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.
Most readers, listeners, viewers, simply took it for granted that if a crime was notorious enough, Kleimer would be trying it.
Quirt was watching and learning.
As often as feasible, Kleimer tried to insinuate his presence early on in these cases. He became the presence whom police technicians had to walk around.
When it came time to assign the case to a prosecutor, Kleimer frequently could claim truthfully that he had been in on that case from the beginning and was far more familiar with it than anyone else on the staff.
There were times when this argument was dismissed. For one thing, nearly everyone on the staff was on to him. He was neither Mr. Popularity nor Mr. Congeniality.
But-and this was a large condition-he did get his share and more of convictions. Kleimer had a talent not only for coming up with favorable rationalizations but also for getting judge and jury to go along with his predisposed logic.
Thus, even though the method of his success was no secret to others on the staff, he still got much more than his share of plum cases.
While Quirt watched this recurrent yet successful technique with fascination, he could only guess at Kleimer’s goal. Though the possibilities were obvious.
One day Kleimer would cash in on all this valuable publicity. He certainly wasn’t building this reputation just to remain anywhere near his present position. He would assuredly move on-very likely into elective office. Perhaps prosecutor. More probably, governor, Congress, a presidential administrator. Who knew; maybe even president of the United States.
Nothing mattered to Kleimer but his advancement. He would sacrifice anything to be Somebody. This ruling passion had already cost him his marriage and the custody of his children. That hurt. But it was a price to pay for his advancement, and by damn, he would pay it.
Once Quirt had learned what was going on, he’d decided to attach himself as securely as possible to Kleimer’s coattails.
For Quirt too had aspirations. He did not want to spend his time until retirement in the police horse stables or watching over parking meters. His first desire was Homicide. That was where the preponderance of action was. That was a unit so elite that, in the early years, one needed a sponsor even to be considered for admission.
Quirt sowed his seeds of cooperation with Kleimer very carefully. Of course, there were severe limitations to what Quirt could do for Kleimer. But, as one of the patrolmen frequently first on the scene of a crime, he could at least try to guess where these cases might go. Each time he found one that was promising, he would call Kleimer.
Kleimer could recognize a promising source when he found one. It was clear that the higher this patrolman advanced, the more fruitful a source he would be.
Kleimer found a sponsor for Quirt and he was admitted to Homicide.
Quirt, in turn, was not without talent. His investigations of homicides, while tending to be shallow, were bolstered by some pretty good instincts, as well as considerable luck. Quirt was a true believer in the tenet, I’d rather be lucky than good.
In due time, Kleimer needed only minimal influence to see his protege move up to the rank of lieutenant-and become head of one of Homicide’s seven squads.
This, for Quirt, was almost enough. He would have been happy to remain right there until retirement beckoned.
However, a satisfied Quirt was not desirable as far as Kleimer was concerned. A satisfied Quirt would be complacent and not at all motivated to cue Kleimer into promising cases.
So it was simply a matter of advanced planning for Kleimer to suggest that the number two spot in Homicide might be in Quirt’s future. Quirt’s ambition was renewed.
The important thing, as Kleimer saw it, was to keep the carrot just beyond Quirt’s grasp. A hungry Quirt resulted in prime tips for Kleimer.
If everything worked as planned, there would come a time when Kleimer would need no help from any police officer. He would be far above that. Once he had advanced beyond the prosecutor’s office, he would drop Quirt like a child’s outgrown toy. Nor would Kleimer care that he was responsible for having someone promoted way above that individual’s competence.
Neither Kleimer nor Quirt cared for anything or anyone but themselves.
CHAPTER FIVE
Father Don Carleson briefly considered visiting Father Koesler. Further thought convinced him that would not help.
Carleson was deeply disturbed, nervous, anxious, and felt great stress. Any conversation with Koesler would necessarily concern Diego’s death. Definitely counterproductive.
No, he would do what he’d told the police he was going to do: visit the sick at Receiving Hospital.
He parked in the underground garage and took the elevator to ground level but headed for Emergency rather than the general reception area.
Receiving’s Emergency Department was an exemplar of such facilities. In addition to the usual everyday outpatients, there were the medically uninsured who wandered in instead of consulting a private physician they couldn’t afford. Ambulances disgorged the injured of the inner city. The ER staff never knew from one day to the next what fate was about to hurl at them.
In short, the perfect place to distract one from personal preoccupations.
As Carleson entered the waiting and intake area, he heard a fast approaching commotion behind him. He hugged the wall as three occupied gurneys raced past, propelled by EMS personnel. From their faces, Carleson knew this was no ordinary emergency.
The EMS teams peeled off into various trauma rooms. Organized turmoil became routine in each compartment.
Carleson, careful to stay out of the way, listened just outside the doorway of the first room. With the arrival of the gurneys, an overpowering stench had pervaded the entire area. Carleson could not identify the odor. But if the entry doors had not been left open, everyone in the area could well have passed out.
Work in this first unit was cursory. It was obvious this victim was dead on arrival. The staff knew they were just going through the motions. But they went through the motions anyway.
One of the EMS drivers was standing next to Carleson. “Ain’t this somethin’, Father?”
Carleson’s nose wrinkled. “What on earth is that?”
“Oh …” Seemingly for the first time, the driver realized his clothing was tainted. “This stuff? It’s sewer slime.” He grimaced. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how in hell-oh, ‘scuse me, Father-I don’t know how we’re gonna get it out of our trucks.”
“Those people were in a sewer?”
He nodded. “They were supposed to clean it. The first guy barely got down the ladder before the fumes got to him and he keeled over. That sh-uh, stuff was about a foot-and-a-half thick. The second guy went down to rescue him. He keeled over. That’s the guy in here” — he gestured-” who was DOA. Then the third guy went down. Gutsy. He was just barely able to get the first guy up and out before he da-darn near passed out.”
