Bishop as Pawn

something-he didn’t know what. Whatever he was supposed to find.

Kleimer’s apartment was on the fourth floor of the Riverfront high rise. From the vantage point this low in the building, the view needed a lot to be breathtaking. But the apartment was comfortably furnished … though there did seem to be a preponderance of end tables.

Hmmm … out of the ordinary for him to notice such an insignificant detail. Was that what God wanted him to investigate?

God simply had to make Himself more clear!

Koesler walked about the living room, examining each table as carefully as possible. Magazines; newspapers; folders-brought from work, presumably; some ashtrays; a few pieces of personal memorabilia.

Nothing noteworthy or signal, unless there was something incriminating in one of those folders. But for Koesler to have a go at checking those, Kleimer would have to be out of the room for an extended period. Maybe if he took a shower …

Koesler shook his head; his host looked and smelled as if he was ready for his date.

Kleimer returned with two drinks. The tall fizzing one was Koesler’s. Kleimer appeared to have made himself a martini … either that or he had put ice and a large olive in water.

They sat on facing sofas. Koesler was within reaching distance of an end table-one that held several of the mysterious folders. He was sorely tempted.

“So, Father … you’re pastor of St. Joe’s.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And unofficial chaplain of the Detroit Police Department.” Kleimer smiled at his blatant overstatement.

“No, I wouldn’t say that. As I told you, it’s only an occasional involvement.”

“But I’ve been asking around. Your ‘involvement’ is always on behalf of the Homicide detectives and thus the prosecution. The operative word is prosecution. So I figured that somewhere down the line I might use you.”

The operative word, thought Koesler, is use. As he had already concluded, Kleimer was a user, a manipulator.

“As a matter of fact,” Kleimer said, “you’ve already been helpful.”

“I have?”

“You witnessed Father Carleson leaving Ste. Anne’s rectory about 11:30 the night he killed Demers. Now he won’t be able to back out of that one.”

Koesler was shocked. “But I only told Lieutenant Tully-!”

It took Kleimer a moment to comprehend Koesler’s distress. “And you thought … Look, Father, I know Zoo Tully doesn’t go along with the way this case is proceeding-he even has his own pet theory and suspect. But Tully works for the department, not for himself. He couldn’t be the honest cop he is and hold back that information.

“But don’t feel bad: Your information was just icing on the cake. This case was wrapped up the minute Lieutenant Quirt was diligent enough to order an autopsy for Demers. Pretty shrewd police work, I’d say.”

“I guess that’s so,” Koesler said. “But if Lieutenant Quirt hadn’t thought of it, you would have.”

“What’s that?” It was Kleimer’s turn to be surprised.

“I mean, you’re too efficient a prosecutor not to know that Father Carleson had almost adopted Mr. Demers. That Father was concerned about Demers’s vegetative state … and that Father had even discussed euthanasia. All of that was common knowledge around the hospital. I’d be very surprised if you didn’t know all about it.”

Kleimer considered this a moment. “Well, yes, of course I knew it.”

“So even if Lieutenant Quirt hadn’t been suspicious, you surely would have.”

Kleimer thought again, then chuckled. “Sure I would’ve. Of course I would’ve. But don’t tell anybody; I want Quirt to feel good about this. He deserves it. It was a good catch.”

“Very generous of you,” Koesler observed.

“Speaking of Quirt, he tells me he’s back in the movie business.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, that made-for-TV production they’ve been working on even while the investigation was continuing. They came to me first. But I was up to my neck with the Diego murder, so I passed them on to Quirt. They got so obnoxious that even Quirt dumped them. Now that the investigation is completed, George got reinvolved. They promised him some bucks. So far, that’s still just a promise.”

“Now that you mention it,” Koesler said, “I was reading something about that movie. Didn’t they have … oh, what’s his name?… Charles Durning signed? Hard to believe he’s supposed to play a Hispanic bishop.”

“They lost Durning. But they think they can get Donald Sutherland.”

“Donald Sutherland!”

“Guess who he’s supposed to play.”

Koesler shook his head.

“Me!”

“You.”

“Yes. Not bad, wouldn’t you say, having Donald Sutherland play me?” The very thought of someone so famous portraying him seemed to intoxicate Kleimer. He launched into a narrative expounding on his hopes and plans. This case had already gained him national, even international, recognition. There would be plenty more to come as the trial took place and as, inevitably, he won a conviction.

Of course, Kleimer expected a defense of insanity, but he was quite sure he could defeat that ploy. And even if Carleson’s insanity plea succeeded, the priest would be behind bars one way or the other. Kleimer couldn’t wait to lock horns with Avery Cone. Nothing like going against the best; his victory would be all the greater.

One word leading to another, Kleimer used up a lot of time blowing his own horn.

Throughout, every chance he got, Koesler scanned the room. He had to return his gaze to the speaker from time to time; he didn’t want to create the impression he was bored. He simply was searching for … what? He didn’t know. He felt like an actor in a play knowing neither his lines nor even which play he was in.

At length, Kleimer checked his watch. “Say, Father” — he was still looking at his watch-” it’s time I got on my horse or the lady will kill me.” As he and a reluctant Koesler rose to their feet, the phone rang.

Kleimer hesitated. “I’ll be just a minute,” he said as he left the room.

“Just a minute,” Koesler repeated in his mind. Just a minute! He could not chance picking up even one of these mysterious and strangely promising folders in “just a minute.”

Once again he scanned the room. At least now he didn’t have to worry about holding eye contact. But there was nothing he hadn’t seen earlier. And nothing that seemed even remotely incriminating. Koesler’s heart sank. What a dumb idea this had been!

Kleimer leaned back into the living room, a distressed look on his face. One of his hands covered the phone. “The lady wants to cancel tonight. I’ve gotta talk her out of that. Would you mind letting yourself out?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Thanks. We’ll talk.”

He disappeared again into the kitchen, whence Koesler could hear him cajoling, kidding, and pleading alternatively.

Koesler shrugged and headed for the closet to retrieve his hat and coat. Not for an instant did he blame God. It simply was not to be.

After all, he had no more than a theory, a mere hypothesis. For all he knew, his theory might be no more than a product of his wishful thinking. Perhaps he wanted so to help Don Carleson that his fancy had taken flight.

As he walked to the closet he became aware that his vision was slightly impaired by dirty glasses. He’d been in such a hurry since his shower and frustrated sleuthing that he’d paid no attention to how smudged his eyeglasses were.

Fortunately, he routinely kept a clean handkerchief in his overcoat for just such exigencies.

He opened the closet door and slid his hand inside the vest pocket of his overcoat. Strange, he didn’t feel the folded cloth he expected. Rather, it felt like a slip of paper.

He had no idea what it could be. He was forever stuffing pieces of paper, cards, notes, in his pockets. He assumed almost everyone did likewise. It always proved a revelation, sometimes an amusing diversion, to pull everything out and try to place the source of each.