pictures on the walls. Good lookin’ guy?”
Tully had noted the pictures earlier. He had put them on the back burner for later study. Now that his attention had been drawn, he considered them more carefully.
“Looks like a movin’-pitcher star,” Quirt suggested. “Looks like … who’s that guy … you know, the spic in those commercials for the car … the … oh, hell … the Cordoba?”
“Montalban. Ricardo Montalban.”
“Yeah. Don’tcha think?”
The late bishop was, or rather had been, indeed a handsome man. But that was not what interested Tully. Each photo showed Diego with one or more people. Without exception, the others in these candid shots were among the wealthiest and most prominent men and women in the metropolitan area. Tully recognized almost everyone. Not one was or appeared to be Hispanic.
“He was Latino?” Tully asked.
“Yeah, sure. Whaddya think he was doin’ in this part of town? There ain’t many people left around here. But what’s here are spics.”
Tully stepped back into the hallway. Quirt followed.
By far the most conspicuous fixture in the long, narrow, ancient corridor was a larger-than-life bust, done in some sort of black material. The officers approached it with some curiosity.
Quirt bent to read the identifying plaque. “‘Father Gabriel …’” He paused. “‘Richard,’” He pronounced the surname as the English given name.
“Yeah,
The priest nodded. “And here in Ste. Anne’s parish where Father served as a pastor almost two hundred years ago. In fact,” he continued, “Father Richard is buried right here in this church.”
Quirt whipped out his pen and notepad. “And you are …?”
“McCauley. Father David McCauley. I’m one of the priests assigned to this parish. I’m also” — a tone of modest pride crept into his voice-“a bit of a local historian.
“Maybe, since the bishop died here, and I suppose much of your investigation will be conducted here, maybe you’d like to hear a little bit about Ste. Anne’s?”
“Okay,” Tully said, on the off chance that this history lesson might lead to a better understanding of the murder.
“It all began,” said Father McCauley, “on July 24, 1701. Twenty-five canoes docked at what would become the city of Detroit. At that time it was just a wilderness,” he explained. “In the original landing party were Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, fifty artisans, fifty soldiers, and two priests. These few men began immediately to build Fort Detroit.
“One of the first log structures was a chapel dedicated to their patroness in the wilderness, Ste. Anne, mother of Mary the Mother of Jesus.” He smiled. “It is the second oldest parish in the United States, after St. Augustine, in Florida.
“Eventually, the church of Ste. Anne became Detroit’s first cathedral, anchoring the newly created Diocese of Michigan and the Northwest, which included Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, along with part of Wisconsin.”
Father McCauley was warming to his subject. Quirt looked fidgety. Tully looked patient.
“By far the most important pastor in the history of Ste. Anne was Father Gabriel Richard. He belonged to the Society of St. Sulpice, which was dedicated to the education of seminarians-future priests,” he explained. His listeners nodded. “In Fort Pontchartrain du Detroit there were no seminarians to teach, but Father Richard made up for that by bringing the first printing press to the area. He published the area’s first newspaper and printed books. He opened schools and helped create what is now the University of Michigan. He was the first priest elected to the United States Congress. He formed a nursing corps to care for the sick during the Asiatic cholera epidemic in 1832.” Father McCauley smiled again, this time sadly. “He became the disease’s final victim.
“The present church,” he continued after a moment, “is the eighth dedicated to Ste. Anne. In each of its seven reincarnations, it has never moved far from the spot it originally occupied just inside the fort.”
Quirt was definitely fidgeting. Tully continued to be attentive.
“In the beginning, Ste. Anne’s served a basically French congregation. Over the years, it has seen many ethnic groups come and go. Today it serves a multi-ethnic, bilingual neighborhood. It is part shrine, part historical treasure, and part geographical parish. Inside the chapel, which is” — McCauley gestured in the direction of the church building-“inside the church, there’s an impressive.sarcophagus.containing the remains of Gabriel Richard in his original coffin. And the altar in the chapel is the same one used by Father Richard.
“Since 1886, the parish has been administered by the Basilians, an order of priests dedicated to teaching. Today the parish is staffed by a number of our order. All of us speak Spanish as well as English,” he said.
“And all of us,” he added after a moment, “are dedicated to the Latino community-which in turn relies on this beautiful old Gothic structure for all manner of help and centering.
“Now, as you may know” — he looked at both of his listeners in turn-” large archdioceses can comprise substantial ethnic or racial groups, such as Polish, Italian, Irish, Latino, Chaldean, and African-American.” Quirt nodded impatiently. Tully just nodded. “Detroit surely runs true to this form. And among these groupings, the African-Americans and the Latinos have each been most vocal about wanting ‘their’ bishop now.
“Bishop Diego, up from Texas, was the archdiocese’s fairly recent gift to Detroit Latinos.” Quirt stopped fidgeting. Tully’s alertness was obvious. “When Bishop Diego came to Detroit, he reached an agreement with Cardinal Boyle that he would be at Ste. Anne’s church in residence only … with no specific parochial duties.
“This was not a unique arrangement for auxiliary bishops,” Father McCauley explained. “You see, the thought was that the bishop would become a leader of, and an advocate for, Latinos-”
“Never hurts to bone up.” Quirt, who had already learned more than he ever wanted to know about all this, smiled crookedly. “Well …” His voice rose. “… look who’s here.”
Tully scarcely needed to look. From the tenor of Quirt’s greeting, but mostly from the nature of this case, it had to be Brad Kleimer.
Tully turned to see Kleimer advancing toward them, hand extended. Kleimer, an assistant prosecuting attorney for Wayne County, was of small stature, perhaps five-feet-six, but there appeared to be three-inch lifts on his shoes. His physique evidenced fidelity to pumping iron. As usual, he wore a natty, three-piece suit. The gray at his temples highlighted his dark, blown-dry hair.
Tully well knew that Kleimer and Quirt had a lot in common: Both men actively sought out the high-profile cases. They coveted the publicity attached to such cases. Each fully intended to measurably improve his status in life. And each was effective at what he did. Quirt made arrests. Kleimer got convictions.
There was no doubt in Tully’s mind that Quirt had called and invited Kleimer to this made-for-prime-time circus case. If this scenario was accurate, Kleimer would owe Quirt one. And the debt would be repaid.
It was grotesquely out of the ordinary for anyone on the prosecutor’s staff to get involved in a case before the police completed their initial investigation. At that time, attorneys appropriate to the various levels of indictment would be assigned to the case.
Tully-and practically everyone else in the system-knew that Kleimer operated well outside the prescribed process. Somehow, more often than not, he managed to get the word when a headliner case occurred. And somehow, more often than not, he contrived to get the assignment.
Tully was not privy to Kleimer’s machinations within the prosecutor’s office, but it was obvious how he had cultivated the police connection. There were certain cops who did business with him on an indebtedness basis.
It was quid pro quo. Certain officers would cue him in when they chanced upon a case that merited a great deal of media coverage. In return, he would do his best to get them whatever they wanted-within reason. These favors ranged from rather modest gifts to preferential consideration for promotions. It depended, largely, on the case’s potential to attract publicity.
Of all Kleimer’s departmental connections, none was situated better or more willing to cooperate than
