Bishop as Pawn (15 page)

“Huh?”

“Manj, drop me off at … oh, what the hell is it … the parish where Koesler is pastor.”

“Old St. Joe’s?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

Mangiapane was grinning. “Finally going to call on Uncle, huh?”

“This stuff is getting too deep for me. I got a hunch Quirt is gonna come in with a lot of heavy stuff on those two priests. I also got a hunch he’s not gonna know what he’s talking about. I’m gonna go to school before this case gets much older.

“After you drop me off, get somebody—Angie, if you can—to take over that bar investigation. I want you to talk to everybody who’s been on the street. See if anybody’s come up with anything.”

“Sure thing, Zoo.… Uh, don’t you think you ought to call and make sure Father Koesler’s available?”

Available? It was as if the second shoe had been dropped.

He’d been distracted most of this Monday waiting for a phone call about the murder of Bishop Diego. After all, it wasn’t that he was a stranger to police investigations when they had to do with things Catholic. And what could be a more Catholic homicide than the murder of a bishop?

His surprise, if it could be termed that, was that the call came from Lieutenant Tully rather than Inspector Koznicki. Of course, Koesler knew the lieutenant. But Koznicki had become a dear and close friend.

In any case, he was about to get in the swim.

With some hesitation he asked Mary O’Connor to clear his calendar for the rest of the day. His reservations concerned two appointments he had scheduled—one late this afternoon, the other early this evening. Neither person was likely to take the postponement graciously. Neither could lay claim to either tact or diplomacy. Mary would have to suffer their predictable reactions. Koesler tended to believe Mary when she assured him that the job would be easier for her. The recalcitrant parishioners would be disappointed when she gave them the message—but they would save their venom for their pastor.

So he wouldn’t miss the dreaded appointments by putting them on the back burner.

Awaiting Tully’s arrival, Koesler thought about the two troublesome parishioners.

Mrs. McReedy belonged to the Church of Vatican Council I. In a sense, that was a comfortable Church. There were so many rules and regulations. Practically no one challenged their existence or relevance. The very keeping of them led to feelings of peace and comfort. The rules offered salvation. And salvation was comfortable. And, should one by and large keep the rules—such as fasting and abstaining and attending Mass on the appropriate days—one would go to heaven.

Mrs. McReedy would be objecting to the absence of many of these rules and regulations from Father Koesler’s homilies, ministries, and total life philosophy.

She would have been at the rectory at 3:30 sharp had not Lieutenant Tully rescued him.

Also headed off by Tully’s visit was Frank Parker, who thus would not be here at 7:00 this evening.

Frank belonged to a Church that might arise from some future Vatican Council. To call Frank an activist was like saying that John F. Kennedy liked women.

And Frank wanted his parish—Old St. Joe’s—to dive in no matter where the waters might lead. Some of his projected programs: March and parade through Lafayette Park to support AIDS research. A regular monthly Mass for and by Catholic gays enlisting a homosexual priest to celebrate the Mass. A regular evening weekly Mass for and by women—with a designated woman as celebrant each week. Remove all the remaining religious artifacts from the church’s interior. Have concelebrated liturgies regularly with Protestant and Jewish clergy.

Koesler believed Frank Parker’s heart was in the right place, but that his mind and his viscera had bonded.

Looking at this day that wasn’t going to happen, Koesler was again reminded that it didn’t matter whether you were killed by conservatives or liberals—you were just as dead either way.

He could remember the mid-fifties when he had been ordained a priest. How sure and certain things were then.

It had become a joke, but in those days—and for long years before—the Church structure resembled a triangle with the Pope at the summit. It was
his
vision and commands that trickled down to the bishops, from them to the priests and finally to the strong but subservient base of the laity.

The joke was that the hierarchy, for the most part, continue to think that nothing has changed. The hierarchy should consult with its priests, who are being squeezed from all angles.

Today’s canceled appointments surely were a case in point.

There was Mrs. McReedy, who, with the Lone Ranger, wanted to return to the days of yesteryear, and expected Koesler to lead the way. Then there was Frank Parker, who wanted to go, with the Trekkies, where no man has gone before. He expected Koesler to ignite the avant garde blast-off.

Yet were today’s priest to toy with one of the Parker programs, organizations such as Catholics United for the Faith, in close step with the bishop, would stamp on his obtrusive toes.

On the other hand, implementing Mrs. McReedy’s most fervent prayers would alienate many Catholics whose faith and interest had been awakened by Vatican Council II.

One of the many blessings of an inner-city ministry was that the more “inner” one got, the less anyone outside cared what was going on. Unhappily, Old St. Joe’s was on the outer fringe of “inner.” Thus the McReedys and Parkers could still stir things up.

The doorbell. Probably Lieutenant Tully. Fortunately, it would be neither Loretta nor Frank.

Footsteps resounded on the hardwood floor. The clicking heels of Mary O’Connor ushered in a male of light but firm foot. Mary brought Tully to the dining room door. Ordinarily, Koesler received callers in his office. But Tully was special and did not come close to being a parishioner.

Declining Koesler’s offer to take his coat, Tully draped the garment over a chair and seated himself on another, more comfortable one.

“Could I get you a cup of coffee?”

Tully appeared eager to accept, then hesitated. “Is it already made?”

“No, but I can whip up some instant—”

“No! No! That’s all right. I’ve had too much today.”

It made no difference to Koesler whether the lieutenant wanted coffee, but the vehemence with which his offer was declined startled the priest. And yet so many reacted in that fashion. It was almost as if he were incapable of making a simple cup of coffee that was potable. But that couldn’t be true; just last night Father Carleson had enjoyed his coffee.

Was that just last night? It now seemed days ago.

“Who calls bishops by their first name?” Tully always got right to the heart of things.

“Who calls bishops by their first name?” Koesler was utterly perplexed by the question. “Well … I suppose … their parents, for two.”

Tully did not seem satisfied. “I guess I could take that for granted. Who else?”

Koesler pondered. He always took people seriously no matter how bizarre the question. “Don’t take it for granted. I can remember parents who stopped calling their little boys ‘Johnnie’ and started calling them ‘Excellency’ or ‘Bishop.’”

“No shi—Sorry.” Usually, Tully monitored his language better. This revelation was a genuine surprise. And he was not often taken by surprise.

“As a matter of fact,” Koesler said, trying to put the officer at ease, “I remember a rather close friend who became a bishop. The first time I met him after that happy day, I was pleased to address him by his new title. And he said, ‘Don’t give me that bishop shit. I’m still just plain Joe.’

“So, there’s more to it than that.

“Now that I think about it,” he mused, “it all seems to depend on the bishop, the person who’s addressing him, and the circumstances.”

Koesler stopped in midthought. He had expected—hoped—he could be a consultant regarding the murder of Bishop Diego. And here he was fooling with bishops’ given names and who would dare, or be permitted, or invited to use them. “Is this of any importance?”

“It could be. It’s something I don’t completely understand. And I think I should.”

Koesler tilted his head and smiled. “Okay. Bishops in most instances, at least from the earliest days of the Christian Church, were usually selected from the ranks of the priests.

“In modern times, priests were given the title of ‘Father.’ It was only a few years ago that the title became virtually expendable. Some contemporary priests discard the title and encourage everyone to use their given name. Others insist on the title’s use. Others will excuse close friends from using it.

“That’s pretty much the case with bishops. Except that far more bishops than priests will want the title—along with the reverence.

“An example: Probably no one is a more complete churchman than the Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit. Whenever he comes to mind—no matter how casually—I automatically think of him in terms of His Eminence Mark Cardinal Boyle.

“Even his priest secretary who lives in the same home, travels with him frequently, and shares his meals, regularly refers to him as Eminence. About as casual as this gets is when the secretary, when speaking to another priest, refers to the Cardinal as ‘the boss.’

“And yet, I’ve heard Joan Blackford Hayes call him Mark.”

“Who’s Joan Blackford Hayes?”

“You don’t … Well, I suppose you might not know her if you’re not Catholic. She’s the founder and head of the Institute for Continuing Education. In effect, she’s part of the local Church administration. It’s as if she’s a member of Cardinal Boyle’s cabinet. Still, I’d never have guessed she was on a first-name basis with the Cardinal if I hadn’t heard her call him Mark.”

“How about Maria Shell?”

“Who’s Maria Shell?” Koesler assumed Maria Shell was someone he was expected to know. And he didn’t. It happened with discouraging regularity. Here he was a native Detroiter for all of his sixty-five years and there were so many well-known Detroiters he’d never met, did not know, or recognized only from reading about them.

“That’s just the point,” Tully said. “Who
is
Maria Shell? You tell me about a woman who’s been selected by the bishop to be a member of his team. And still you were surprised to hear her call her boss by his first name.

“See, yesterday afternoon, Father Carleson drove Bishop Diego to a cocktail party thrown by a prominent guy named Carson.…”

It happened again. Koesler did not know the prominent Carson.

“Turns out a guy named Michael Shell showed up at the party and had it out—strong words, not blows—with Diego. Then, a couple to a few hours later, the bishop is murdered.”

“And this Michael Shell is a suspect?”

“Of course we’re interested in anyone who exhibits violent anger at someone who later is murdered. It gets complicated. But Shell is positive that Diego was a good part of the cause Mrs. Shell is estranged from Mr. Shell. He doesn’t allege that the two had illicit relations … but he does accuse the bishop of alienating his wife’s affections.

“The point is, I just interviewed Mrs. Shell. Half the time she talked about ‘Bishop Diego.’ The rest of the time, he was ‘Ramon.’ Granted, I don’t know much about institutional religion, but that’s the first time I’ve heard an ordinary person—
a woman
—call a bishop by his first name. And you say he might have invited her to do that?”

“Yes, especially in this case.”

“Why especially here?”

“I didn’t get to know the bishop personally. But we priests do talk. So from pretty reliable hearsay, I think I have a fair idea of what made Bishop Diego tick.

“I hate to say this, because it’s practically the opposite of what a bishop should be, but Bishop Diego used people. Bishops—priests for that matter—ought to be serving people in any kind of ideal way. But a sort of consensus would tell you that Bishop Diego manipulated people.

“Although I don’t know them, from the way you referred to them, I take it that Mr. and Mrs. Shell and this Mr. Carson who gave the cocktail party yesterday are pretty important people. Rich and, I suppose, Catholic.”

Tully nodded.

“Then,” Koesler continued, “they’re the type of people that the bishop wanted—needed.

“See, shortly after he got here from Texas, our priests, who sort of have a sixth sense for this sort of thing, agreed that Diego was just passing through Detroit on the way to his own diocese. And, if he had any way of influencing it, the diocese he would be given would be big and important.”

“Getting his own diocese, that would be a promotion?”

“Very, very much so. And, as you can easily see, getting a place like New York or Chicago or Boston is a great deal different than, say, Saginaw. So, everything he did here had a lot to do with where he would be going. That’s why it was so necessary for him to get to be part of the socially and financially important circle of the archdiocese.”

“Have you seen the late bishop’s office at Ste. Anne’s?” Tully asked.

“No.”

“Never mind. It just sort of illustrates what you’ve been saying. His formula for success seemed to be working quite well. But it doesn’t explain Michael Shell or Maria Shell.”

“I don’t know Mr. Shell. And I’d never heard of Maria and her relationship with the bishop. But I think I could guess what was going on.”

“By all means,” Tully invited.

“Let me call it the ‘forbidden fruit.’ You’re familiar with the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden?”

“Adam and Eve?” Tully smiled. “Yeah, even I know about them.”

“Well, this law we have of celibacy sort of makes priests and, I suppose even more, bishops a kind of forbidden fruit, I don’t want to seem to be bragging about this. We priests certainly are no better catches than the average man. But the fact that we are—how shall I say it?—out of bounds sometimes seems to add a certain attraction.

“It’s something like the company that gets a new computer system. And the president announces to the employees that this new system is foolproof: No one can break into it and solve its secrets—”

“Don’t tell me,” Tully interrupted. “It’s a challenge. Somebody’s going to take on the challenge and try to beat the system.”