Bishop as Pawn

get to know them and let them get to know me. The meeting was old hat to my colleagues here. It was a first for me. So I turned down their invitation to leave early.”

“So what time did you leave?” Quirt asked.

“I guess it would have been about 10:00 or 10:30.”

“But,” Quirt pressed, “you didn’t notify the police until after midnight. It take you that long to get from Woodward and Boston Boulevard to here?”

“I got a ride from another priest. We stopped at his rectory and talked for a while.”

“This other priest,” Quirt said, “he got a name?”

Carleson bristled. He felt the insult in Quirt’s tone and choice of words. He also felt he was in no position to state anything but simple facts. “Koesler,” he said. “Father Robert Koesler. He’s the pastor of St. Joseph’s-near downtown. He’s the one who drove me home.”

Koesler! The name struck several chords with Tully. He had worked several cases using this priest as an expert resource. The guy was no detective, but he knew his way around the Catholic Church-as did, undoubtedly, most of the other priests. But there was something about this guy. Maybe it was his willingness to help. Maybe it was his attention to detail. Till now in this case, Tully had felt himself in a morass of religious minutiae, what with religious orders, teachers in parish work, some historical priest Tully had been aware of only vaguely, a bishop in residence. It was a happy accident that Koesler was already involved in this case. Much more of this religious stuff and Tully himself might have called on the priest.

“So,” Quirt continued, “this Father Koesler dropped you off here shortly after midnight?”

“That’s right. Then he left immediately.”

“What did you do then? Give us every detail you can remember.”

“Okay.” Carleson paused, attempting to recall the events accurately and completely.

“I opened the front door with my key. The only possible complication there would have been if someone had turned the dead bolt. I still could have opened the door, it just would’ve taken longer. And once you fiddle with the door, you’ve got only thirty seconds to deactivate the alarm.”

“And did you get to the alarm in time?”

“That’s what started me wondering really. I got to the alarm in plenty of time, but the code showed that the system for that part of the house wasn’t on. I couldn’t understand that. We’re very careful about the security system. I was sure the other priests had come home earlier. They would have to have deactivated the system when they came in and then activated it again after they closed the outside door. I figured they must not have noticed that one area of the house wasn’t covered.

“But I wondered more why the front door wasn’t protected. The bishop’s office is right next to the door. I thought maybe he had shut it down because someone had come to the door. He’d have to have deactivated it before opening the door. Then, maybe after the caller left, he’d forgotten to reactivate it. Still, that didn’t sound like something he would forget. That’s when I decided to look around a little. I went into the bishop’s office and turned on the light. And …”

“And you found him?”

Carleson nodded. “I found him. And I called 911 right away. Then I woke the other priests and we waited for the police. We were careful not to touch anything. I guess that came from watching movies about murders-”

“We’ve got just a few more questions,” Quirt said.

CHAPTER FOUR

After summoning father David McCauley, the Basilian priest whom Quirt and Tully had already met, Quirt sent the detectives back to work.

Quirt, Tully, Kleimer, and Fathers McCauley and Carleson then moved to a less spacious room nearby. With the considerable group of detectives no longer hanging onto his every word and gesture, Carleson felt less nervous.

Tully could not gauge how deeply Carleson was affected by all this. He seemed to be holding up rather well. But Father McCauley was definitely nervous.

Quirt began by telling the priests that while it was not a crime to lie to the police, it could be a really disastrous mistake. If they were to lie or not tell everything they knew, it would all come home to roost eventually.

McCauley was deeply impressed, Carleson had been bullied by more threatening characters.

It was obvious that Quirt intended to get down to the nitty-gritty immediately. Tully would have preferred to explore some background first. But, what the hell, the ball was in Quirt’s court.

“What we got here,” Quirt proceeded, “is we got a dead man. So he happens to be a bishop. Still, he’s dead. So we go through this thing by the book.” He paused and glanced at Tully. “Near as I can see.” Tully remained impassive.

“First thing,” Quirt continued, “who would want him dead?”

No response.

“Did he have any enemies?”

Carleson and McCauley looked at each other. Each seemed to expect the other to speak.

Their reaction did not escape Quirt. “Father McCauley?”

McCauley cleared his throat. “This is hard to say … but to be as truthful as I can: With some exceptions, the only people who liked him were the ones who didn’t know him very well.”

Quirt was surprised. “What … what do you mean, ‘didn’t know him’?”

“Well, like when he would visit a parish for confirmation …”

“Wait a minute,” Quirt protested. “What is this ‘visit for confirmation’?”

More than ever, Tully wanted Koesler around. That, he promised himself, would come later.

“Bishops,” McCauley said, “especially auxiliary bishops, travel around to parishes in this archdiocese-there are more than three hundred of them-and give the sacrament of confirmation to the children and adults who have been prepared for this sacrament.

“The bishop-in this case Bishop Diego-comes in just for that occasion. Maybe he has dinner with the priests of the parish and probably some priest-guests. Then there’s the ceremony over which he presides. Then he leaves.

“Those are the people who like him-the ones he meets very briefly in church. Bishop Diego could be charming. But not over the long haul. But … well, if anybody could speak to that it would be Don here …” He indicated Carleson.

At mention of his name, Carleson froze. McCauley immediately regretted having putting Carleson on the spot, so to speak.

“Oh, yeah,” Quirt said, “I was gonna get to that. Something about a ‘special assignment’? What’s that all about?”

Carleson took a deep breath, then exhaled as if he were about to embark on a dreaded journey.

“To put it as simply as I can, I’ve been a priest for some thirty years. Nearly all that time I’ve been a missionary priest in different countries. Now-well, as of the past several months-I’ve been in the process of joining the archdiocese of Detroit.

“I’ve got considerable background working among Latinos. So it was only natural that I serve in this community here in Detroit. But … I haven’t had much experience ministering in a large, urban, American setting. So … so it was determined that the ‘perfect’ assignment” — the sarcasm was unmistakable-” would be for me to work with Bishop Diego. The bishop is … uh, was … Hispanic. He’d been in a Latino community in Texas.”

“And just what did this assignment involve?” Quirt sensed a possible suspect. It was his favorite scent.

Carleson bit his lip. “To be pretty much at his beck and call.”

“Well, let’s see if I got this straight …” Quirt was warming to the possibilities. “According to Father McCauley here, to know Bishop Diego was not necessarily to love him. In fact, the less you had to do with the guy, the more likely you were to get along okay. Whereas the better acquainted you got, the more you disliked him.

“Seems to me, you gotta be pretty high on the list of people who might even like to see him dead.”