Bishop as Pawn Page 3

  “That’s when I decided to start choosing my bishops. Mark Boyle and Detroit seemed about the best choice in the States. I knew he must be surrounded by a self-fulfilling bureaucracy. It seemed inevitable. But one could be relatively free here.”

  “And if Cardinal Boyle were to pass on?”

  “I would take a careful look at his successor. I might apply for another excardination. I might get a somewhat unsteady reputation. On the other hand, the bishop I’d select to work for might feel that I’d given him an unsolicited testimonial.”

  “And Bishop Ramon Diego?”

  Carleson froze.

  Koesler was startled. But he had encountered similar reactions. People under great emotional stress—illness, family tragedy, or the like—enjoy some time of relief, a happy distraction. Sometimes they forget their troubles. They lose themselves in the joy of the moment. Then, inevitably, they are forced to return to reality. The change in their emotions, in their very appearance, can be profound.

  So it was with Don Carleson. It had been a pleasant evening, with an entertaining chat between two like-minded priests. But now it was time to return to the real world. From his expression, it was clear that Carleson dreaded what must be. It was inescapable.

  “It’s after midnight,” Carleson said softly. “I guess we’d better go.”

  During the brief drive to Ste. Anne’s, nothing more was said. Koesler let Carleson out at the front door to the rectory. Koesler glanced at the showy string of lights that garlanded the Ambassador Bridge. Then he started his return drive.

  Cinderella did not want to go home from the dance. Carleson didn’t want to go home from his evening out. And he didn’t have a fairy godmother.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Father Koesler shuffled into the kitchen of St. Joseph’s rectory. He wore his pajamas, a robe, slippers, his glasses, and his ever-present watch.

  He was grateful St. Joe’s scheduled no early-morning Mass. Much of his priesthood had been marked by parish Masses programmed for 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning. A 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Mass was an invitation to sleep in.

  Now, with the daily Mass offered at noon he had the leisure to wake up gradually and prepare a more thoughtful homily. Habit, however, kept him waking and rising at 7:00.

  Neither the housekeeper nor the secretary, Mrs. Mary O’Connor, would be in for another couple of hours, thus the informal attire.

  With yawns and stretches punctuating his movements, he added a banana and skim milk to cold cereal, and turned on the small radio. Station WJR was halfway through its news broadcast. “And now with the weather, here’s John McMurray.”

  Koesler lifted the coffeepot from its stand. Empty. Then he remembered having drained the pot last night with Don Carleson. Koesler decided he could wait until after breakfast.

  “There is a mass of cold, arctic air invading the area from northern Canada,” John McMurray announced. “It will be accompanied by a strong high-pressure system which will usher in clear skies and plenty of sunshine. However” —McMurray pronounced it “howevah”; a native New Yorker, Koesler assumed—” the windchill factor will make our high temperature today of twenty-eight feel like it’s only five above zero. And I’ll be back in twenty minutes with WJR’s exclusive three-day forecast.”

  Koesler regarded the banana. The last of its bunch, it had seen the better part of its life. He hoped it would not be too ripe. He preferred bananas to be bright yellow—even greenish—and firm. He’d have to remember to get more today.

  “Recapping our lead story,” the newscaster said, “a Detroit bishop was found murdered in the rectory of Ste. Anne’s church just west of downtown Detroit. Police are on the scene and their investigation has just begun into the death of auxiliary bishop Ramon Diego. We’ll be bringing you more details as we get them.”

  The radio continued to play, but Koesler no longer heard it. His mind was whirling. He went to the front porch and retrieved the Free Press. He paged through it, but found no mention of the death. Of course not; the story must have broken long after the Freep’s final edition had gone to press.

  What had the announcer said? Diego’s body was discovered.…

  The bishop couldn’t have been found before Koesler delivered Carleson to the rectory. Otherwise the neighborhood would have been teeming with police cars. He remembered how dark and apparently peaceful Ste. Anne’s had been last night.

  Then who …? Could it have been Don Carleson who found the body? It almost had to be. Obviously everyone else had gone to bed. The four Basilians who staffed the parish had left last night’s meeting relatively early That was why Carleson had no ride home. That was why Koesler had volunteered a ride.

  Evidently, the four had not found the body … or the murder had not taken place before their return.

  It must have been Carleson who discovered the body … probably only moments after Koesler had driven off.

  Why hadn’t Carleson called him?

  On second thought, why would he? There was nothing Koesler could have done. He must have called the police.

  Of course, that must have been it.

  He wondered what was going on now, at this very moment. None of the priests at Ste. Anne’s could have gotten any sleep last night. Poor Don Carleson to have found the body.

  For the first time, Koesler wondered how the bishop had been killed. Had it been messy with blood and gore? Or, perhaps, just the innocent little hole a bullet might make?

  On second thought, would it have made any difference? In all the time Carleson had spent in Third World countries, he must have witnessed death in all its stark varieties.

  Instinctively, Koesler dialed Ste. Anne’s. Busy. He pictured the turmoil that must be engulfing that scene. This was not an opportune moment for him to barge in.

  He would wait to see when—or if—he was needed. No point in intruding where one was not wanted.

  Still, he could not help wondering what was going on.

  “I don’t care. I don’t like it, Zoo,” Sergeant Phil Mangiapane said.

  “Sometimes it works,” Lieutenant Alonzo Tully replied.

  “Maybe. But not when you got Quirt,” Mangiapane insisted.

  Tully shrugged. “Look at it this way, Manj: Lieutenant George Quirt didn’t ask to head this task force—”

  “As far as you know!”

  “As far as I know. Okay. Just make sure your head’s on straight. We gotta close this one, and fast.”

  “But what I can’t figure, Zoo, is why Koznicki put us on the same case with Quirt. And then, on top of that, to put him in charge of the case! He’s gotta know that we—especially you—and him don’t get along.”

  “Walt Koznicki didn’t fill in the cast of characters, Manj.”

  “No?”

  Tully lifted his eyes heavenward. It was the only show of emotion he would allow himself. “Far as I know, this came down right from Cobb himself. And it was Cobb who insisted on Quirt leading this thing.”

  “Just what we need: the Mayor messing in the squads!”

  “Pull it together, Manj. And get those interviews in. We’re gonna debrief pretty soon.”

  It had been Father Carleson who had called 911. The uniformed officers who responded quickly determined that this was no run-of-the-mill homicide. When they called it in, they made sure it was clear that the deceased was a bishop.

  That led to calling in a number of homicide detectives who had expected a complete night’s sleep. It also occasioned the waking of Maynard Cobb, mayor of Detroit.

  The mayor sounded out his chief of police. They quickly were of one mind that this was one the national media would feast on. Bishops died from time to time, but they weren’t murdered.

  Cobb could envision the leads in newspapers, on radio and TV. “Only in Detroit …” The stories would enumerate the actual totals along with the per capita numbers of murders. Then the Cobb administration would try to find at least a bronze lining. Washington, D.C.’s murder rate was hi
gher per capita. Or Los Angeles or New York had a higher total. Or Detroit’s record was not as high as last year’s. And that—the search for light at the end of this long, dark tunnel—made up the administration’s major effort to control this gun-crazy city.

  While Cobb and his police chief did confer on the necessity for and composition of this task force, still they were not in complete agreement.

  The chief was uneasy about putting Tully and Quirt on the same squad. It wasn’t that Tully was black and Quirt white: That was not a racial problem as far as those two were concerned. It was the disparity in their methods and personalities that occasioned the chief’s hesitation. Each was a lieutenant leading a homicide squad. Equal in rank, the two were, under the circumstances, likely to be on a collision course.

  As far as the mayor was concerned, he simply figured that Tully and Quirt were the two most effective detectives in Homicide. They’d make an airtight arrest in the briefest possible time.

  That Quirt was to be in charge merely indicated that the mayor wanted a speedy close to the case. Tully was more likely to be deliberative but accurate. Quirt tended to be swift and expeditious but slipshod. Cobb thought them a good mix. Quick but sure, with the emphasis on getting a body into jail in the least amount of time and the media off the mayor’s aging back.

  Not surprisingly, the mayor’s view won out.

  “Hey, Zoo, whaddya think?”

  Thinking was exactly what Tully had been doing before Quirt’s sudden approach.

  The two men were about the same height. Tully’s hair was close-cropped. He was lean, fit, and dressed conservatively. Quirt, almost completely bald, was noticeably overweight. He wore mostly bright colors and suspenders.

  “I dunno, Quirt. A little early.”

  “Good lookin’ guy.”

  “Who?”

  “The dead guy.” Quirt’s impatience was obvious. “The bishop.”

  “He didn’t look that good to me. Just dead.”

  “Yeah, kind of messy. But look here …” Quirt motioned Tully into the bishop’s office. “Look at all these pictures on the walls. Good lookin’ guy?”

  Tully had noted the pictures earlier. He had put them on the back burner for later study. Now that his attention had been drawn, he considered them more carefully.

  “Looks like a movin’-pitcher star,” Quirt suggested. “Looks like … who’s that guy … you know, the spic in those commercials for the car … the … oh, hell … the Cordoba?”

  “Montalban. Ricardo Montalban.”

  “Yeah. Don’tcha think?”

  The late bishop was, or rather had been, indeed a handsome man. But that was not what interested Tully. Each photo showed Diego with one or more people. Without exception, the others in these candid shots were among the wealthiest and most prominent men and women in the metropolitan area. Tully recognized almost everyone. Not one was or appeared to be Hispanic.

  “He was Latino?” Tully asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Whaddya think he was doin’ in this part of town? There ain’t many people left around here. But what’s here are spics.”

  Tully stepped back into the hallway. Quirt followed.

  By far the most conspicuous fixture in the long, narrow, ancient corridor was a larger-than-life bust, done in some sort of black material. The officers approached it with some curiosity.

  Quirt bent to read the identifying plaque. “‘Father Gabriel …’” He paused. “‘Richard,’” He pronounced the surname as the English given name.

  “‘Richard,’” said a voice behind them, giving it the French inflection. Quirt and Tully turned. “It’s ‘Richard,’ said the tall man in clerical collar and black cassock buttoned from neck to ankles. The material was stretched to the breaking point at his ample midsection. “Richard,” the tall man repeated, “like the former Montreal hockey player, Maurice ‘the Rocket’ Richard.”

  “Yeah, Richard.” Tully pronounced the name correctly: Reesharrd. “There’s a statue or a park somewhere … near Belle Isle?”

  The priest nodded. “And here in Ste. Anne’s parish where Father served as a pastor almost two hundred years ago. In fact,” he continued, “Father Richard is buried right here in this church.”

  Quirt whipped out his pen and notepad. “And you are …?”

  “McCauley. Father David McCauley. I’m one of the priests assigned to this parish. I’m also” —a tone of modest pride crept into his voice—“a bit of a local historian.

  “Maybe, since the bishop died here, and I suppose much of your investigation will be conducted here, maybe you’d like to hear a little bit about Ste. Anne’s?”

  “Okay,” Tully said, on the off chance that this history lesson might lead to a better understanding of the murder.

  “It all began,” said Father McCauley, “on July 24, 1701. Twenty-five canoes docked at what would become the city of Detroit. At that time it was just a wilderness,” he explained. “In the original landing party were Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, fifty artisans, fifty soldiers, and two priests. These few men began immediately to build Fort Detroit.

  “One of the first log structures was a chapel dedicated to their patroness in the wilderness, Ste. Anne, mother of Mary the Mother of Jesus.” He smiled. “It is the second oldest parish in the United States, after St. Augustine, in Florida.

  “Eventually, the church of Ste. Anne became Detroit’s first cathedral, anchoring the newly created Diocese of Michigan and the Northwest, which included Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, along with part of Wisconsin.”

  Father McCauley was warming to his subject. Quirt looked fidgety. Tully looked patient.

  “By far the most important pastor in the history of Ste. Anne was Father Gabriel Richard. He belonged to the Society of St. Sulpice, which was dedicated to the education of seminarians—future priests,” he explained. His listeners nodded. “In Fort Pontchartrain du Detroit there were no seminarians to teach, but Father Richard made up for that by bringing the first printing press to the area. He published the area’s first newspaper and printed books. He opened schools and helped create what is now the University of Michigan. He was the first priest elected to the United States Congress. He formed a nursing corps to care for the sick during the Asiatic cholera epidemic in 1832.” Father McCauley smiled again, this time sadly. “He became the disease’s final victim.

  “The present church,” he continued after a moment, “is the eighth dedicated to Ste. Anne. In each of its seven reincarnations, it has never moved far from the spot it originally occupied just inside the fort.”

  Quirt was definitely fidgeting. Tully continued to be attentive.

  “In the beginning, Ste. Anne’s served a basically French congregation. Over the years, it has seen many ethnic groups come and go. Today it serves a multi-ethnic, bilingual neighborhood. It is part shrine, part historical treasure, and part geographical parish. Inside the chapel, which is” —McCauley gestured in the direction of the church building—“inside the church, there’s an impressive .sarcophagus .containing the remains of Gabriel Richard in his original coffin. And the altar in the chapel is the same one used by Father Richard.

  “Since 1886, the parish has been administered by the Basilians, an order of priests dedicated to teaching. Today the parish is staffed by a number of our order. All of us speak Spanish as well as English,” he said.

  “And all of us,” he added after a moment, “are dedicated to the Latino community—which in turn relies on this beautiful old Gothic structure for all manner of help and centering.

  “Now, as you may know” —he looked at both of his listeners in turn—” large archdioceses can comprise substantial ethnic or racial groups, such as Polish, Italian, Irish, Latino, Chaldean, and African-American.” Quirt nodded impatiently. Tully just nodded. “Detroit surely runs true to this form. And among these groupings, the African-Americans and the Latinos have each been most vocal about wanting ‘their’ bishop now.

  “Bishop Diego, up from Texas, was t
he archdiocese’s fairly recent gift to Detroit Latinos.” Quirt stopped fidgeting. Tully’s alertness was obvious. “When Bishop Diego came to Detroit, he reached an agreement with Cardinal Boyle that he would be at Ste. Anne’s church in residence only … with no specific parochial duties.

  “This was not a unique arrangement for auxiliary bishops,” Father McCauley explained. “You see, the thought was that the bishop would become a leader of, and an advocate for, Latinos—”

  “Never hurts to bone up.” Quirt, who had already learned more than he ever wanted to know about all this, smiled crookedly. “Well …” His voice rose. “… look who’s here.”

  Tully scarcely needed to look. From the tenor of Quirt’s greeting, but mostly from the nature of this case, it had to be Brad Kleimer.

  Tully turned to see Kleimer advancing toward them, hand extended. Kleimer, an assistant prosecuting attorney for Wayne County, was of small stature, perhaps five-feet-six, but there appeared to be three-inch lifts on his shoes. His physique evidenced fidelity to pumping iron. As usual, he wore a natty, three-piece suit. The gray at his temples highlighted his dark, blown-dry hair.

  Tully well knew that Kleimer and Quirt had a lot in common: Both men actively sought out the high-profile cases. They coveted the publicity attached to such cases. Each fully intended to measurably improve his status in life. And each was effective at what he did. Quirt made arrests. Kleimer got convictions.

  There was no doubt in Tully’s mind that Quirt had called and invited Kleimer to this made-for-prime-time circus case. If this scenario was accurate, Kleimer would owe Quirt one. And the debt would be repaid.

  It was grotesquely out of the ordinary for anyone on the prosecutor’s staff to get involved in a case before the police completed their initial investigation. At that time, attorneys appropriate to the various levels of indictment would be assigned to the case.

  Tully—and practically everyone else in the system—knew that Kleimer operated well outside the prescribed process. Somehow, more often than not, he managed to get the word when a headliner case occurred. And somehow, more often than not, he contrived to get the assignment.