Bishop as Pawn (24 page)

FIFTEEN

If Brad Kleimer were keeping score—and in a vague sort of way he was—this day was beating him badly.

The priest—Father Carleson—had been indicted for murder in the first degree. To date, that was Kleimer’s sole bright spot. The bail had been set too low and, with the totally unforeseen interference of the archdiocese of Detroit, the priest had been able to meet it. Acting again in a most unpredictable way, the archdiocese had engaged Avery Cone to defend Carleson. Cone was good, one of the best.

Next, there were those insane people from Hollywood who’d almost inveigled Kleimer into wasting his time helping them. In what he had believed to be a coup, he had steered the madmen to George Quirt, thus ridding himself of them and, at the same time, further ingratiating himself with Quirt.

Then that had backfired when Quirt became infatuated with moviemaking to the degree that Kleimer would not be able to depend on him to press the investigation into Carleson’s past.

The cherry on the top of this unpalatable sundae was his former wife’s revelation that Carleson had somehow convalidated her marriage to Lou Schuyler. Not only did that negate Kleimer’s painstakingly planned revenge, it also tainted his prosecution of Father Carleson.

The score, as Kleimer tallied it, was about six to two in favor of the opposition.

After serious and solitary consideration of the latest development, Kleimer decided to broach the matter of Carleson’s involvement in Audrey’s marriage with the chief of operations. Better this way than to launch into the trial all the while looking over his shoulder for the subject to surface, leading to a possible mistrial. After all, Kleimer had intended on using this trial as a springboard to fame, not as a catapult to infamy. Being a laughingstock was
not
in his plans.

And so, as if to treat the whole thing as if it were a ludicrous possibility, Kleimer told the chief, in a most sketchy way, of the cloud that cast a “slight” shadow over the coming trial of Father Carleson.

Unfortunately, the chief wasn’t buying the “slight” possibility that this coincidence could haunt Kleimer in his effort to convict. Kleimer argued the point until it became clear that the chief wasn’t going to budge on the one hand, and that he was about to lose his temper on the other.

Make that seven big ones to two.

And then, the tide turned.

“Don’t get me wrong, Brad.” It was the frustrated voice of Lieutenant Quirt on the phone. “I know you were only trying to do me a good turn, but those Hollywood guys are nuts!”

“What’s the matter?” A glimmer of hope in what had seemed an ocean of depression.

“These guys think the real world is named after Disney!”

Coming from Quirt, an imaginative metaphor.

“They don’t give a damn for any of the facts of this case,” Quirt fumed. “As of now, the Hollywood version of the story is that either Diego or Carleson was a fruit. Or maybe both of them were gay. Or maybe they weren’t gay; maybe they were both in love with the same broad. Take your pick. Any one of those or some combination of them will be
their
motive for the murder.

“I tried to convince those flakes that something really happened here—that there was a perfectly good murder that wasn’t committed for any of those reasons. But, you know, it’s like I wasn’t there.

“On top of that, they wanted me to arrange for the mayor to give them the key to the city, and to make sure the news media was there to cover the ceremony.

“And that’s not all! They wanted me to be with ’em like twenty-four hours a day!”

“So?”

“So, I told them to go to hell.”

Kleimer was smiling. But he managed to sound seriously concerned. “How about the money? Wasn’t the money good?”

“Hell, I couldn’t even pin ’em down to anywhere near a firm figure. They kept trying to tell me that stuff made for TV wasn’t in the same league as the big screen. After a while, I kept trying to tell them, Okay, I believe you. But they were still vague. They were ‘on a tight budget.…’” Quirt went into an exaggerated imitation of Walberg and Turner. “‘We don’t know how much we’re gonna have to pay the stars … or rental costs’ … or” —Quirt returned to his natural voice—” any of the rest of that shit! They like to sweat bricks when they found out they were gonna need a contingent of our guys to be with them every minute they were working.
And
that they were gonna have to pay the cops’ full salary, including overtime!”

“So you’re outta there completely?”

“Brad, I’m all yours. That is, when I’m not working on the constant supply of murders this city keeps coughing up.”

“George, I really appreciate that. It just comes a little late.”

“What? Whaddya mean ‘late’?”

Kleimer briefly explained the circumstances that had forced him out of the trial. “So that’s it, George,” he concluded. “I don’t mind telling you I’m feeling pretty damned embarrassed about the whole thing. I had some great—really great—publicity going there. Everybody expects me to be the prosecutor. I haven’t even figured out a PR way to soften the fact that I’ll be on the sidelines.”

“Geez, Brad, that’s rough. After all you already put into it. Sorry. I wish there was something I could do. But …”

“Wait a minute.” Kleimer searched for an elusive thought. “Now that you’re not tied up with the movie guys anymore, maybe there is something we can do … if you’re willing.”

“Sure, Brad, anything—within reason, that is.”

“This is well within reason, George. You’re still tight with the mayor’s press secretary, aren’t you?”

“Yeah …” Quirt slowly acknowledged.

“Suppose you were to go see him—I think this’ll work best face to face—suppose you go see him and tell him how I’ve been kicked off the case. You can even tell him why—only soft-pedal it … like the remarriage thing is no great shakes. Put in the fact that the accused has Cone for an attorney. Push the fact that I’m better prepared than any of the other guys. Pull out my track record and all. See if he won’t go to the mayor. Maybe a word from Cobb will do it.…” He tried to make his voice impelling. “How ’bout it, George?”

“I don’t know.…” Quirt hesitated. “Wouldn’t it work just as well if you did it?”

“No. It would sound too self-serving. Believe me, George, it’ll work better if it comes from you. We’ve been on cases lots of times before. We’ve worked good together. You make the arrests and I slap them behind bars. Cobb, above everybody, wants this mess cleaned up fast. I’m the one can do it.” Again the compelling tone. “How about it, George?”

“What the hell. Sure, Brad. I’ll do my best.”

“Right now! There’s not a moment to lose.”

“You got it!”

There was hope. Just a glimmer. But there was hope.

He was in a sort of limbo. There were other cases he could work on. But he had planned to focus on and devote most of his efforts to the Diego murder. Now, he didn’t know whether it was his or not.

A few moments ago he was down and out. He would have, once he worked through the distraction of self-pity, devoted full attention to other, nagging matters. But that was before he’d had that brainstorm of having Quirt intercede for him.

He wanted to stay busy; he just couldn’t decide what to do.

His thoughts returned to the abbreviated luncheon with Audrey. That had initiated this latest flurry of activity. Now that he had a leisure moment to consider what she had told him, he wondered again how Carleson had pulled off that validation.
Damn!
Kleimer had been so sure he had covered every possible exit from the Church wedding he and Audrey had gone through.

But how to handle this development? Surely somewhere he could find a commentary on the new code of canon law.

But that was the long way. No, his best bet for the brief time before Quirt would report on his success or failure was to ask someone who would be qualified and willing to walk him through it.

Who? He didn’t know any Catholic priests; at least none came to—Wait a minute: What about the guy he met yesterday at headquarters … that priest who had helped in previous investigations?

Kleimer had no idea how that priest had been drawn into police work. But the guy had to have a better-than-average knowledge of things Catholic—even for a priest. Plus he probably was of a cooperative nature. Just the two traits Kleimer was looking for.

The name, the parish, escaped Kleimer. A call to his secretary, several calls by her and he had it: Father Robert Koesler, St. Joseph’s parish: 393-8212. So close by Kleimer didn’t even need the 313 area code.

His first impulse was to engage in a phone conversation with Koesler. However, that would leave both open to interruptions. No, better still, getting out of the office while Quirt was trying to work something out with the mayor might prove a diversion and ease Kleimer’s nervousness.

A quick call revealed first, that Koesler was at his rectory and, second, that he would be able to see Kleimer in the few minutes it would take to get there. Kleimer was happily aware that his luck was beginning to turn.

As he drove the few short blocks between the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice and St. Joseph’s, Kleimer debated with himself as to just how he would present his question. As a purely speculative problem? Hardly. He had to assume that Koesler was of above average intelligence; he would see through that device easily. The problem of some unspecified third person? Perhaps. But there was the same possible pitfall; undoubtedly Koesler would tumble to his deception.

No, Kleimer settled on the truth—but as little of the truth as he could get by with.

Koesler, as he awaited Kleimer’s arrival, began to rue his earlier eagerness to be involved in this case. It was one thing to try to assist a fellow priest in a troubled time; it was another to help the police charge that same priest with murder.

Of course, his aid had not actually contributed to Father Carleson’s arrest. That was the work of Lieutenant Quirt. To this point, at least Koesler’s involvement had not consumed too much of his time. But the prosecutor’s call might very well change that. Kleimer would explain nothing on the phone; rather, he had been politely insistent that they meet.

Fortunately, Koesler did have a break in his schedule now, so he was able to receive Kleimer. But this could get hairy if it escalated too much.

Koesler saw Kleimer in the rectory office. Not having much time, Kleimer immediately launched into the history of his marriage. He emphasized the marriage itself. At the time of their wedding, both parties were of age and neither had been previously married. They filled out and signed the necessary forms. He agreed to everything required of him. He promised he would not interfere in any way with Audrey’s practice of her Catholic faith. He declared himself open to the possibility of having children. He promised that if children came, he would cooperate at least passively in their being raised Catholic. There was only one obstacle to their marriage: He was not a Catholic. He had been baptized as a child in the Episcopal Church.

None of this surprised Koesler. He had led uncounted couples through that procedure.

What did startle him was Kleimer’s account of how he’d made sure that Audrey both understood and agreed to her part of the bargain. As part of the Catholic ritual, she also had some promises to make. Namely, that she would be open to having children, that she would raise them as Catholics, and that she would live her faith in a way that might lead her husband to convert.

In no other instance that Koesler could recall—in his own experience or that of any other priest he knew—had the non-Catholic partner in a mixed religious marriage gone to such trouble and detail to make certain sure that the validity of the marriage could never be challenged.

Kleimer concluded his narration. “As far as I was able to guarantee, the only sticking point was that impediment of my not being Catholic. But the priest requested a dispensation. And it was granted. I know; I studied the dispensation when it arrived from the chancery.…”

Koesler had to wonder why Kleimer had been so meticulous about his marriage’s validity. It was, he thought again, in his experience, unique.

“… I mean,” Kleimer said, “isn’t that something like Henry VIII?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Henry VIII, king of England.”

“Was someone executed, and I haven’t heard about it?”

Kleimer thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, she was one of four of Henry’s wives who wasn’t executed.”

“Where are we going with this?”

“Oh. The point is that Henry’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon, had been married to Henry’s brother, Arthur. Arthur died a year after the wedding. Then she married Henry. But before they could be married, they had to get a dispensation because she was too closely related to Henry by affinity—the marriage to his brother.

“The Pope dispensed them. Then, when Henry wanted to divorce Catherine and marry Anne Boleyn, he claimed that his marriage to Catherine was invalid because she had been his brother’s wife. In effect, he wanted the same Pope who had dispensed them from the impediment to invalidate their marriage because of the impediment he dispensed them from.”

“I’m familiar with that story. But what’s it got to do with you?”

“Just this: When Audrey told me that her marriage to Schneider had been validated, I blew my cork. But later, when I got to thinking about it, I figured she must be confused. A priest couldn’t do that … he couldn’t just run roughshod over all those laws. I mean, they’re
your
laws—laws of the Catholic Church. He’s not some kid priest; he’s been around.

“When she married Schneider, they couldn’t get around her previous marriage to me. I made sure all the
i
’s were dotted and all the
t
’s crossed. I guess they thought they had some small chance if I were to cooperate. Of course, I refused any cooperation.” He laughed sharply. “Why in hell would I be cooperative when I went through all that trouble to make certain there were no loopholes?”

“Why, indeed?”

Koesler noted repeatedly during this narration how inordinately pleased Kleimer was that he had been able to foil his former wife’s every attempt at happiness. And how disgruntled, how angry he was, that somehow, despite his best efforts, she had somehow achieved that happiness.