Bishop as Pawn

got. So the tuition had to be raised almost every year. At the same time, the makeup of our parishioners was changing. The Latino community was growing. They weren’t rich by any means. The handwriting was on the wall. We finally shut down the whole school about … oh … six years ago.”

“Then the Head Start program came in.”

“Uh-huh.” Bell was almost offhand.

“But the Head Start program could be carried on anywhere there was an empty building. You just happened to have one,” Williams said matter-of-factly.

“What are you getting at?” Bell leaned forward. His manner was combative.

“There was talk of closing down St. Gabriel’s.”

Bell said nothing. He had to be most cautious here. How much had these officers been told about his situation in this parish?

“Earlier, Father,” Williams said, “you mentioned what it was like to be pastor of a parish. You said” — here he consulted his notes-” that the pastor can become part of his parishioners’ families. That if you were assigned some other parish, you couldn’t just pull up stakes and move on without caring very much.”

Bell gazed at Williams intently. This was clearly The Enemy.

“Well, I was wondering, Father,” Williams continued, “if it is so difficult to move along to another assignment after being so wrapped up in your former parish, how much more difficult it would be if the parish you loved but had to leave just … ceased to exist.”

Bell cocked an eye. “Why are you so interested in St. Gabriel’s? We’re not going out of business. The buildings are in full use and they’re in pretty good repair. We’ve got a zillion programs going on. Lots of the good people here depend on this parish for help in everything from food and jobs to counseling to immigration. And we respond! We make a realistic contribution to the CSA. In a word, we’re healthy! So why are you harping on this parish closing down?”

“The word we got was that Bishop Diego was considering closing it.”

“He couldn’t do it!” The tone was aggressive.

“A bishop couldn’t do it?”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“Yes.” Williams did not qualify his answer as he had with Quirt. If he were to admit he was no longer a practicing Catholic, Bell would dismiss out of hand his competence in the matter. Besides, Williams had gone to school in his earlier questioning of the other three priests.

Bell had not expected so absolute a response. Taken aback somewhat, he said, “Bishop Diego was an auxiliary bishop. He was here to help Cardinal Boyle. The Cardinal is the archbishop. He runs this diocese, not an auxiliary bishop.”

“Still … a bishop …”

“Why are you leaning on this? Are you trying to come up with some reason why I would hate or resent Bishop Diego? God Almighty, are you trying to accuse me of … of killing the bishop?!”

“We’re not accusing you of anything, Father.” Williams tried to sound reassuring. “Like I said, we’ve got a lot of questions. We’re looking for answers. As much as anything else, we’re trying to figure out what kind of man this Bishop Diego was.”

“Then you’d better ask the high-priced lawyers, the judges, the top brass at G.M., Ford, Chrysler. Those were his buddies.”

“We’re asking them. What we want to know now is, what was he to you?”

They knew. Or, they thought they knew. Well, better they hear it from his own lips. “He was a pain in the ass to me.”

The detectives were relieved at the self-revelation. But they showed no emotion. “He wanted to close St. Gabriel’s,” Williams pursued. “If it’s as active and relevant as you say, why would he want to do that?”

Bell hesitated. Reluctant to give any further explanations, he would hesitate now before each reply. He would try to do no more than confirm some of the more innocuous information they’d already gathered.

“What you’ve got to understand,” Bell explained, “is what Bishop Diego meant to the Hispanics of this archdiocese. All the people knew of him was that he was one of them. He grew up in a barrio in Texas. To the people, he was almost another Messiah.”

“And that made you jealous?”

“Jealous? Hell, no! Sight unseen, I hoped for the same thing. If we in the southwest corner of Detroit need anything, it’s a friend in high places.” He shook his head. “No, we welcomed Diego with open arms.

“Then some of us came to know what he had in mind. Becoming a bishop-even an auxiliary-was nothing more than a launching pad as far as he was concerned. He was going to be every rich white Catholic’s token Hispanic. He couldn’t have cared less for our people. Only … only they didn’t know. When he came for a visitation or a confirmation or anything like that, he was the hail bishop well met. He had ‘loose change’-rumor has it quite a bundle-to pass out like an out-of-season Santa Claus.

“Well, I was the one who was willing to blow the whistle on him.”

Williams and Quirt recalled the pictures on the walls of the late bishop’s office. Diego and Bob Mylod; Diego and Maynard Cobb; Diego and Tom Litka; Diego and J. P. McCarthy; Diego and lots more … but only the rich, famous or well positioned. Neither officer doubted Bell’s theory on Diego’s master plan for himself. But …

“But …” Williams said, “he was a bishop. And you’re a priest. You were going to blow the whistle on him?”

Bell nodded. “I think so. Whatever else happens, my people trust me. I’ve been with them in the trenches for … for a long while. It would be a close call, I guess. But I think-I’m sure-they would believe me over him. And that’s beside one major factor …” A pause.” I’ve got the truth on my side.”

“So,” Williams said, “that’s the way it was up till yesterday. You with your threat to expose him. And he with his threat to close you down.”

Bell half smiled. “It’s almost a pun, but we had each other in a Mexican standoff.”

“And that,” Quirt broke his long silence, “as Sergeant Williams just said, was the way it was till yesterday. But today’s another day. And the Mexican standoff is over. I take it nobody else is trying or threatening to close your church.”

“I … I haven’t thought of it in exactly those terms,” Bell said. “I was sorry that a man was murdered. Especially one I know pretty well. And I was shocked that it was a bishop. But … I suppose you’re right. That threat is just about over.”

“Convenient.” It was almost sotto voce. Then in a normal tone, Quirt said: “Tell us about your yesterday. What did you do?”

“What did I do?” Apprehensive, defensive. “What I ordinarily do on Sundays: said Mass.”

“That was the morning. And then?”

“I had several meetings yesterday afternoon. Briefly with some of the parish council members. A longer meeting with the worship commission. They’re pushing for more Masses in Spanish. It’s a ticklish situation. We’ve got-”

“About when did you get done with those meetings?” Quirt asked.

“I don’t know … about 4:00 in the afternoon, I guess.”

“And then?”

“I was tired. But I wanted to go to that meeting at the Cathedral. So I had a drink or two, just to unwind.”

“And when did you leave to go to the meeting?”

“I don’t know. The meeting-well, the dinner began at 6:00. So I must’ve left at about 5:30.” It was not particularly warm on the porch, yet Bell was beginning to perspire.

“Not necessarily,” Quirt said.

“Not …?”

“You were late. Late for the dinner.”

Bell seemed to be searching his memory. “Are you sure I was late? I don’t remember being late. How can you be sure?”

“That’s what all the other priests we talked to say. They say you arrived twenty minutes to half an hour late. You were the last one to arrive.”