Bishop as Pawn (34 page)

“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 got 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!”

Koesler was sitting transfixed before the TV set when the phone rang. It was Lieutenant Tully returning his call.

Tully brought Koesler up to the moment, after explaining all the overnight developments. “The thing of it is, Demers was terminal. Hell, he could have checked out last night on his own.”

“The thing is,” Koesler responded, “maybe he wouldn’t have died last night. From all you’ve said, Mr. Demers has been dying for a long time. He could have gone on a long time more. Father Carleson had no way of knowing.”

Tully was surprised. “Hey, you don’t think Carleson did it, do you? Somehow, I thought no matter how convincing the evidence might be, you wouldn’t believe it. I mean, I thought euthanasia or assisting suicide was against your religion.”

“Well … yes.”

“You have doubts?”

“Not doubts so much as developments.” Koesler realized that expounding on this topic might compromise Father Carleson, but it seemed important to be candid with Tully. After all, they had confided in each other throughout this case.

“There’s been a lot of talk among theologians,” Koesler said, “about what happens when one’s productive life is over. When all that a person planned to do is accomplished and all he or she faces is pain and vegetation.

“See, the Church teaches that it is not necessary to prolong life if the only way to do it is by extraordinary means. This—euthanasia—is the next step. This is not pulling a plug to let nature take its course. This means actively doing something that will take a life.

“There hasn’t even been much written on this. The theologians that propose these ideas are afraid of retribution. The present Pope would not tolerate such an idea. The next one might.”

“Uh-huh,” Tully said. “Would Father Carleson know about this kind of talk?”

Koesler hesitated. “I don’t really know. We haven’t discussed it specifically. But he strikes me as being well informed. I still don’t believe that he was involved in a mercy killing. It’s just that I can sympathize with him if he was. I’ve watched people die too slowly when there wasn’t any purpose left to their lives. It’s one of those things we might be able to do something about someday. But not yet.”

“And Father Carleson is not the type to wait, is he?”

Koesler considered the question rhetorical. Though unconcerned with replying to that, another question occurred to him. “What does Father Carleson say he was doing last night?”

“I didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“It slipped my mind. He claims he had a sick call. At just that time.”

Koesler was relieved. He’d half feared Carleson might have claimed he hadn’t left the rectory. “That must’ve been where he was going when we saw him.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes. It was late in the evening … 11:30, as I recall. Father Dorr and I happened to look out and saw Father Carleson getting into his car. And then he drove off.”

“Did you hear the phone ring before that?”

“N … no. But there was a lot of conversation going on. And also, Father Carleson and Bishop Diego had their own line. So the phone would’ve rung upstairs in his room. With all the noise downstairs, we probably just didn’t hear it.

“But that would confirm his alibi, wouldn’t it? I mean, whoever called him could testify for him.”

“If such a person exists.”

“What?”

“He claims there was no such address. He says he drove around for a while to see if he could see any signs of anything going on in case he’d gotten the wrong address.”

“Bad luck! But it’s happened to me, Lieutenant. I’ve been called out on an emergency on a false alarm more than once. What sometimes happens is that the person who calls is so caught up in the excitement that he gets the house number wrong, or maybe the wrong street name, or both. So for the priest it’s a wild goose chase.

“Then, usually the next morning, someone will call, angry because you didn’t show up, or apologetic about giving the wrong address.”

“Only thing is there hasn’t been anything like that. Nobody’s gotten in touch with anybody. We’ve got nothing but Carleson’s story. And nothing to back it up. He says he was called out on an emergency—that no one else knows about—at just the time a bunch of hospital personnel claim he was
there.
When he gets to talk to his lawyer some more, he may want to retract that statement and claim he never left home. But now that you’ve said you saw him leave, he’s not going to be able to back away from his first statement.”

Koesler got the clear impression he hadn’t done his friend any favor.

“Funny thing,” Tully said, “he was sailing pretty well on that first charge. It was all circumstantial. And I had a pretty good lead on a suspect. If only he hadn’t pulled the second murder.

“But I suppose he’s saying that same thing to himself right now.…

“Well, anyway: Does all this answer your questions?”

“I guess so, Lieutenant. I think I’ll just wander over to Receiving later to set my mind at ease about a couple of things. Any objections?”

“Nope, none. And thanks for all your help, Father.”

As Koesler hung up he realized that Tully’s last statement seemed to indicate that his further services would not be required or requested.

Maybe this case was closed, and all the hope in Koesler’s heart would not change that.

CHAPTER

TWENTY - SIX

By the time Father Koesler’s last appointment left, it was almost 10:30—much later than he had planned. He was tired. A perfect time and a perfect mood to call it a day. Maybe jot a few notes about tomorrow’s schedule. Maybe have a little nightcap, watch the late news on TV, and then to bed.

But he was all too conscious of what he had told Lieutenant Tully earlier in the day. In effect, he had asked Tully if visiting Receiving Hospital would interfere with the ongoing investigation.

Koesler didn’t have any clear plan; he just wanted to help Father Carleson in any way possible. Not only was a fellow priest in trouble, but also Koesler felt that, in a brief period, a budding friendship had begun.

With no other strategy in mind, Koesler thought of just walking through what Carleson had done last night. Perhaps something would surface.
What?
He had no idea.

He drove to Ste. Anne’s rectory. Everything was quiet. Quite a change from last night.

Diego’s funeral had been held this morning. But last night had marked the clergy’s celebration of what was hoped to be Diego’s entry into heaven. Whether or not the bishop made it, the clergy had had their little celebration.

Last night, almost all the lights on the rectory’s first floor were burning bright. There had been a good bit of noise. If any of the faithful had lingered after the vigil service, they might have been slightly scandalized. Certainly that was possible if they’d thought all the visiting clergy went home after the service. Or if the faithful assumed the clergy did not celebrate every chance they got.

Koesler glanced at his watch. It was about 10:40, almost an hour earlier than when he and Father Dorr had seen Carleson leaving last night. But Koesler figured he was in the right time frame.

He drove to Receiving Hospital and swung his car into the parking garage on St. Antoine.

At the bottom of the incline, an automatic machine spit out a parking ticket. Koesler removed it from the machine’s mouth, and an automatic arm raised and beckoned him enter.

There were many open spaces. He took the first slot he came to.

He put the car in park, turned off the engine, and sat and mulled.

He hadn’t given this maneuver a moment’s thought or hesitation. Yet there were lots of places to park on the street. Many of the No Parking signs had an expiration time. But he had given no consideration whatever to parking anywhere, but in the garage.

Why was that, he wondered. But not for long. There was a good reason why drivers chose not to park on the streets of Detroit, especially at night. It was almost an invitation to the criminal mind to take the hubcaps, the battery, the tires, the wheels, the contents, or, of course, the entire vehicle. That’s why it was so common, so natural to swing into the garage. This, undoubtedly, is what Father Carleson had done last night.

Good! He was off to a good start.

He tucked the parking ticket in his wallet. Another automatic action. The ticket would be safe there. He wouldn’t have to try to remember where he put it. And he’d have it handy when it came time to pay for the parking.

Koesler wanted to be consciously aware of everything he did as he attempted to retrace his friend’s movements last night.

He stood on the sidewalk looking at the hospital. Yes, he thought, Don must’ve stood at this point. Lieutenant Tully said Father Carleson was first recognized by a couple of attendants in the Emergency Department.

Koesler was standing about fifteen yards from the Emergency entrance. As luck would have it, three attendants were standing in conversation just inside the door. Not unlike last night when, according to Tully, a couple of people were working over a gurney when they looked up and noticed Carleson standing right about where Koesler now stood. Conditions could scarcely be better to reenact what had happened last night.

So Koesler turned up the collar of his overcoat against the cold and stood there. And stood. And stood. He kept thinking that any moment now one of those people should look out to see if someone, anyone—the injured, or very ill—was approaching or trying to enter Emergency.