He’d already heard the radio news, where the essence of the story kept being repeated. Radio did not have as much time as the newspapers had space. Television, with film of Ste. Anne’s and its neighborhood, as well as a series of talking heads-mostly priests-had somewhat more personalized coverage than radio.
And the story had gone national. The networks were picking it up from their Detroit affiliates.
Seldom had Koesler been this interested in a breaking story. Normally he was content to let each new drama play itself out. In his sixty-five years, there were few varieties of story that he had not experienced before.
This one was different. He could not recall in his lifetime a priest being charged with killing a bishop. Of course, that was the fascination everyone else was experiencing. People couldn’t get enough of this developing story with its bizarre if sketchy details.
And of course the media were in a feeding frenzy. No matter how they tried, they couldn’t keep up. Too much was happening behind the scenes where the media were not allowed.
No one could possibly be tracking the story with as much absorption as Koesler. He had noted the frequent appearance on radio and TV of attorney Kleimer and Lieutenant Quirt. Koesler wondered what impression he might have had of them had he not met them both yesterday. As it was, having been briefed at least partially by Lieutenant Tully, Koesler had some notion not only of the roles they were playing, but also what the stakes were.
From redundant interviews with both of them, it was crystal clear (a) that Lieutenant Quirt had broken this case and made the arrest and (b) that Brad Kleimer was going to prosecute this case.
Kleimer brought to mind Alexander Haig immediately after Ronald Reagan was shot. Haig had been near manic in insisting that all was well because he was now in charge of the country.
It was difficult for Koesler to settle into his usual routine. He had appointments to keep and things to do. But, in a desire that was, for him, almost unprecedented, he wanted to get involved in this case. The problem was that, after his briefing of Lieutenant Tully yesterday, no one seemed to want him anymore.
Brad Kleimer was running on adrenaline.
He had slept only a few hours, fitfully at that. He’d had no breakfast, just coffee, black and lots of it. To say that everything he did now was important was to beat the life out of the obvious.
The arraignment that would take place in just a couple of hours was, he felt, pro forma. He had no doubt that Carleson would be bound over for trial. But there must be no slipups. Kleimer was painfully aware of the pitfall of overconfidence. He was making sure that everything was being done by the book.
In a sense, the media interviews had been a distraction. In another way, they were part and parcel of the grand plan. Detroiters were no strangers to Kleimer’s voice and image. But this trial was going to make the impression he created indelible. Of much greater importance, in this case he was playing to the country. To the world!
Everything seemed in place. But time was running short.
What made it particularly frustrating for Kleimer was that he was not actually involved in these early steps. The public generally is unaware of the layers of specialists in the prosecutor’s office. Today’s show would be handled by the Warrants Section. This was the intake department of the office. They decided whether or not there would be a charge. They were the experts at getting a warrant signed by a judge for a specific charge which they would determine.
The next process that would occur no more than twelve days later was handled by the Preliminary Examination Unit. They took charge of the preliminary hearing. This was a formal hearing before a judge to determine whether there was sufficient evidence to hold the defendant for trial.
Only after these procedures could Brad Kleimer take center stage and take responsibility for the trial he’d been promised.
So this was a nerve-wracking time for him. All the attorneys who handled the early prosecution maneuvers were veterans of the system. Especially given the importance of this case, only the most experienced prosecutors would move things forward. Nevertheless, Kleimer worried. He needed this trial. It could well be his ticket to the big time. Meanwhile, he was getting the word out that when everything was on the line, he would carry the ball.
He stopped pacing, thought a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed.
It was answered on the second ring. “Yeah.”
“Quirt, this is Kleimer.”
A guttural laugh. “You’re all over the place, ain’tcha? We can’t turn on the radio or TV without finding you.”
“Forget that. What’s going on at headquarters?”
“With the Diego case? I talked to Koznicki first thing … got him to dissolve the task force.”
“Good! Very good. No problems?”
“I don’t think Tully’s very happy about it. But I headed this investigation and I said it was over. That’s by the book … and Koznicki goes by the book.”
“Okay. Now, we don’t know what bail will be. And we don’t know whether Carleson can make it. But we’ve gotta be ready. If he stays locked up, that’s one thing. But if he makes bail, I want somebody from your squad to hang loose on him. Not a tail, not surveillance-just check on him from time to time.
“But whether he’s locked up or cut loose, I wanna know more about him. Who he’s close to, who he hangs with, what he does with his free time, stuff like that.”
Kleimer was, once more, out of line. He had no authority to commandeer any Homicide officer’s authority. But he was secure in the presumption that Quirt would prove cooperative. One hand washing the other once again.
“Okay, okay.” Quirt was stung by Kleimer’s brashness. “Only, don’t forget: You owe me for this one. You owe me big.”
“You got it.” Kleimer hung up without further nicety.
No sooner was the receiver down than the phone rang.
Kleimer was sick to death of the phone. But you couldn’t tell: Maybe the networks had sent their teams in by now. To this point, the national media were tapped in to their local affiliates. Pretty soon the big boys would be here. It was inevitable. Maybe now. “Yes?” he answered brightly.
It was his secretary. “There are a couple of gentlemen out here to see you.”
“Who, Marge?”
“A Mr. Walberg and a Mr. Turner. From Los Angeles.”
Kleimer’s eyebrows arched. He had expected the biggies to come from New York. “Send them in.”
Walberg and Turner were tanned to the degree of leather. Neither was dressed for northern winter. But both were outfitted stylishly. Tall and slender, they moved in a studied graceful manner that brought to mind synchronized Olympic swimmers. As he shook hands with each of them, Kleimer noted both had very soft hands.
“So, gentlemen” — Kleimer indicated chairs, which they took-” I’m a little pressed this morning. What can I do for you?” No cameras, from the wrong coast … could these guys be something other than representatives of the media?
“We’ll be brief,” Walberg said. “We represent Gold Coast Enterprises-an independent film studio … perhaps you’ve heard of us?”
Kleimer shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” Walberg dismissed that. “To be frank, this is some story you’ve got going here. Have any other studios contacted you?”
Again Kleimer shook his head.
“Super! Our project is in the form of a made-for-TV movie. The religious angle is irresistible. ‘Priest kills bishop.’ Out of the Middle Ages. Tell me, is there sex?”
“Sex?”
“You know-a woman. Someone they fought over. A broad plays one against the other. Or maybe there isn’t a woman. Maybe they’re gay lovers-the bishop and the priest. Maybe the bishop is unfaithful and his significant other offs him.… Any of that? It’d be perfect.”
Kleimer counted the change. He’d have to play his hand most carefully. This-a movie-had no place in his plans. Although, confronted with the reality, he should’ve figured on this. But … a
