He could catch the final few stories on the late evening news. It was sports, weather, and a cutesy closing bit. He was sure the lead story on all television and radio stations had been the rearrest and incarceration of Father Carleson.
He made sure the lights were out and the thermostat turned down.
He had recently begun an interesting book on the Jesuits in America. He tried that for a few pages, but he was suffering from major distractions.
He turned out the light and pulled up the blankets.
He tried to find the precise key that might unlock this puzzle and cast a fresh light on static presumptions. But he was too tired.
He had to agree with Scarlett O’Hara:
CHAPTER TWENTY — SEVEN
“Brad, this is Quirt, George Quirt.”
Brad Kleimer propped the phone between ear and shoulder as he swiveled his chair toward the window. “George” was redundant; how many Quirts could he know? “Okay. Good morning, George. Whatcha got?”
“I just got done talking to Williams.”
“Yeah? He home now?”
“No … and that’s the problem.”
“What’s wrong?”
Quirt did not have happy news. But since sending Williams to Maryknoll had been Kleimer’s idea, the problem was Kleimer’s. “Williams hasn’t been able to see the Maryknoll assignment book.”
“Why’s that so tough?”
“Well, he got to Ossining okay, and eventually he touched base with the local cops. He let them know what he needed, but it took a helluva long time to get their cooperation. He finally got one of the guys to go with him, and then they spent pretty much all day yesterday trying to find a judge who’d issue a warrant.”
“What?” Kleimer came to his feet. “Why didn’t he just go to Maryknoll and look at the record?”
“Well, he did, Brad-go to Maryknoll, that is. But they wouldn’t let him see it.”
“They’re hiding something.”
“Maybe. Probably. But the guy he talked to-a Maryknoll priest with the title of procurator-said it was the policy of the order not to disclose the record of any of their missionaries.
“I got all this from Williams … it probably makes more sense to a Catholic-”
“Get on with it.”
“Yeah. Well, this procurator explained that the missionaries’ activities could be compromised if this stuff got into the wrong hands.”
“Williams is a cop, for Chrissake! What does he mean ‘get into the wrong hands’?”
“The procurator says it’s the rule-their rule. The records of the missionaries are strictly confidential and they don’t share ’em with
“So? That’s one guy.”
“Williams says he went to the rector of the seminary and even to the superior general-which, I take it, is the top guy. Same song and dance … matter of fact, the superior general said this rule originated with him. That’s when Williams went to the cops. He thought it would be a snap to at least get the cooperation of the police. But, it wasn’t. Then, like I said, he finally got one guy. But they spent all the working hours yesterday trying to find a judge who’d issue a warrant.”
Kleimer was irritated and growing more so. “What’s the problem with the warrant?”
“The judges they saw had pretty much the same reaction: ‘The Maryknoll order has every right to keep confidential the activities of its members.’ And the judges weren’t about to tamper with that secrecy just on the ‘intuition’ of some out-of-state cop. That’s the word they used, Brad: ‘intuition.’”
“Intuition, my ass!” Kleimer’s fist hit the desk. “Williams is no dame. He’s a damn good cop! We don’t get jerked around by some hick cop department!”
“Yeah, Williams said the term ‘hotshot Detroit Homicide dick’ did get thrown around a lot.
“Look, Brad, I know you’re pissed off. So am I. But the bottom line is Williams is gonna have to stay in Ossining another day. And there’s no guarantee that he’s gonna get a peek at that record anyhow. The department okayed just enough for an in-and-out. We’re just about at the end of that chit. Me, I’d tell him to get his ass back here. But you were pretty strong on sending him there … if I remember right, you said something about financing this trip yourself. Well, now we gotta fish or cut bait. What’ll it be?”
It didn’t take Kleimer long to decide. “Hell, reel him in. Things were getting kind of thin on that first count of murder. But now that we’ve got Carleson for the Demers killing, we can’t miss. I still think Williams was on to something, but we’ve got a while before we go to trial. Hell, if those people in Ossining want to play hardball, we’ll just be better prepared next time we go for those records.”
“Lucky we caught that Demers killing,” Quirt said.
There was something about Quirt’s tone. It took Kleimer a moment to realize that Quirt was fishing for a compliment. “No luck about it! That was just good police work on your part. It would’ve slipped right by if you hadn’t been on your toes, George. Good going! That put a few more nails in Carleson’s coffin.”
“All in a day’s work, Brad. But not bad if I do say so myself. Of course, you won’t forget this when things open up here in Homicide, eh?”
“Bet your bottom dollar on it, George. I won’t forget.”
Quirt broke the connection. Everything was working out well. He felt very good.
“What’s up?” Tully asked.
“There’s no problem with Julio,” Sergeant Angie Moore said. “Even if we turned him loose, he couldn’t make it down the hospital corridor. We’ve got him under guard. Same with Vicki Sanchez. She’s lots better than Julio, but still needs care. She’s under guard too. Estella either has better tolerance or she didn’t snort as much as the other two. We’ve got her in holding upstairs.”
“What’re we charging?”
“For now, we’ve got her on possession with intent to deliver. I suppose it could be true. There was such a collection of dope in that apartment they’d be dead before they could use half of it. So maybe they’d turn it up and sell it.”
“Good.”
Moore shook her head. “This is kind of weird, Zoo. I’ve never been on anything like this before.”
Tully looked up, near expressionless.
“I mean … we’ve got a guy locked up for a murder while we’re holding somebody for the same murder. The second guy-Julio-isn’t even charged and hasn’t been arrested. He’s just trying to hold onto life. This is a whodunit! A real-life whodunit!”
Tully smiled. “I got my chips on Mad Anthony. I haven’t seen him since the other day. But he knows we got Carleson back in jail. And he knows that Carleson’s charged with two murders-and the second puts the seal on the first. But Wayne hasn’t blinked. I think if he had any doubts about Julio, he’d get in touch. But: nothin’.”
“Did you get anything at all from Julio?” Moore asked.
“Only that he ‘did it’!”
“That sounds pretty convincing to me.”
“Yeah … except he’s not too sure whether he used a gun or a knife or a voodoo doll.”
“Not exactly the kind of defendant you’d want to put on the witness chair. I can’t think of too many judges who’d accept multiple-choice weapons.
“But, Zoo: What about this? What if Julio comes out of this completely and remembers everything? Suppose he says he did it and identifies the weapon-the correct weapon? Then what? What happens with the prosecutor who keeps on insisting that he’s got the perp? And that he’s got motive, opportunity, and means? He’s got a half
