Bishop as Pawn (11 page)

“The word we got was that Bishop Diego was considering closing it.”

“He couldn’t do it!” The tone was aggressive.

“A bishop couldn’t do it?”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“Yes.” Williams did not qualify his answer as he had with Quirt. If he were to admit he was no longer a practicing Catholic, Bell would dismiss out of hand his competence in the matter. Besides, Williams had gone to school in his earlier questioning of the other three priests.

Bell had not expected so absolute a response. Taken aback somewhat, he said, “Bishop Diego was an auxiliary bishop. He was here to help Cardinal Boyle. The Cardinal is the archbishop.
He
runs this diocese, not an auxiliary bishop.”

“Still … a bishop …”

“Why are you leaning on this? Are you trying to come up with some reason why I would hate or resent Bishop Diego? God Almighty, are you trying to accuse me of … of killing the bishop?!”

“We’re not accusing you of anything, Father.” Williams tried to sound reassuring. “Like I said, we’ve got a lot of questions. We’re looking for answers. As much as anything else, we’re trying to figure out what kind of man this Bishop Diego was.”

“Then you’d better ask the high-priced lawyers, the judges, the top brass at G.M., Ford, Chrysler. Those were his buddies.”

“We’re asking them. What we want to know now is, what was he to you?”

They knew.
Or, they thought they knew. Well, better they hear it from his own lips. “He was a pain in the ass to me.”

The detectives were relieved at the self-revelation. But they showed no emotion. “He wanted to close St. Gabriel’s,” Williams pursued. “If it’s as active and relevant as you say, why would he want to do that?”

Bell hesitated. Reluctant to give any further explanations, he would hesitate now before each reply. He would try to do no more than confirm some of the more innocuous information they’d already gathered.

“What you’ve got to understand,” Bell explained, “is what Bishop Diego meant to the Hispanics of this archdiocese. All the people knew of him was that he was one of them. He grew up in a barrio in Texas. To the people, he was almost another Messiah.”

“And that made you jealous?”

“Jealous? Hell, no! Sight unseen, I hoped for the same thing. If we in the southwest corner of Detroit need anything, it’s a friend in high places.” He shook his head. “No, we welcomed Diego with open arms.

“Then some of us came to know what
he
had in mind. Becoming a bishop—even an auxiliary—was nothing more than a launching pad as far as he was concerned. He was going to be every rich white Catholic’s token Hispanic. He couldn’t have cared less for our people. Only … only they didn’t know. When he came for a visitation or a confirmation or anything like that, he was the hail bishop well met. He had ‘loose change’—rumor has it quite a bundle—to pass out like an out-of-season Santa Claus.

“Well, I was the one who was willing to blow the whistle on him.”

Williams and Quirt recalled the pictures on the walls of the late bishop’s office. Diego and Bob Mylod; Diego and Maynard Cobb; Diego and Tom Litka; Diego and J. P. McCarthy; Diego and lots more … but only the rich, famous or well positioned. Neither officer doubted Bell’s theory on Diego’s master plan for himself. But …

“But …” Williams said, “he was a bishop. And you’re a priest.
You
were going to blow the whistle on
him?”

Bell nodded. “I think so. Whatever else happens, my people trust me. I’ve been with them in the trenches for … for a long while. It would be a close call, I guess. But I think—I’m sure—they would believe me over him. And that’s beside one major factor …” A pause.” I’ve got the truth on my side.”

“So,” Williams said, “that’s the way it was up till yesterday. You with your threat to expose him. And he with his threat to close you down.”

Bell half smiled. “It’s almost a pun, but we had each other in a Mexican standoff.”

“And that,” Quirt broke his long silence, “as Sergeant Williams just said, was the way it was till yesterday. But today’s another day. And the Mexican standoff is over. I take it nobody else is trying or threatening to close your church.”

“I … I haven’t thought of it in exactly those terms,” Bell said. “I was sorry that a man was murdered. Especially one I know pretty well. And I was shocked that it was a bishop. But … I suppose you’re right. That threat is just about over.”

“Convenient.” It was almost sotto voce. Then in a normal tone, Quirt said: “Tell us about your yesterday. What did you do?”

“What did I do?” Apprehensive, defensive. “What I ordinarily do on Sundays: said Mass.”

“That was the morning. And then?”

“I had several meetings yesterday afternoon. Briefly with some of the parish council members. A longer meeting with the worship commission. They’re pushing for more Masses in Spanish. It’s a ticklish situation. We’ve got—”

“About when did you get done with those meetings?” Quirt asked.

“I don’t know … about 4:00 in the afternoon, I guess.”

“And then?”

“I was tired. But I wanted to go to that meeting at the Cathedral. So I had a drink or two, just to unwind.”

“And when did you leave to go to the meeting?”

“I don’t know. The meeting—well, the dinner began at 6:00. So I must’ve left at about 5:30.” It was not particularly warm on the porch, yet Bell was beginning to perspire.

“Not necessarily,” Quirt said.

“Not …?”

“You were late. Late for the dinner.”

Bell seemed to be searching his memory. “Are you sure I was late? I don’t remember being late. How can you be sure?”

“That’s what all the other priests we talked to say. They say you arrived twenty minutes to half an hour late. You were the last one to arrive.”

Bell’s brow furrowed. He appeared to be trying to connect two remembered incidents separated by a vacant space. There were the meetings yesterday afternoon. He remembered them in some detail. Then there was that super tired feeling that had been recurring more frequently of late. He could remember pouring himself a drink—a martini. Was there another one? Three? That component had gone hazy.

Then there was the dinner with all the priests gathered. The food gradually sopping up the alcohol. Things got clearer then. Toward the end of the evening everything was crystal clear. Except … he had talked too much. Expressed his contempt for, fear of, and anger with Diego far more openly than he ought.

But the middle part. It was gone. And that was scary. Especially now with two detectives who demanded chapter and verse for everything he had done yesterday.

And slowly emerging from this daze was the importance of remembering what seemed utterly lost to memory.

He was in trouble. That he knew.

“So, Father Bell,” Quirt said, “there’s some time missing from what you told us you did yesterday. How about it?”

“I … I can’t recall right now. But … I … I think I should call a lawyer.”

“You can if you want, Father,” Quirt said, “but, by the time he gets here, we will be long gone.”

“Wait: There’s one thing I want to get straight: Are you accusing me of murder? Are you accusing me, a priest, of actually killing a bishop?”

Quirt and Williams stood and slipped into their coats. “No, we’re not doing that,” Quirt said. “We’re just gathering information. But it is interesting, isn’t it? Bishop Diego allegedly is upset—maybe threatened—by your intention to, as you say, blow the whistle on him. In retaliation, he threatens not only to have you moved from your parish, but to close the whole place down.

“Then, the bishop is murdered sometime between 4:00 and 6:00 yesterday afternoon … a time when you are unable—you say—to remember where you were or what you did.

“However, the upshot of all this is that your problem is solved: The bishop can’t do anything to you now.”

The two detectives, fully garbed now for the outdoors, made no move to leave.

“If I was you, Father Bell,” Quirt said, “I’d try real, real hard to remember what went on during that time of your mental lapse. And I would hope—maybe pray—that somebody was with you and can testify that you didn’t even see Bishop Diego yesterday. Yes, sir, I certainly would do that.”

A serious Williams and a smiling Quirt departed.

Once in the car and headed back to Beaubien, Quirt rubbed his hands together in near glee. “It’s moving along like clockwork. We should have this on a platter by tonight … tomorrow at the outside.” He turned toward Williams. “Just one thing: The part I don’t see as real. That plant, St. What’s-its-name …”

“St. Gabriel.”

“Yeah, St. Gabriel. It seems to be going full speed. I mean, that school building isn’t going to seed like so many institutions in this city. And, say that Bell has all these programs going … seems to me that the threat to close it down was pretty thin. How would Diego have handled all those kids, all those programs?”

Williams, driving east on Vernor, had just come to the complex that was Holy Redeemer. “This is how.” As they cruised slowly, Williams pointed out first the gymnasium, then the auditorium, followed by the elongated rectory embracing the corner of Vernor and Junction.

He turned south where, after the rectory, the huge church stood. Then an extended parking area where the teaching brothers’ home once stood. Then the school, which continued around the corner of Junction and Eldred. More school. A huge and largely unused convent. Then through an alleyway to more school and north on Calvary back to Vernor. “That’s how,” Williams repeated.

Quirt’s mouth hung open. “For Chrissake! I had no idea …”

“Just a mile down the road. He could have shipped the kids, the programs, the church services to Redeemer.
But,”
Williams emphasized, “a move like that would have disrupted the whole shebang. And for no good reason I can see except to neutralize Bell’s threat.”

“Okay, then, that wraps it up. And we got not one but two first-class suspects: Carleson and Bell. Both of ‘em have a credible reason to want the bishop out of the way. Carleson is forced to become an indentured slave—”

“A bit strong?”

“Sure. Okay. Carleson comes to Detroit expecting to have his own parish to run. Instead, he’s talked into apprenticing under the guidance of Bishop Diego—for what is promised to be a short time. But Diego keeps pulling strings to keep Carleson around to run errands, be a chauffeur and the like. And besides keeping Carleson on a tight leash, Diego is no sweetheart.

“Carleson was with Diego all the early hours of yesterday afternoon. He could have rattled the bishop’s brains before he joined the other priests on their way to the meeting. Before they leave, Carleson shuts down the alarm system for the front door. He takes the money Diego keeps in the office to make it look like robbery/murder.

“Then he comes back about midnight, fortuitously ‘finds’ the body, and calls us.

“Not a bad plan …

“Or … Bell is really as worried as he seems to be that Diego will close down his parish to keep Bell from broadcasting that Diego doesn’t give a crap for the spics.

“So how’s this for a scenario: Bell’s got a drinking problem. He even had a shot just to face us. He’s got this nagging grudge against Diego. There’s a priests’ meeting that’ll include just about all the priests in this neck of the woods.
But not the bishop.
Bishops aren’t welcome at what turns out to be these bull sessions.

“So he does just what he told us he did. He has some meetings. We can check that out. But I’m pretty sure we’ll find it’s so. No reason to lie about that.

“Then, he does what he says: He makes himself a drink—or two or three or more … whatever amount it takes to put him in a blackout. He said it himself: He doesn’t know what he did from the time he had his drinks until well after he finally got to the dinner, where he sobered up.

“We know he didn’t drink himself into complete unconsciousness and flop on a bed until the stuff wore off. He was still blacked out until after he got to the dinner. He musta actually driven there without consciously knowing that he did it.

“So, supposing that instead of driving directly to the meeting. Bell drives to Ste. Anne’s. If he rang the doorbell, Diego would certainly let him in. To do that, Diego would have to kill the alarm for the front door. Bell comes in. They go to Diego’s office. Bell is quite obviously drunk—and abusive. They argue. Bell clobbers Diego, leaves and goes to the meeting, where he sobers up. But before he leaves the rectory, he takes the considerable stash of petty cash.

“He knew it was there, okay. Did you hear him just now: He said that Diego kept a considerable amount around to quiet the natives—”

“Isn’t that an awful lot for a guy who’s dead drunk to do?”

“I’ll bet you I can find a hundred shrinks who can testify that it’s not only possible but not all that uncommon.

“Yessirree, this case is ready to bust wide open. We just need one more break. And I got a hunch we’re gonna get it. It’s right around the corner.”

“You forgetting about Zoo?”

“What about him?”

“He’s got some of the guys following other leads.”

“Tough luck. We got the goods.”

“But …”

“It’ll work out. Man, this is terrific! A bishop murdered and two priests the prime suspects.”

“What’s so good about that? I think it’s kinda sad.”

“You won’t feel so bad when you read about it in the papers. On the front page, yet!”

So that’s it
, Williams thought.
We’re going for the publicity.

On that level, he was forced to agree with Quirt: It was a story right out of the Middle Ages. As far as Williams was concerned, and prescinding from the publicity this virtually insured, the case against either priest was better than average. Both Carleson and Bell had motive and opportunity. Which was not even enough to arrest either one, let alone get an indictment or a conviction. Quirt might be celebrating a mite early.

They
were
terrific leads, though. And Zoo would have to agree.

Thinking of Tully, Williams wondered how he was doing. When last seen, Zoo was headed out to track down the guy who had angry words with Diego at the cocktail party yesterday afternoon. He was also going to sound out the street, on the chance that it was what it looked like—robbery/murder.