CHAPTER NINE
“What do you think, Manj?”
Without taking his eyes from the road, Mangiapane shook his head. “I dunno, Zoo. I’d hate to live with that broad and have to keep my hands off her.”
“There’s that.”
“Drive a guy nuts.”
“Nuts enough to commit murder?” Tully was asking himself as well as Mangiapane.
“I think so.”
“Notice she said she thought he’d have to get loaded to off somebody.”
“Yeah.” Mangiapane started to smile. “And he said he went from Carson’s house to a bar.”
“Wasn’t that helpful of him to tell us that? Now, if anybody in that bar can remember Shell in there that night, the next important thing to check out is how long he stayed there.”
“Makes a pretty good case, Zoo. Shell bumps into Diego unexpectedly. He’s surprised the bishop is at this party. He doesn’t have a chance to get himself in control. So he blows his ever-lovin’ stack. Then he storms out. He drives around until he happens into this bar. He goes in, gets a few snootfuls. Not dead drunk, just high. Like the lady said, he needs to get some liquid courage. He’s sober enough to drive, and plastered enough to scramble the bishop’s brains.”
“Or,” Tully suggested, “she’s underestimating her husband. Maybe he doesn’t need to get juiced. Maybe his stop at the bar is in his head. Maybe he did happen on this bar, took a look, and saw there were so many people there no one would be able to testify whether there was a stranger there or not. So, he can tell us he was there, sure that nobody can say for certain whether he was or wasn’t there. Whatever. No matter what, we’re going to have to ask some questions there.”
They drove on for several minutes before Tully broke the silence.
“Manj, you’re a Catholic. How well do you have to know a bishop before you call him by his first name”
“Yeah, I caught that too. And I dunno, Zoo. I never knew one well enough to call him Fred or Charlie. They got a title, and I don’t even remember that. It’s Your Grace, or Your Excellency or Your Eminence, or something. Now that I think of it, I don’t even know anybody who calls any bishop by his first name.”
“What the hell kind of Catholic are you, anyway, Manj?” Tully was chuckling softly. “Not only don’t you know, you don’t even know anybody who knows.”
“There you got it.” Mangiapane was also chuckling. “I just sit in the pew and wait for the priest to tell me what to do.”
“No, actually” — Tully grew more serious-“ you told me something by not knowing. I’m going to guess that it’s very uncommon. And I’m going to guess that Mrs. Shell knew the bishop very, very well. And, you know what else I’m going to do? I’m going to quit guessing.”
“Huh?”
“Manj, drop me off at … oh, what the hell is it … the parish where Koesler is pastor.”
“Old St. Joe’s?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Mangiapane was grinning. “Finally going to call on Uncle, huh?”
“This stuff is getting too deep for me. I got a hunch Quirt is gonna come in with a lot of heavy stuff on those two priests. I also got a hunch he’s not gonna know what he’s talking about. I’m gonna go to school before this case gets much older.
“After you drop me off, get somebody-Angie, if you can-to take over that bar investigation. I want you to talk to everybody who’s been on the street. See if anybody’s come up with anything.”
“Sure thing, Zoo.… Uh, don’t you think you ought to call and make sure Father Koesler’s available?”
Available? It was as if the second shoe had been dropped.
He’d been distracted most of this Monday waiting for a phone call about the murder of Bishop Diego. After all, it wasn’t that he was a stranger to police investigations when they had to do with things Catholic. And what could be a more Catholic homicide than the murder of a bishop?
His surprise, if it could be termed that, was that the call came from Lieutenant Tully rather than Inspector Koznicki. Of course, Koesler knew the lieutenant. But Koznicki had become a dear and close friend.
In any case, he was about to get in the swim.
With some hesitation he asked Mary O’Connor to clear his calendar for the rest of the day. His reservations concerned two appointments he had scheduled-one late this afternoon, the other early this evening. Neither person was likely to take the postponement graciously. Neither could lay claim to either tact or diplomacy. Mary would have to suffer their predictable reactions. Koesler tended to believe Mary when she assured him that the job would be easier for her. The recalcitrant parishioners would be disappointed when she gave them the message-but they would save their venom for their pastor.
So he wouldn’t miss the dreaded appointments by putting them on the back burner.
Awaiting Tully’s arrival, Koesler thought about the two troublesome parishioners.
Mrs. McReedy belonged to the Church of Vatican Council I. In a sense, that was a comfortable Church. There were so many rules and regulations. Practically no one challenged their existence or relevance. The very keeping of them led to feelings of peace and comfort. The rules offered salvation. And salvation was comfortable. And, should one by and large keep the rules-such as fasting and abstaining and attending Mass on the appropriate days-one would go to heaven.
Mrs. McReedy would be objecting to the absence of many of these rules and regulations from Father Koesler’s homilies, ministries, and total life philosophy.
She would have been at the rectory at 3:30 sharp had not Lieutenant Tully rescued him.
Also headed off by Tully’s visit was Frank Parker, who thus would not be here at 7:00 this evening.
Frank belonged to a Church that might arise from some future Vatican Council. To call Frank an activist was like saying that John F. Kennedy liked women.
And Frank wanted his parish-Old St. Joe’s-to dive in no matter where the waters might lead. Some of his projected programs: March and parade through Lafayette Park to support AIDS research. A regular monthly Mass for and by Catholic gays enlisting a homosexual priest to celebrate the Mass. A regular evening weekly Mass for and by women-with a designated woman as celebrant each week. Remove all the remaining religious artifacts from the church’s interior. Have concelebrated liturgies regularly with Protestant and Jewish clergy.
Koesler believed Frank Parker’s heart was in the right place, but that his mind and his viscera had bonded.
Looking at this day that wasn’t going to happen, Koesler was again reminded that it didn’t matter whether you were killed by conservatives or liberals-you were just as dead either way.
He could remember the mid-fifties when he had been ordained a priest. How sure and certain things were then.
It had become a joke, but in those days-and for long years before-the Church structure resembled a triangle with the Pope at the summit. It was
The joke was that the hierarchy, for the most part, continue to think that nothing has changed. The hierarchy should consult with its priests, who are being squeezed from all angles.
Today’s canceled appointments surely were a case in point.
There was Mrs. McReedy, who, with the Lone Ranger, wanted to return to the days of yesteryear, and expected Koesler to lead the way. Then there was Frank Parker, who wanted to go, with the Trekkies, where no man has gone before. He expected Koesler to ignite the avant garde blast-off.
Yet were today’s priest to toy with one of the Parker programs, organizations such as Catholics United for the Faith, in close step with the bishop, would stamp on his obtrusive toes.
On the other hand, implementing Mrs. McReedy’s most fervent prayers would alienate many Catholics whose faith and interest had been awakened by Vatican Council II.
One of the many blessings of an inner-city ministry was that the more “inner” one got, the less anyone outside cared what was going on. Unhappily, Old St. Joe’s was on the outer fringe of “inner.” Thus the McReedys
