Bishop as Pawn (7 page)

McCauley’s attempt at self-exculpation wasn’t entirely effective. But it was the best he could muster at the moment. “Well,” he said at length, “Father Ernest Bell has had some problems with the bishop.”

“No, no, Father,” Quirt said unctuously, “you and your friends here have had ‘problems’ with the bishop. Father Carleson has had his life made miserable by the bishop. Father Bell have much the same experience?”

Reluctantly, with much hesitation, McCauley told of the enmity that had grown steadily from almost the first meeting of Bell and Diego. Bad chemistry, McCauley declared. In any case, the conflict had escalated to the point where it was now larger than just the two men. Bell’s very parish was under attack by the bishop. Everyone involved in the Latino community was in agreement that St. Gabriel’s parish was vibrant and growing, doing great work, really. But would the power structure downtown realize that? Or would they be influenced by a bishop who had been brought into the diocese for the very purpose of providing leadership to the Latinos? Bell, understandably, was beside himself with concern for his parish and his people.

Quirt did not grasp the essence of the dispute between the clergymen. But he very clearly recognized a suspect when he saw one. And this Father Ernest Bell surely qualified. “So,” Quirt said, “if I got this right, you, you’re saving that this Father Bell felt threatened by Bishop Diego.”

“Yes, I guess that’s a fair statement.”

“The power structure of the local Church could close down a parish if it wants to?”

“Well, I don’t want to give the impression that they’d do such a thing capriciously. But, with the clergy crisis and all, sometimes a closing does solve a bunch of problems. Especially if a nearby parish can take over the displaced parishioners.”

“But now” —Quirt’s tone was eager—-” now Bishop Diego is dead. And Father Bell’s problems seem to be solved … don’t they?”

“Well … yes,” McCauley admitted. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“Lieutenant,” Carleson broke in, “are we quite done here, at least for the moment? I’m way behind, and getting more so, on my hospital rounds. Do you mind if I leave now?”

Quirt, pleased with his progress and eager to begin checking out his theories, did not bother to answer Carleson, but merely waved him away.

Carleson left immediately.

McCauley was about to follow suit, when Sergeant Mangiapane stuck his head in the door. “Zoo,” Mangiapane said almost breathlessly, “the autopsy’s over—”

Tully shook his head and inclined it toward Quirt, who was obviously not pleased with what he took as a slight.

Mangiapane shrugged and turned to address Quirt. “This’ll make more sense, I think, if we go to the bishop’s office.”

“Let’s go.” Quirt led the way.

Return to the scene of the crime
, thought McCauley.
All those crime movies weren’t a complete waste of time after all
.… Although he assumed that he had been dismissed, he decided to tag along.

The rectory’s entrance, appropriately enough, fronted on Ste. Anne Street. A sidewalk led to a rise of wooden steps. The heavy door opened to a small foyer that in turn led to a long hallway. Bishop Diego’s office was the first door to the right after entering the corridor.

The office itself was moderately large. Had there been much furniture or bric-a-brac, it would have looked crowded. However, it was sparsely outfitted. The eye-catching feature was the previously mentioned collection of photos adorning the walls. They came close to constituting a Who’s Who of Detroit, with the bishop’s image the only constant in each of them.

Now assembled in the office were Mangiapane, Tully, Quirt, Kleimer, and Father McCauley.

“Doc Moellmann,” Mangiapane began, referring to Wayne County’s medical examiner, “says that the bishop was hit once—a powerful blow to the back of the head between the crown and the neck. The weapon was a blunt instrument—a pipe, or a heavy bottle, or a baseball bat. We haven’t turned up anything yet.

“We found the bishop sitting in this chair and slumped over the desk. This figures out pretty good. The fatal blow was at a slightly downward angle. The bishop was kinda tall, almost six feet. If he’d been standing, to get that kinda angle, the perp’d have to be a giant.

“But if the bishop was sitting, then the perp’d be in the neighborhood of five feet six or seven—someplace between five-five and five-eight.

“Also, the time of death that we were estimating at between four and six o’clock yesterday evening is on the nose.

“As far as prints go, they’re all over the place. Everybody and his mother’s been in here touching things—and they don’t spend a lot of time dusting. One of the guys said they probably got Gabriel Richard’s fingerprints in here.” Mangiapane was alone in thinking this quite humorous.

“We been through this office and the bishop’s room upstairs,” he continued, “but we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”

“Nothing unusual!” Father McCauley exclaimed. “You don’t think all that money is unusual?”

“All what money?” Quirt was feisty.

“The bishop always kept some money—he called it petty cash—in the office here. We advised against it, of course. We told him it could be an irresistible temptation. We told him he’d be lucky if the worst that happened would be that somebody would steal it.”

“You mean Diego kept money here in the office?” Quirt pursued.

“That’s right.”

“And it was commonly known that he did?”

“Well …” McCauley hedged, “I wouldn’t say that it was common knowledge. Not everybody on the street would know about it. Sometimes the ‘deserving poor,’ as the bishop referred to them, or a family in desperate need of food or clothing—things like that. Well, the bishop liked to help such people.…” McCauley looked at the policemen. “He wasn’t a complete villain, you know. And” —he gestured to include the pictures on the walls—“he had friends in high places. He could—and did—tap some pretty wealthy people. With them he called it his ‘discretionary fund.’ They usually contributed generously.

“Anyway, I thought you would find that unusual or out of the ordinary,” he concluded.

Mangiapane was furious. “We didn’t know about it! We didn’t know anything about it. Where does he keep it?”

McCauley, rocked by the vehemence of Mangiapane’s reaction, spoke almost apologetically. “Why, right here in the cabinet.”

It was an ordinary metal cabinet, about five feet high and two feet wide. Its double doors swung open to reveal four shelves. McCauley reached toward a container about the size of a cigar box.

“Don’t touch it!” Quirt shouted.

McCauley nearly leaped back from the box. His nervous system could not stand shocks like these.

After a moment, as everyone stood transfixed by the nondescript box, Mangiapane picked up a small stack of file folders from the desk, slid the stack under the box, and lifted it to the desk. Then, taking a letter opener, he flipped the catch lock and, with the opener, raised the lid.

The box was empty.

“How much did he keep in there?” Quirt asked, after a moment of silence.

“Oh, $4,000, maybe $5,000,” McCauley said.

“Could he—would he—have given it all away?” Tully asked.

McCauley shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. I’ve never known him to let the supply dwindle down to nothing.”

“Mangiapane,” Quirt said, “get the techs back here. I want the box dusted.”

Mangiapane was dialing before Quirt finished the order.

Tully’s mouth curled in a slight smile. “Well, well, possibly a robbery/murder.”

“Or,” Kleimer said, “somebody wants it to look like a robbery,’ murder.”

Tully looked quizzical. Quirt seemed puzzled, but recovered quickly. “What do you want to take, Zoo?”

“I’ll take the quarrel at the party yesterday, and hit the streets.”

“Check,” Quirt said.

Tully and Mangiapane left without further comment.

Kleimer’s eyes went from McCauley to Quirt, who got the hint. “You can leave now, Father.”

That was all the word McCauley needed. He was gone.

Quirt turned to Kleimer. “What’d you mean about somebody
wanting
this to look like a robbery/murder?”

“Sit down for a minute,” Kleimer invited.

The two sat facing each other, knees almost touching.

“Picture this as a news story, George.” Kleimer’s gestures conjured up headlines. “‘Bishop Killed by Crackhead,’ or, ‘Bishop Killed by Wealthy Socialite’—or ‘Bishop Killed by Priest.’” He looked at Quirt fixedly. “You get it?”

Quirt thought a minute. “That pretty well covers the possibles we got now.”

“Yes, but more …” Kleimer edged his chair closer. “‘Bishop Killed by Crackhead’: How does the public react to that?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “It’s old hat. The big, important thing is the word ‘Bishop.’ But that he was offed by some nobody, some street kid with a head screwed up with crack or whatever—that’s run of the mill. Killings like that are in the news all the time. Everybody knows these punks will do anything for a fix. So he kills a bishop … too bad. But that’s life in the big city.

“Now” —Kleimer’s tone grew emphatic—” take, ‘Bishop Killed by Wealthy Socialite.’ Better. Why would one of the movers want to take out a bishop? Would he do it himself? Or would he hire somebody? People would want to know. There’s a juicy story for you.”

Quirt’s face was expressionless, but he was listening intently.

“But …” A gleam appeared in Kleimer’s eyes. “… ‘Bishop Killed by Priest.’ Now we really got something! This is right out of the Middle Ages, Thomas a Becket and all that.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just remember this: ‘Bishop Killed by Priest’ is going to be written up forever. And that’s just how long our names are going to be in the public eye. It’ll be the biggest bust you ever had or ever could have. And,” he added with some satisfaction, “the biggest conviction I ever had.”

Before the lieutenant could respond, Kleimer swept on. “Now, get this: I’m not suggesting that you rig this investigation. But let’s say if one of our priest suspects does prove to be the killer, he didn’t do it for the money. Now don’t get me wrong …” He waved his hand. “I’m not saying a priest couldn’t steal money. But … Carleson and Bell both hated this guy’s guts.

“So now what does it look like? Like somebody got in here for the purpose of robbing the bishop and, for some reason—or for no reason—killed him.

“But I ask you, George: If I’m a priest, and I got to get rid of this guy, how do I throw the cops off the trail?”

Quirt’s visage slackened in the light of recognition. “You take the money. You don’t spend it right away. Maybe never. And we go out on the street where Zoo is, and we start looking for some loser out there who has suddenly started buying acid like he never has before.”

Kleimer said nothing. He extended his hands, palms up. A grin lit his face. Then he grew grim again.

“And let’s think of this: No matter who you arrest, and no matter who I convict, that’s no sign that the poor schmuck is guilty. Let’s face it, if that were the case, there’d be no innocent people in prison. And you and I know that not everybody who’s in jail is necessarily guilty.

“The upshot of all this, George, is that if you arrest some punk and I get a conviction, we might very well be sending a loser—an innocent guy, but a loser—to prison. And neither one of us is going to profit from it. The story’ll be dead just like the publicity we won’t get.

“On the other hand, if we arrest and convict a priest, he may or may not actually be guilty. But we’re going to get ourselves some media exposure we couldn’t buy.… Have I made myself clear?” Kleimer’s extended trip through a tortuous path of rationalization was concluded.

“Perfectly.”

“I’m grateful to you, George. And just to prove it … I hear that Koznicki will be looking for a new number-two man to back him up in Homicide. You know Hunter’s taking an early leave. I’ll just see what I can do to get the right man in that job.”

Quirt was grinning from ear to ear.

Kleimer gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and left.

Quirt knew what he had to do. But for a few moments he would savor his prospects.

Quirt understood Kleimer’s motives and aspirations as well as his own. The two were cut from the same cloth.

For months—no, more like years now—Quirt had been observing Kleimer’s unswerving, persistent ascent in the prosecutor’s office. With some 170 lawyers and legal interns on the staff, a person could get lost in a hurry.

Kleimer reminded Quirt of Silky Sullivan, that marvelous racehorse of yore. He had a habit of getting out of the gate slowly, and in no time he was lost in the pack near the rear. But, if you knew what to look for, and kept your eye on him, he would just gradually—almost leisurely—move along, overtaking one horse at a time until, approaching the finish line, he would be in the lead and pulling away confidently.

So it had been with Kleimer. He had moved up through the ranks steadily. At one point, he was one rung removed from chief prosecuting attorney. That, under a previous administration, was the highest-profile position in the office. Of course it was not
the
prosecutor, but, arguably, as far as media attention, and as a recognition factor, the C.P.A. got more ink, more coverage and exposure than even the boss. Kleimer was on the edge of genuine fame.

However, under the present prosecutor’s administration, the attorneys were required to specialize in various categories of crime. So that they would become expert in specialized fields. For all practical purposes, that nipped Kleimer’s career just as it was about to come to full bloom.

But just as that door was closed on Kleimer, he surreptitiously opened a window.

Most of the court cases in any large metropolitan venue are handled backstage. Out-of-court settlements and plea bargains clear a good percentage of the docket. Lots of other cases come to trial, but by general consensus, the media pass on them.

Then there are the crimes particularly heinous, bizarre, or abhorrent, as well as those involving the rich, famous, or celebrities that show up on the screen, the front page, and the top of the newscast. By no means always, but increasingly, the attorney of record and the talking head on television was Brad Kleimer.