Bishop as Pawn (10 page)

Carleson had no immediate answer.

CHAPTER

SIX

“This old Springwells area isn’t what it used to be.” Sergeant Neal Williams was driving.

“What
is
?” From the passenger seat, Lieutenant George Quirt scanned the storefronts, small business establishments pressed so close to one another it seemed impossible to insert a dime between them.

The two officers had spent several hours interviewing several priests who had attended last night’s gathering. The groundwork had been done by other officers on the task force.

These preliminary investigations had disclosed that four of the priests—Fathers Echlin, Dorr, Dempsey, and Bell—had been at the party until the very end. Two others—Fathers Carleson and Koesler—had left only a short time before the party broke up.

The importance of these six lay in the fact that one or another or more had been present through the entire evening. So, together, their recollections of the event would cover everything that had happened or been said.

Of course, the police had already interrogated Carleson. And, since it had been determined from their questioning that Koesler had said little at the gathering, he had not been questioned.

“I remember this neighborhood,” Quirt said. “European. Irish, Polish, Slavs, Germans, French. Now look at it. Spics took over.” He slowly shook his head. “Might just as well be Mexico City.”

“Maybe,” Williams said. “But they’re keeping it up pretty well. Not a lot of boarded-up storefronts. And look at the housing down the side streets. Pretty good shape.”

Quirt grunted. Williams was too young to know what always happened in areas like this. You get your blacks and they’re shiftless and lazy. And they look different, for Chrissakes. They’re used to living in the dirt down south, in houses that are falling apart. Let ’em get in a decent neighborhood up here and—instant slum.

“Now, your spics can fool you. Most of ’em look like whites. But give ‘em a little northern winter and watch ‘em hibernate. Too many of ‘em can’t even speak the language. They expect us to speak spic.” Quirt smiled at the phrase he was sure he had just created.
Speak spic.
He’d have to use it on the guys soon.

Quirt was by no means Williams’s favorite human being. But he was on the lieutenant’s squad so there wasn’t much he could do about that. Williams wasn’t alone in his feelings toward Quirt. Most of the rest of the squad was only too well aware that as a detective, Quirt was no better than average. His arrest record was a combination of diligent—even superior—police work by the squad topped off by Quirt’s eagerness to close each file expeditiously even if somewhat prematurely.

The squad’s record of arrests leading to convictions was good. But that, in turn, could be attributed to luck and the fact that Brad Kleimer prosecuted most of their high-profile cases. And Kleimer was good—quite good.

Right now, Quirt, with his totally gratuitous ethnic slurs, was driving Williams up the wall. But early on he had decided to wait the lieutenant out. With any luck, Quirt’d be off the squad before too long. With Quirt’s luck, Williams thought wryly, the so-and-so’d be promoted.

“Hey, Williams, you’re a Catholic, aren’tcha?”

Williams smiled. “My wife would give you an argument on that.”

“Like that, eh? Well, you’re still closer to that scene than I am. When we get there, feel free to lead off.”

“Whatever you say.” Williams didn’t see where his nominal Catholicism gave him any edge in this investigation, but he was just as glad to take the lead. Quirt stood a good chance of messing it up. “Well, no sooner said than done. Here we are.”

St. Gabriel’s plant covered one small block of West Vernor Highway between Inglis and Norman. The rectory was tucked between the church on the corner of Inglis and what appeared to be a school on the corner of Norman. A driveway separated the school building from the rectory. Williams pulled into the driveway and parked next to the rectory in what seemed to be an asphalted school playground.

When they stepped out of the car, the officers could plainly hear children’s voices through the closed windows and doors of the building. “Now,” Williams said, “that surprises me.”

“What’s that?”

“That they’ve got a school. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Why not?”

“At best this is a lower-middle-class neighborhood. I assume most of the Latinos are Catholic. But I wouldn’t have thought they’d have enough money to support a school.”

“This …” Quirt’s gesture encompassed everything they could see. “… this is middle class?”

Williams shrugged. “There’s an Arbor Drugs right across the street, and I noticed a Farmer Jack market on one of the cross streets. I don’t think you’d find them—or any other quality stores—in a rock-poor neighborhood.”

Quirt let it stand. But Williams’s observation about the school was well taken and informed. No matter what Williams’s wife thought of his religious observance, Quirt was glad he’d brought him along.

The two officers reached the rectory’s front door to find a man in a black suit and a clerical collar awaiting them in the open doorway.

“You Father Ernest Bell?” Quirt asked.

The priest nodded.

Quirt showed his badge and identification. “I’m Lieutenant Quirt and this is Sergeant Williams. We’re from the Homicide Division.”

Again the priest nodded. “Someone—I guess it was your secretary—called and said you were coming over. I’ve been expecting you.”

As they entered the rectory, the detectives caught the vague odor of Scotch. They sensed the priest’s nervousness and concluded this was a scared man who had tried to bolster his confidence with a belt of liquor. Interesting.

Father Bell led them through the main floor to a furnished, winterized porch at the rear of the house. Each of the officers selected a chair on either side of the couch. They repositioned the chairs to face the couch, leaving that as the logical place for the priest to sit. He would, in a sense, be surrounded. The maneuver was not lost on Bell.

“Would anyone like something?” the priest asked. “I’ve got booze or beer. Or I could get you some coffee.”

“No, nothing for us.” Quirt seated himself. “As you probably know, we’re investigating the death of Bishop Ramon Diego.”

“Yes, yes, I know that.” Bell clearly was edgy. “What can I do …? I mean, I don’t know what I could …”

Quirt, without looking at Williams, nodded. The ball had transferred courts.

“What we have, Father,” Williams said, “are questions—lots of questions. You can help us with some answers.” His tone was calming, reasonable, reassuring. Yet it appeared to have little effect on Bell’s tenseness.

“First off,” Williams began, “do you know anyone who might have a reason to kill the bishop?”

Bell did not reply immediately. “No,” he said finally. “He may have had some enemies,” he added, “but then, who doesn’t?”

“Let’s talk about these enemies.” Williams flipped open a notepad and looked expectantly at Bell.

“Well, I don’t know, really.” Bell was defensive. “He didn’t travel in our company very much. He preferred the jet set, as it were.”

“We’re looking into that. But how about your ‘company’? For instance, just to drop a name, Father Carleson. He had some problems with the bishop … at least that’s what we’ve been told.” Williams looked at Bell expectantly.

The priest was torn. It would be unrealistic for him to deny the feud; the conflict between Diego and Carleson was common knowledge. If he claimed to know nothing, the detectives would be suspicious. On the other hand, an admission that he knew how Diego had treated Carleson might very well lead to the subject of the bishop’s meddling in St. Gabriel’s affairs.

He would go with the latter. “Yes, Father Carleson had problems with the bishop. Or so I’ve heard. But the whole situation was awkward. In effect, Don became the bishop’s secretary. None of us thought that was how their relationship was supposed to have developed.”

Williams wrote a few lines. Then he spoke. “Yes. At his age, and with his experience, he would expect to get a parish—be a pastor … wouldn’t he?”

Bell, convinced and regretting that he’d been correct about the direction this conversation now was taking, nodded.

Quirt smiled inwardly. Smart move bringing Williams and letting him play the lead. He had to admit that he himself would never have thought to steer the questioning in this direction.

“If Father Carleson becomes a pastor,” Williams continued, “you’d know how he’d feel, wouldn’t you … you being a pastor, and all?”

“I suppose.”

“How is that? I’ve always wondered.”

“I … don’t know. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, there are lots of parishes around. And, if I read the papers right, there’s a shortage of priests. So …” Williams spread his hands, palms upward.” … is one as good as another?”

“What do you mean? Is one
what
…?” Bell was by no means inebriated, but he was trying to clear his head of the shot he’d taken before the police arrived. This was no time to be fuzzy.

“I mean: If someone told you you couldn’t be pastor of St. Gabriel anymore, you’d just move on to some other parish, wouldn’t you? There’d be no great problem, would there be? Or am I wrong?”

By concentrated effort, Bell tried to figure out the next chess move. These cops gave every indication they had done their homework. Probably they’d talked to one or more of the guys—Dempsey or Dorr or Echlin. They weren’t just blindly groping for answers. It would be futile—maybe even fatal—to take the bait and agree that it would be no great shakes to leave St. Gabriel’s. To stand by as they put his beloved parish in mothballs. For one, it would be the wrong move for the diocese to make. For another, it would be like watching a loved one die.

And he knew this whole mess was the work of Diego. The question was: Did they know?

“No,” Bell answered at length. “It’s not like that. When you’re in a parish for any length of time, you get to know the people—some better than others. They—many of them—make you part of their family. You don’t just pull up stakes and move on without caring—very much.”

Williams turned a page. A change of subject was signified. “This parish, St. Gabriel, tell us something about it. Let’s start with the school.”

Bell looked at Williams questioningly. “What could that possibly have to do with Bishop Diego?”

Williams smiled disarmingly. “Like I said, we’ve got questions. Humor us, if you will, Father.”

Bell looked out the window at the school building. “We don’t have a school.”

The two detectives looked surprised. “We just walked past it,” Williams said. “We could hear the kids.”

Bell smiled. “Those are the Head Start kids. That’s a federally run program. They use our school—what used to be our school.”

“You
had
a school.”

“Yes.”

“I remember the basketball team. Pretty darn good. Used to win league championships, didn’t it?”

Bell nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. But we—I wasn’t here then—we had to cut back. The cost of running a high school got to be prohibitive. We started running out of nuns. Had to hire lay teachers at lots more than we paid the sisters. The high school was closed in ’71.”

“And the elementary school?”

“Same thing. We tried to keep it going. But the expenses kept skyrocketing—salaries, mostly. Even though our teachers made great sacrifices—we couldn’t pay them anything close to what their counterparts in the public schools got. So the tuition had to be raised almost every year. At the same time, the makeup of our parishioners was changing. The Latino community was growing. They weren’t rich by any means. The handwriting was on the wall. We finally shut down the whole school about … oh … six years ago.”

“Then the Head Start program came in.”

“Uh-huh.” Bell was almost offhand.

“But the Head Start program could be carried on anywhere there was an empty building. You just happened to have one,” Williams said matter-of-factly.

“What are you getting at?” Bell leaned forward. His manner was combative.

“There was talk of closing down St. Gabriel’s.”

Bell said nothing. He had to be most cautious here. How much had these officers been told about his situation in this parish?

“Earlier, Father,” Williams said, “you mentioned what it was like to be pastor of a parish. You said” —here he consulted his notes—” that the pastor can become part of his parishioners’ families. That if you were assigned some other parish, you couldn’t just pull up stakes and move on without caring very much.”

Bell gazed at Williams intently. This was clearly The Enemy.

“Well, I was wondering, Father,” Williams continued, “if it is so difficult to move along to another assignment after being so wrapped up in your former parish, how much more difficult it would be if the parish you loved but had to leave just … ceased to exist.”

Bell cocked an eye. “Why are you so interested in St. Gabriel’s? We’re not going out of business. The buildings are in full use and they’re in pretty good repair. We’ve got a zillion programs going on. Lots of the good people here depend on this parish for help in everything from food and jobs to counseling to immigration. And we respond! We make a realistic contribution to the CSA. In a word, we’re healthy! So why are you harping on this parish closing down?”