“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
“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
However, under the present prosecutor’s administration, the attorneys were required to specialize in various
