolman says it’s urgent.”

  Albert. Big Al. Tiny. Wants to see Julio Ramirez. Now that is interesting.

  Tully wanted to see Albert Salveigh see Julio Ramirez.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY - FIVE

  Tully was amused.

  A young patrolman stood at parade rest in front of the door to Julio Ramirez’s hospital room, blocking entrance. Directly opposite him in the corridor was the entire body of Albert Salveigh. If Salveigh had decided to march forward, the officer could have testified to how it felt to be trampled by an elephant.

  Tully nodded at the patrolman, who quickly relaxed, relieved that a superior officer was here to deal with Ursus across the way.

  “I’ve got a problem with Mr. Wayne’s ‘gift,’” Tully said to Salveigh. “We’ve rearrested Father Carleson and he’s going to be charged with two murders … and one of them is Bishop Diego’s.”

  The deferential look did not leave Salveigh’s face. “I don’t think Mr. Wayne is aware of that.”

  “He will be. It just went down. The media have probably already got it.”

  Salveigh digested this new development.

  “Mr. Wayne would be the last one to claim infallibility,” he said finally. “But I was part of the effort that found Julio Ramirez. And I still think we have the right person. However, I need to speak to Ramirez. He’s been unconscious since before we found him. Perhaps I could communicate with him now.”

  “Let me check.”

  Tully consulted the floor nurse.

  “She says he drifts in and out. We can see him for only a little while. What do you want to see him about anyway?”

  Salveigh shrugged. “I just want to assure him that Mr. Wayne is responsible for his hospitalization and responsible for his arrest as well. We want to be sure that he is convinced that he should cooperate with your investigation.”

  “Sounds okay. Let’s go.”

  They entered the room. The light was soft. The single bed held an inert body.

  Tully remained near the door while Salveigh went to the bed. Whatever he said to Ramirez was uttered just above a whisper. Yet Ramirez seemed to hear and understand. His head moved in what Tully took to be an affirmation. Then, after a slight nod to Tully, Salveigh left the room. He had delivered his message in less than two minutes.

  Tully moved to the bed and identified himself. Ramirez’s eyes were glassy. He was nowhere near recovered.

  “Julio, do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?”

  Ramirez nodded, almost imperceptibly. He tried to speak, but his lips were caked. Tully took a handy cloth, dipped it in water, and moistened the young man’s lips.

  “Am I gonna make it?”

  “I don’t know. You’re pretty bad off. But you look like you might. Julio, I go
t to know: Did you kill that bishop—Diego?”

  “I don’ wanna think, man.”

  “Julio, you know who tipped us. You know who wants you to cooperate with us.”

  Ramirez seemed to wince, but he nodded.

  “Did you kill the bishop and take his money?”

  Weakly, “Yeah.”

  “How did it happen? You know the money was there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you kill him?”

  “A gun?”

  “No.”

  “Uh … a knife?”

  “No.”

  “Uh … I forget.”

  “You killed him and you forgot how you did it?”

  “My head hurts. My balls hurt. Ever ‘thin’ hurts.”

  “Are you sure you killed the bishop?”

  “I dunno. I musta. There was blood all over. I gotta sleep, m’n.…” Ramirez’s head rolled slightly toward the shuttered window. He appeared to lose consciousness.

  A nurse quietly entered the room. “You’ll have to leave now.”

  “What are his chances?”

  “Improving. He took in a ton of dope. Time is the only thing that can tell now.”

  Tully left disheartened. If Ramirez died without a coherent confession, they had no case. Even if he lived, he could be so spaced out he’d be useless.

  Then he recalled what Salveigh had said … something about Mr. Wayne not being infallible. Maybe this whole thing was just a dead end. Tully figured he’d better start getting used to the idea that, as ugly as that possibility was, Quirt might just be right.

  By the time he’d walked back to headquarters, Tully was feeling glum. A number of phone messages were stacked on his desk. He thumbed through the pile. One of the calls was from Father Koesler. Tully decided to return that one first. Koesler had been most cooperative. He deserved consideration.

  The murder of Herbert Demers had happened far too late in the night for inclusion in Detroit’s morning Free Press. But the news was on radio. Television was trying to catch up.

  Koesler watched as Father Carleson was once again taken into custody. Avery Cone, Carleson’s attorney, was shielding his client from the intrusive cameras and responding over and over, “No comment!”