Bishop as Pawn (6 page)

After summoning father David McCauley, the Basilian priest whom Quirt and Tully had already met, Quirt sent the detectives back to work.

Quirt, Tully, Kleimer, and Fathers McCauley and Carleson then moved to a less spacious room nearby. With the considerable group of detectives no longer hanging onto his every word and gesture, Carleson felt less nervous.

Tully could not gauge how deeply Carleson was affected by all this. He seemed to be holding up rather well. But Father McCauley was definitely nervous.

Quirt began by telling the priests that while it was not a crime to lie to the police, it could be a really disastrous mistake. If they were to lie or not tell everything they knew, it would all come home to roost eventually.

McCauley was deeply impressed, Carleson had been bullied by more threatening characters.

It was obvious that Quirt intended to get down to the nitty-gritty immediately. Tully would have preferred to explore some background first. But, what the hell, the ball was in Quirt’s court.

“What we got here,” Quirt proceeded, “is we got a dead man. So he happens to be a bishop. Still, he’s dead. So we go through this thing by the book.” He paused and glanced at Tully. “Near as I can see.” Tully remained impassive.

“First thing,” Quirt continued, “who would want him dead?”

No response.

“Did he have any enemies?”

Carleson and McCauley looked at each other. Each seemed to expect the other to speak.

Their reaction did not escape Quirt. “Father McCauley?”

McCauley cleared his throat. “This is hard to say … but to be as truthful as I can: With some exceptions, the only people who liked him were the ones who didn’t know him very well.”

Quirt was surprised. “What … what do you mean, ‘didn’t know him’?”

“Well, like when he would visit a parish for confirmation …”

“Wait a minute,” Quirt protested. “What is this ‘visit for confirmation’?”

More than ever, Tully wanted Koesler around. That, he promised himself, would come later.

“Bishops,” McCauley said, “especially auxiliary bishops, travel around to parishes in this archdiocese—there are more than three hundred of them—and give the sacrament of confirmation to the children and adults who have been prepared for this sacrament.

“The bishop—in this case Bishop Diego—comes in just for that occasion. Maybe he has dinner with the priests of the parish and probably some priest-guests. Then there’s the ceremony over which he presides. Then he leaves.

“Those are the people who like him—the ones he meets very briefly in church. Bishop Diego could be charming. But not over the long haul. But … well, if anybody could speak to that it would be Don here …” He indicated Carleson.

At mention of his name, Carleson froze. McCauley immediately regretted having putting Carleson on the spot, so to speak.

“Oh, yeah,” Quirt said, “I was gonna get to that. Something about a ‘special assignment’? What’s that all about?”

Carleson took a deep breath, then exhaled as if he were about to embark on a dreaded journey.

“To put it as simply as I can, I’ve been a priest for some thirty years. Nearly all that time I’ve been a missionary priest in different countries. Now—well, as of the past several months—I’ve been in the process of joining the archdiocese of Detroit.

“I’ve got considerable background working among Latinos. So it was only natural that I serve in this community here in Detroit. But … I haven’t had much experience ministering in a large, urban, American setting. So … so it was determined that the ‘perfect’ assignment” —the sarcasm was unmistakable—” would be for me to work with Bishop Diego. The bishop is … uh, was … Hispanic. He’d been in a Latino community in Texas.”

“And just what did this assignment involve?” Quirt sensed a possible suspect. It was his favorite scent.

Carleson bit his lip. “To be pretty much at his beck and call.”

“Well, let’s see if I got this straight …” Quirt was warming to the possibilities. “According to Father McCauley here, to know Bishop Diego was not necessarily to love him. In fact, the less you had to do with the guy, the more likely you were to get along okay. Whereas the better acquainted you got, the more you disliked him.

“Seems to me, you gotta be pretty high on the list of people who might even like to see him dead.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t be—”

“Father …” Quirt was unctuous. “… all I’m doing is putting together what was just said by Father McCauley and
yourself.
Nothing more than that. Now, let’s just see where everybody was last night. Father McCauley, where were you between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00
P.M.
yesterday?”

“Really!” As intimidated as McCauley was, he certainly had not expected to be treated as a murder suspect.

Quirt let his very authentic nasty side show through. “This is a homicide investigation. I don’t give a damn whether this Bishop Diego was a living saint or a son of a bitch. He’s dead. And I’m gonna find out who did it. With a guy who made as many enemies as this guy seems to have made, the line of possible suspects can get kinda long. But no possible suspect is excused just because he happens to be clergy.

“Now, Father McCauley, Father Carleson, you can answer our questions here and now, or … we can go down to the station. It’s just a short drive. But it ain’t as pleasant there as here.

“What’ll it be?”

McCauley lowered his head and nodded.

“Okay.” Quirt resumed. “Between 4:00 and 6:00, Father McCauley?”

“I was tired. We always are after the weekend schedule of Masses. And I was looking forward to the evening meeting of the priests. But I wasn’t looking forward to it very eagerly. And since we were committed to going, I decided to rest up and maybe take a nap—”

“Wait a minute,” Quirt interrupted. “How come you were ‘committed’? I thought it was voluntary. How come you had to go?”

McCauley hesitated. “Well, we had promised Don. He had never been to one of these meetings—uh, they’re actually parties. So we agreed to go for his sake.”

Quirt looked at Carleson. “Funny how you keep popping up at the center of things, isn’t it, Father?” He turned back to McCauley. “So you took a nap? Conveniently from 4:00 to 6:00.”

“No. I went up to my room about 3:00 in the afternoon. I read for a while. Watched a little basketball on the TV. And then napped a bit. Until about 5:00, I guess. Then I got ready to go. We left about 5:30. The dinner was at 6:00.”

“Anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts during this time?”

McCauley smiled lopsidedly. “No. We each have our own separate rooms. As far as I know, the others did just about what I did.”

“But you can’t know for sure. Maybe we should get the other three priests in here. One of you could have been with the bishop, couldn’t that be true? Maybe, since no one can testify that you spent all that time in your room, maybe you spent some time with the bishop. Eh?”

“Not hardly,” McCauley said.

“No? Not hardly? Why’s that?”

McCauley looked almost helplessly at Carleson.

“He couldn’t have spent time with the bishop,” Carleson said.

“Why not?” Quirt’s question was expectant.

“Because,” Carleson explained, “because the bishop was with me.”

“Between 4:00 and 6:00?”

“There wasn’t anything odd or out of the ordinary about it.” Carleson chose to ignore the implication in Quirt’s question. “Given my druthers I’m sure I’d have spent the afternoon the way Dave did. It’s sort of natural, especially for guys our age. That weekend liturgy can sap you. So, I was going to relax a while before leaving for the Cathedral. But the bishop wanted to go out.”

“Out?”

“An afternoon cocktail party in Grosse Pointe.”

“The bishop doesn’t own a car?”

“The bishop doesn’t … didn’t … even own a driver’s license.”

“You were his chauffeur?” Quirt sounded incredulous.

Carleson simply nodded.

“Did the bishop go out much? Travel?”

“A bit.”

“And with Detroit’s mass transit being what it is, and, I suppose, the bishop being a bishop, he wouldn’t want to depend on that. All in all, I guess you had to haul him around quite a bit.”

Again Carleson nodded.

“So, yesterday,” Quirt said, “just what did you and the bishop do and when did you do it?”

Carleson sighed. “He waited until about 1:00 in the afternoon to tell me. To be honest, I tried to beg off. But he insisted that it was important—‘essential’ was the word he used—for him to be at this gathering. He said there would be important people there—people who could do lots for the Latino community—”

“From your tone of voice,” Quirt interrupted, “I gather you didn’t believe him.”

“That depends. That there were many wealthy people there was probably true. That any of them would lift a finger for the community was … well, doubtful.

“Anyway, I don’t think the bishop would ask anybody to show some genuine commitment.”

“You didn’t want to do it,” Quirt said. “You didn’t think there was any point to it. But you did it anyway? Sounds kinda heroic!” The tone was laced with sarcasm.

“Look, Lieutenant, I’m no hero, or martyr, or saint. The way this arrangement began, it was supposed to be a short introduction to this urban ministry, sort of a brief probationary period.”

“What happened? You keep signing up?”

Carleson snorted. “The deck was stacked. Diego loved the arrangement. Out of nowhere he got a slave. Each time I was due for an independent assignment, Diego would pull rank with the head of the Curia—the one who proposed assignments.”

“Couldn’t you go over this … this guy’s head?”

“I’m not a crybaby … at least I try not to be.”

“Back to yesterday,” Quirt ordered.

“Yes, well, there was no getting out of it. So we left here about 2:00. The party started at 1:00, but Diego always likes to make an ‘entrance.’ The party was at Harry Carson’s home. He’s an executive with Co-merica Bank. There must have been about fifty people there … at least while we were there.”

“You attended the party?”

Carleson smiled briefly. “I
am
a priest. I would never have been left alone to wait in the car. Actually, I would have preferred that; I just hang around on the fringes on these occasions. Anyhow, Diego had promised me we would leave by 5:00 so I could join the others here and go with them to the Cathedral.

“But as the afternoon wore on, he showed no inclination to leave. That is, until this guy showed up at the party. It was about four o’clock, maybe a little later. He acted surprised to see Diego there. But the minute he spotted him, he headed for him like a guided missile. They had a few hot words before Carson steered them into another room.

“After a while, Diego came out looking somewhat the worse for wear. He was obviously embarrassed. He came right over to me and said we were leaving right then and there. He didn’t even say good-bye to anybody. That was about 4:30. We got back here about 5:00. I went upstairs immediately to freshen up for the party. I don’t know where Diego went … I suppose to his office.”

Tully was alert for almost the first time during this interrogation. “Who was the guy who created the scene with Diego?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him before. But that doesn’t mean much: Lots of people at these affairs Diego dragged me to I would meet for the first, and often the last, time.”

“Then,” Quirt said, “you were the last one to see Bishop Diego alive.”

“Not quite, Lieutenant. I was at least second last. Whoever killed him would have been last.”

“Now, see here, Lieutenant, this is becoming patently unfair!” McCauley said forcefully.

Quirt was about to reply in kind, when experience and instinct told him to swallow it and see what happened next. So, rather than trump McCauley’s ace, Quirt put on an attentive and agreeable face, encouraging McCauley to complete his thought.

“You seem determined to twist everything we tell you into some sort of statement of guilt. I’m speaking mostly on behalf of Father Carleson here. Aren’t you supposed to read us our rights or something?”

“I’m not arresting anyone. Or even charging anyone with anything.” Quirt was downright benevolent.

“We’ve tried to tell you,” McCauley forged on, “in the most tactful manner at our command that the late Bishop Diego was … a difficult man. And I say this cognizant of the maxim
nil nisi bonum.”
He slipped into the Latin aphorism.

“What?” Quirt meant to halt any incursion of a foreign tongue, and especially Spanish.

“Nil nisi bonum,”
McCauley repeated, and then clarified,
“Nil nisi bonum de mortuis
… nothing but good of the dead. Say nothing about the dead except good things.”

The explanation seemed to satisfy Quirt, so McCauley continued. “In spite of the
nil nisi bonum
disclaimer, we have been very open about the actual, and largely abrasive personality of, uh, our fallen comrade. All right, he
was
difficult to get along with—a challenge, to say the least.

“Speaking for my fellow Basilians, after we learned what to expect from him, we were not enchanted with the prospect of his being here with us. But that was the arrangement the diocese made, and we were ready to live with it. That did not imply that any or all of us wished him harm, or,
per impossibile
, that any of us would kill the man.

“And, all right, Father Carleson was much more involved with the man than the rest of us were. But that was the decision of the diocese and Don was willing to live with it. It had to end sometime!

“Bishop Diego was a most difficult man. He made life pretty miserable for any number of people—mostly priests. And Bob Carleson was not alone in being a special target of the bishop.”

Quirt thanked his instinct and experience for letting McCauley ramble on. This was exactly what he was hoping for—another lead, maybe someone as good a suspect as Carleson. “And who would that be? Someone who was a ‘special target’ for the bishop?”

McCauley blanched. Too late he realized he had fallen into Quirt’s trap. Now he had no recourse but to implicate another priest as a possible murder suspect. In the brief interlude that Quirt gave him to consider what he’d say next, McCauley tried to rationalize his blunder. Eventually, Ernie Bell would have become entangled in this investigation. Among priests particularly, Bell’s combat with Diego was common knowledge. If he, McCauley, had not revealed this fact, someone else surely would have.