If Carleson didn’t do it, then whoever did do it, did it either out of mercy or-? A moment’s thought turned Koesler’s mind from a mercy killing. That would’ve been Carleson’s motive. But no other priest-at least none that Koesler was aware of-had such a motive. And if it had been one of the hospital personnel, it wasn’t likely such a person would masquerade as a priest. It would be far easier for a member of the hospital staff to walk around freely in his or her own uniform.

But suppose someone wanted to frame Carleson?

Why would anyone want to do that?

The obvious reason would be to cause precisely what had happened: a fresh start on the prosecution of the first case. The creation of a new image of the accused. Now, not a holy priest to whom any hint of violence was utterly foreign. Now, a not-quite-balanced individual who was capable of even murder in order to resolve a problem. If Herbert Demers was lingering too long-kill him. If Bishop Diego was manipulating good people-the murderer among them-and harming them-then kill him.

But who?

Gradually, an image took shape in Koesler’s mind. The more he thought about it-! Still, it was no better than a wild guess. And, in any case, he didn’t have a shred of evidence.

Ordinarily, Koesler would not have pressed on immediately-not in this unprepared, unorganized state. But he sensed that the longer he deferred action, the more difficult it would become to pursue this theory.

“… so,” he concluded, “what do you think?”

Koesler had phoned Lieutenant Tully. He had explained his theory as logically and chronologically as he could. Now he waited for the lieutenant’s response.

“Interesting.”

Damn, Koesler thought. Just what he had anticipated. “Is there anything you-I- we can do about it?”

“Nothing comes to mind.” Tully sounded calm, cool. Actually, Koesler’s hypothesis excited him.

“Can’t the police get into a suspect’s place and look around?” Koesler asked.

“Not legally. Not without a warrant.”

“Can’t you get a warrant?” he pressed.

“Not without a specific reason. And you don’t have a specific reason,” Tully reminded him. “When it comes right down to it, you’ve got nothing more than a hunch.”

“Is that what they call ‘a fishing expedition’?”

“That’s what they call a fishing expedition.”

Koesler thought for a moment. Tully was silent.

“Wait a minute,” Koesler said with some intensity. “What if I went in?”

“How would you get in?”

“He invited me.”

“He what?”

“A few days ago. He invited me to visit him.”

“The good guys just scored. But the ballgame is far from over.”

“But if-Lieutenant, if I were to find something I thought was incriminating … if that happened …?”

“Then you call me, no matter what time it is. You’ve got my all purpose number?”

“Yes.”

“Then give it a whirl.”

“Pray for me.”

“I’m tempted to.”

CHAPTER TWENTY — EIGHT

Wisely, Father Koesler did not rely on Lieutenant Tully’s inclination to pray.

But Koesler prayed. He asked for God’s presence with him. Of course he believed that God was present always and everywhere. But this was an intensified moment. He was convinced this would be his one and only chance to uncover the truth and, in so doing, free an innocent man from prison.

So Koesler prayed for enlightenment. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. He didn’t know what clue to be listening for.

What this came down to was that the police were forbidden by law to invade an individual’s castle merely in hopes of coming up with incriminating evidence. They had to have a good reason to believe they would find something specific in order to be permitted entree to look for it. The police were not allowed to engage in such a “fishing expedition.”

But the law did not forbid a private citizen who had been invited into the castle from keeping the fish that jumped into his boat.

The looming problem was that Koesler had no pole or line. He had no special skill in this sort of venture. He did not know what sort of fish he was looking for. He did not even know whether there even were any fish in this pond.

He needed help.

And that’s why Father Koesler was praying fervently even as he lifted the knocker to rap on the door.

Why did he have this sense of deja vu? Then he remembered: It was another time, some years back, when he had been trying to help another priest who had been accused of murder. He, Koesler, had accepted an invitation to dinner at the apartment of a man involved in the case, and, that night, had noticed something in the man’s apartment that had led to the solving of the case.

Koesler fervently hoped that the same thing would happen tonight-that somehow, history would repeat itself, and that he would again come across something-anything-that would prove that Father Carleson was indeed innocent of the killings he was accused of committing.

But hope was not enough. Father Koesler went beyond hope: He continued to pray, even as the door was opened by a smiling Brad Kleimer.

“Well! Come in, come in! Good to see you. Glad you could come.” As the two men shook hands, Koesler wondered at his host’s effusiveness; even Koesler’s own friends rarely welcomed him so heartily.

“Here, let me take your hat and coat.…” Koesler, feeling curiously as if he were divesting himself of armor, handed those garments to Kleimer, who stood waiting in front of the hall closet. Kleimer put the hat on a shelf, hung the coat on a hanger, closed the closet door, and turned back to Koesler with a smile.

“Kind of you to see me on such short notice,” Koesler said.

“Your call was a bit of a surprise,” Kleimer admitted, as he motioned Koesler into the living room. “But heck, I invited you to visit anytime … it was after I consulted with you about Carleson witnessing my wife’s marriage, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, that was it. I just had some spare time tonight, and took the chance.…”

“Fine, great! Can I get you something to drink? The bar is wellstocked.” He gestured toward an army of bottles. “What’ll you have?”

Koesler did not really want anything to drink. But balancing a cocktail of some kind might extend the visit. “How about a gin and tonic … heavy on the tonic.”

“Sure thing! Uh … by the way, what do I call you?”

“At the risk of seeming old fashioned, I’d prefer the title.”

Kleimer grinned and inclined his head. “Sure thing,” he said again. “I’m Brad.” He busied himself at the wet bar, his back to Koesler. “By the way, Father, I gotta remind you that I’ve got a date later this evening. So I gotta leave in about an hour. But now you know where I live you should come again sometime.”

Great! thought Koesler, not only do I desperately need God, He’s got a time limit.

Regardless, Koesler was using the formula he had so often recommended to others: Pray as if everything depended on God, but act as if everything depended on you. He was trying to use every precious second to look for

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