Bishop as Pawn (5 page)

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 George Quirt.

As far as Tully could judge, there was nothing specifically illegal in this maneuver. Ethically …?

“You’re just in time, Brad.” Quirt shook Kleimer’s hand in greeting. “We’re just gonna get it together. You remember Zoo Tully …”

“Of course.” Kleimer turned to Tully, who nodded perfunctorily.

“Come on in here, Brad. We sorta took over the dining room …”

Father McCauley, finding himself totally and completely ignored, hesitated, then walked away. He had work to do.

It was just 8:30. The task force members were filing into the large rectangular room. Dark mahogany constituted the decor. The large table, the chairs, and the cabinets were either ancient or appeared to be. The table was filling with notes, diagrams, and bits of what might become evidence.

The first group of officers into the room seated themselves at the table, with here and there a few chivalrous gestures.

“Okay.” Quirt took command, much to the resentment of Tully’s people. “What’ve we got? Mangiapane?”

Mangiapane, jaws tight, looked to Tully, who merely nodded.

“Okay,” Mangiapane began, “the time of death looks to be between 4:00 and 6:00 last night.” He looked up. “That’s subject to the M.E.’s report. The autopsy’s not completed yet. But, so far, it looks like a good guess.

“This place is wired for sound,” Mangiapane continued. “They got wires in every door and window. The alarm company’s central office reports the system was operating last night, but there was no single intrusion registered.”

“Which means the perp either was in here before the system was activated or he was admitted,” Quirt said needlessly. “Was there anybody else besides the deceased in here last night that we know about?”

Mangiapane shrugged. He didn’t have that information. Quirt looked around the room.

Sergeant Angie Moore, of Tully’s squad, raised her hand.

Quirt recognized her. He was not disturbed that, so far, none of his own squad had spoken. But, particularly since Brad Kleimer—an outsider—was present, Quirt was conscious that Tully’s people had taken the lead.

“There are four—no, five—other priests who live here,” Moore said. “Four of them have been working at this parish for from three to ten years. They belong to a religious organization called Basilians. There’s another priest who’s been here only about three months. He has some sort of special assignment to the victim. I wasn’t able to get that too clearly. He’s not here now—”

“Who?” Quirt was peremptory. “The guy with the special assignment?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s his name?”

“Uh … Carleson. Father Donald Carleson.”

“Where is he?”

“He said he had to go to the hospital. Some patients were expecting him this morning.”

“While an investigation was going on?” Quirt was growing truculent. “Which hospital?”

“Receiving.” Moore, in spite of herself, felt intimidated.

“Get him back here.”

“He answered all our—”

“I wanna know about this ‘special’ assignment with the bishop. Get him back here! For Chrissakes, this is a homicide investigation!”

Moore fumbled her papers together and left the room.

Tully would have intervened except that, fundamentally, Quirt was not only in charge, but correct: The priest shouldn’t have been allowed to leave while the investigation was going on. But after this briefing, Tully would have some strong words with Quirt. He had no business treating Moore like a rookie and publicly embarrassing her. She was a Catholic, and that, added to the normal respect most officers have for the clergy, had led her to make a mistake … a minor, nonirreparable one.

“Anybody got anything else on the priests here?” Quirt asked.

Williams, one of Quirt’s people, raised a hand. Quirt eagerly recognized him.

From Quirt’s change of expression, Tully saw where this was going—and he didn’t like it. Quirt was setting up a contest—his gang against Tully’s. If this task force was going to do its job, it would have to blend into a single investigative unit. Silently, he damned Cobb for meddling where he had no expertise whatever.

Williams consulted his notes. “I was working with Angie and we questioned all the priests.”

Williams’s mention of a name from the rival team did not endear him to Quirt.

“All five of them left to go to a meeting of a bunch of other priests at the Cathedral at 9844 Woodward.”

“They went together?” Tully asked.

“Yeah, one car.”

“What time?”

“They left about 5:30. The meeting was at 6:00 and they figured it wouldn’t take more than a half hour to get there, what with Sunday traffic and all.”

“What about the bishop?” Tully continued.

“He told them earlier in the day that he wasn’t going.” Williams lowered his notes momentarily. “For one thing, bishops aren’t exactly welcome at these meetings. The priests said most of the meetings they have eventually get down to griping sessions. And some if not most of the griping is about the bishops.”

The group laughed, recognizing that the priests were no different from a bunch of cops getting together for a similar session.

“What time’d the meeting end?” Quirt was not laughing.

Williams scratched his head. “No set time. There’s usually some sort of light dinner, then the gabfest. People leave whenever they want. They just drift out as the evening goes on.”

“When’d our five leave?”

“Four,” Williams corrected.

“Four?”

“Carleson wanted to stay. So the others left together sometime a little after 9:00. They came right back here.”

“But they didn’t find the body.” Tully’s statement implied the question.

“No.” Williams sensed he needed to amplify. “They came in by a side entrance. The alarm system they got here is top of the line. If you know the codes, you can program the thing to cover whatever areas you want. So when they deactivated the alarm for that area, they didn’t know the system that controlled the front door had already been deactivated. After they entered the house here, they reactivated the alarm for the rear area. They just assumed the front alarm system was on. There weren’t any lights on and everything seemed okay.”

“They didn’t check on the bishop?”

“Like I said, there weren’t any lights on. The door to his room was shut. He’s got—he had—a suite on the second floor—a bedroom and den. There’s three floors in this building, all occupied.

“Anyway, they didn’t see any light coming from under the door to his room. So they just figured that he’d gone to bed early.”

“So, when did Carleson get in?” Quirt asked.

“Uh …” Williams hesitated. “Angie’s got those details in her notes.”

Quirt was about to say something when Sergeant Moore appeared at the door of the dining room with a priest in tow.

“Father Carleson?” Tully asked.

“Yes,” the priest replied. “Sorry about this. I thought I was finished here, so I started making my rounds at the hospital. When Sergeant Moore told me you wanted me, I came right back.”

Quirt gestured toward one of the detectives who was seated at the table. “Sit down, Father.”

The designated officer scrambled to vacate his chair in favor of the priest.

Acutely aware that he had become the center of attention, Carleson was uneasy.

“The other priests here say you did not return with them last night,” Tully said.

“That’s right,” Carleson agreed. “Last night was my first chance to meet the other city priests. I wanted to 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