Just now, Turner, complete with sound and camera people, was working the church floor, while Walberg was supervising the filming from the organ loft and other precarious vantages.
“This is very good,” Walberg said into the mike that connected him with Turner. “Lots and lots of action. Maybe too much. I’m not sure anybody will believe this actually could happen in real life.”
“I tend to agree, Teddy,” Turner said. “But we can always edit this down, or out. What’ll definitely be a keeper are these lines of people waiting to view the body. They get serious when they get in these lines. No more dancing to the mariachi band.”
“You’re right, Mondo. But there’s something going on up front in that line that doesn’t play.”
“What? What’s that?”
“The people, just recently, seem to be bending over when they get to the casket. They seem to be looking for something. But I’ll be damned if I know what.”
“Okay. I’m making my way to the casket. But can you say again? What is it they’re doing?”
“Bending … bowing … I’m not sure.”
“A curtsy?”
“No, dummy! I know a curtsy when I see one. They’re bending from the waist. But I’m damned if I can figure out what the hell they’re doing.”
“I’ll check it out.” Turner, complete with camera, sound, and lighting people, made his way through the crowd to the front of the church. He watched the odd ritual, as people continued to do precisely what Walberg had described from his perch in the organ loft.
Turner approached a woman who had just completed the bow and was moving away from the casket. “Can you speak English?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“What was it you were just doing?”
“When?”
“Just now … when you bent down by the casket.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Then why did you do it?”
“Everybody else was doing it. I think maybe it’s got something to do with the dead bishop. I was never at a bishop’s funeral before. Maybe that’s the way we pay our respects to a bishop … I don’t know.”
“Did you get that, Teddy? She doesn’t know. We’ll have to check with some expert … no, not Lieutenant Quirt-hey, wait a minute! This is good! There’s a woman sobbing-real quiet like-right next to the camera. Real emotion! The real stuff! Did you get that, guys?”
“I missed it,” the cameraman admitted. “I was tight in with the dame you were talking to. But she’s still doing it. I’ll get her now. Lenny, turn the sun-gun around.”
The woman, startled by the sudden flood of light, and sensing she had become the center of attention, stopped in midsob. A tear hung halfway down her cheek. A surprised look on her face, she just stood there, bewildered.
Turner approached her and, in a reassuring tone, said, “That’s all right. We wanted a shot of you crying. Could you do it again?”
“Could you cry some more?Nothing hysterical. Just the way you were doing.”
“Don’t you understand English?”
“Oh damn! Goddam!”
The man next in line after the now-dry madonna said, “This for TV?”
“Well, the movies, really.”
“Movies! You turn camera on my wife here. I make her cry!”
Father Henry Dorr motioned for both Fathers Koesler and Dempsey to lean in so they could hear him.
“Have you noticed,” Dorr said, “who isn’t here?”
“You mean,” Koesler said, “besides the aforementioned wealthy friends of the late bishop, and the Hispanic leaders?”
“Yeah. Who else?”
“I suppose you’re referring to Ernie Bell and Don Carleson,” Koesler said.
“The suspects,” Dempsey said with a broad grin. “They didn’t return to the scene of the crime … eh?”
“Don’t you ever get serious?” Henry Dorr chided. But then, somewhat thoughtfully, he added, “Wouldn’t you expect them to be here? That is, unless they feel embarrassed to be here. Unless they feel guilty about something.” His tone made their absence seem singularly significant.
“You mean,” Dempsey countered, “the fact that both Bell and Carleson are absent tonight means there was a conspiracy? They both killed Diego?”
Dorr clearly had not considered that possibility. His original, not articulated, point being that at least one of the two had a guilty motive for not showing up for the wake. But now that a connection had been drawn between the two priests, Dorr: liked the idea. So he adopted it. “Well, why not? Maybe the cops haven’t thought of that. They both had a motive and the opportunity. Maybe one held Diego while the other hit him.”
“Henry!” Koesler was horrified. “I can’t imagine any priest killing a bishop … anybody, for that matter. And you’ve got two priests in a murder conspiracy? Really, Henry, that’s too much!”
“Oh, all right,” Dorr said. “But if that’s the way this works out, remember you heard it here first.”
“We’ll remember, Henry,” Dempsey said. “And, speaking of confusion …”
“Nobody said anything about confusion, Frank,” Koesler said.
“I know, I know,” Dempsey replied. “But I heard this joke about confusion today-”
“Frank, this is a wake!” Dorr reminded.
“It seems,” Dempsey plowed on, “that this Irish maid went to confession and confessed that the butler had his way with her. So the priest asked, ‘Was this against your will?’ ‘No,’ the maid says, ‘it was against the china cabinet … and it would’ve done your heart good to hear them dishes rattle.’”
Don affected shock. Koesler’s shoulders shook with laughter.
“Well,” Dempsey said, “will you look who’s coming down the aisle!”
“Stan Kowalzki.” Koesler identified the bishop, the center of his procession.
Garbed in a flowing white cape, holding his crosier and wearing the tall miter and preceded by some priests in cassock and surplice, the retired auxiliary bishop smiled and nodded to everyone as he passed by.
“Well,” Don said, “that’ll tell you something. They send an auxiliary bishop for the vigil service-and a retired one at that!”
“I don’t think that’s so odd,” Koesler said. “The Cardinal will probably be here for the Mass tomorrow. He’s probably busy tonight.”
“This isn’t a mere priest lying in state,” Don insisted. “This is a bishop. Boyle should be here. Mark my words, there’s a statement being made here.”
“Mondo! What the hell is that going down the center of the church?”
“I don’t know, Teddy,” Turner said. “Wait! I’ve seen this getup before. Richard Burton in
“Get this! Get as many closeups as you can,” Walberg directed. “Great panoply! Right out of the Middle Ages. God, don’t Catholics know how to throw a funeral!”
CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE
It was now 11:00 P.M. Tuesday. The vigil service was long over. The boys had gathered in a couple of the large rooms on the first floor of Ste. Anne’s rectory. Clerical collars and vestments had been put aside.
