Bishop as Pawn

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.

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?”