It had snowed overnight, an inch or so. Just enough to put a quiet white cover over the outside.
Father Koesler had retrieved the morning Free Press almost as it hit the porch. He’d pulled off the plastic cover and unfolded the paper on the dining room table.
Three separate stories relating to Diego’s murder and Carleson’s arrest on page 1A. Two of them jumped to an inside page where there were more sidebars and photos. Those seeking saturation information would not be disappointed.
He’d already heard the radio news, where the essence of the story kept being repeated. Radio did not have as much time as the newspapers had space. Television, with film of Ste. Anne’s and its neighborhood, as well as a series of talking heads-mostly priests-had somewhat more personalized coverage than radio.
And the story had gone national. The networks were picking it up from their Detroit affiliates.
Seldom had Koesler been this interested in a breaking story. Normally he was content to let each new drama play itself out. In his sixty-five years, there were few varieties of story that he had not experienced before.
This one was different. He could not recall in his lifetime a priest being charged with killing a bishop. Of course, that was the fascination everyone else was experiencing. People couldn’t get enough of this developing story with its bizarre if sketchy details.
And of course the media were in a feeding frenzy. No matter how they tried, they couldn’t keep up. Too much was happening behind the scenes where the media were not allowed.
No one could possibly be tracking the story with as much absorption as Koesler. He had noted the frequent appearance on radio and TV of attorney Kleimer and Lieutenant Quirt. Koesler wondered what impression he might have had of them had he not met them both yesterday. As it was, having been briefed at least partially by Lieutenant Tully, Koesler had some notion not only of the roles they were playing, but also what the stakes were.
From redundant interviews with both of them, it was crystal clear (a) that Lieutenant Quirt had broken this case and made the arrest and (b) that Brad Kleimer was going to prosecute this case.
Kleimer brought to mind Alexander Haig immediately after Ronald Reagan was shot. Haig had been near manic in insisting that all was well because he was now in charge of the country.
It was difficult for Koesler to settle into his usual routine. He had appointments to keep and things to do. But, in a desire that was, for him, almost unprecedented, he wanted to get involved in this case. The problem was that, after his briefing of Lieutenant Tully yesterday, no one seemed to want him anymore.
Brad Kleimer was running on adrenaline.
He had slept only a few hours, fitfully at that. He’d had no breakfast, just coffee, black and lots of it. To say that everything he did now was important was to beat the life out of the obvious.
The arraignment that would take place in just a couple of hours was, he felt, pro forma. He had no doubt that Carleson would be bound over for trial. But there must be no slipups. Kleimer was painfully aware of the pitfall of overconfidence. He was making sure that everything was being done by the book.
In a sense, the media interviews had been a distraction. In another way, they were part and parcel of the grand plan. Detroiters were no strangers to Kleimer’s voice and image. But this trial was going to make the impression he created indelible. Of much greater importance, in this case he was playing to the country. To the world!
Everything seemed in place. But time was running short.
What made it particularly frustrating for Kleimer was that he was not actually involved in these early steps. The public generally is unaware of the layers of specialists in the prosecutor’s office. Today’s show would be handled by the Warrants Section. This was the intake department of the office. They decided whether or not there would be a charge. They were the experts at getting a warrant signed by a judge for a specific charge which they would determine.
The next process that would occur no more than twelve days later was handled by the Preliminary Examination Unit. They took charge of the preliminary hearing. This was a formal hearing before a judge to determine whether there was sufficient evidence to hold the defendant for trial.
Only after these procedures could Brad Kleimer take center stage and take responsibility for the trial he’d been promised.
So this was a nerve-wracking time for him. All the attorneys who handled the early prosecution maneuvers were veterans of the system. Especially given the importance of this case, only the most experienced prosecutors would move things forward. Nevertheless, Kleimer worried. He needed this trial. It could well be his ticket to the big time. Meanwhile, he was getting the word out that when everything was on the line, he would carry the ball.
He stopped pacing, thought a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed.
It was answered on the second ring. “Yeah.”
“Quirt, this is Kleimer.”
A guttural laugh. “You’re all over the place, ain’tcha? We can’t turn on the radio or TV without finding you.”
“Forget that. What’s going on at headquarters?”
“With the Diego case? I talked to Koznicki first thing … got him to dissolve the task force.”
“Good! Very good. No problems?”
“I don’t think Tully’s very happy about it. But I headed this investigation and I said it was over. That’s by the book … and Koznicki goes by the book.”
“Okay. Now, we don’t know what bail will be. And we don’t know whether Carleson can make it. But we’ve gotta be ready. If he stays locked up, that’s one thing. But if he makes bail, I want somebody from your squad to hang loose on him. Not a tail, not surveillance-just check on him from time to time.
“But whether he’s locked up or cut loose, I wanna know more about him. Who he’s close to, who he hangs with, what he does with his free time, stuff like that.”
Kleimer was, once more, out of line. He had no authority to commandeer any Homicide officer’s authority. But he was secure in the presumption that Quirt would prove cooperative. One hand washing the other once again.
“Okay, okay.” Quirt was stung by Kleimer’s brashness. “Only, don’t forget: You owe me for this one. You owe me big.”
“You got it.” Kleimer hung up without further nicety.
No sooner was the receiver down than the phone rang.
Kleimer was sick to death of the phone. But you couldn’t tell: Maybe the networks had sent their teams in by now. To this point, the national media were tapped in to their local affiliates. Pretty soon the big boys would be here. It was inevitable. Maybe now. “Yes?” he answered brightly.
It was his secretary. “There are a couple of gentlemen out here to see you.”
“Who, Marge?”
“A Mr. Walberg and a Mr. Turner. From Los Angeles.”
Kleimer’s eyebrows arched. He had expected the biggies to come from New York. “Send them in.”
Walberg and Turner were tanned to the degree of leather. Neither was dressed for northern winter. But both were outfitted stylishly. Tall and slender, they moved in a studied graceful manner that brought to mind synchronized Olympic swimmers. As he shook hands with each of them, Kleimer noted both had very soft hands.
“So, gentlemen” — Kleimer indicated chairs, which they took-” I’m a little pressed this morning. What can I do for you?” No cameras, from the wrong coast … could these guys be something other than representatives of the media?
“We’ll be brief,” Walberg said. “We represent Gold Coast Enterprises-an independent film studio … perhaps you’ve heard of us?”
Kleimer shook his head. The movies?
“It doesn’t matter,” Walberg dismissed that. “To be frank, this is some story you’ve got going here. Have any other studios contacted you?”
Again Kleimer shook his head.
“Super! Our project is in the form of a made-for-TV movie. The religious angle is irresistible. ‘Priest kills bishop.’ Out of the Middle Ages. Tell me, is there sex?”
“Sex?”
“You know-a woman. Someone they fought over. A broad plays one against the other. Or maybe there isn’t a woman. Maybe they’re gay lovers-the bishop and the priest. Maybe the bishop is unfaithful and his significant other offs him.… Any of that? It’d be perfect.”
Kleimer counted the change. He’d have to play his hand most carefully. This-a movie-had no place in his plans. Although, confronted with the reality, he should’ve figured on this. But … a movie. Did he want to get involved in this?
“Would you like some coffee?” His visitors accepted. He could have had his secretary bring it, but he went for it himself. He needed time to consider their overture.
A movie! It was attractive. That was indisputable. It might be fun. And everyone knew Hollywood is where the bucks are.
Of course money was a consideration, but in his priority system not the primary one. If money were high on his list, he’d be in private practice.
No; he had established his agenda and it was working very well. He had made a name and reputation for himself far faster and far more dependably than he might have as a moderately big fish in a gigantic pond.
Then too, movies were chancy. No matter what kind of offer these two slimeballs would make, once they got going, he would have little input, and no control whatever of the finished product. Their stupidity easily could rub off on him.
No; all things considered, getting in on their deal made no sense for him.
But he’d have to let them down easy. If they got their cockamamy idea off the ground, and if he left them with a bad taste, they could easily screw up his character in the movie.
So, how to let them down gently?
Quirt. Of course! Quirt would be thrilled to be part of moviemaking. To top that, he owed Quirt some sort of immediate favor. This was tailor-made.
Quirt would assume that Kleimer, having been offered this opportunity, desperately wanted it-who wouldn’t? — but had given up his opportunity for Quirt’s sake. That would have to be the way this scenario worked out.
Whether he took it on or not, Quirt would have to believe that Kleimer had sacrificed his own chances to pass on this golden opportunity.
The welcome reality would be that it cost Kleimer nothing. He was dumping what to him was garbage. And Quirt would see it as a gourmet offering.
Kleimer returned to his office with the coffee for his guests. He leaned back and sat on the edge of his desk. As he looked down at them, he smiled. “Gentlemen, I don’t think I can help you. I’d like to, but I don’t think I can.”
Walberg and Turner exchanged a smug smile.
“Don’t be so modest, Mr. Kleimer,” Walberg said. “You have an inside track on a terrific story. We want to tell this story through the eyes of the one who sees that justice is done.”
“You’re right on the money. But it’s not my eyes you want to look through.”
Walberg smiled. “Think Perry Mason.”
“Mason’s a defense attorney,” Turner interjected.
“It doesn’t matter.” Walberg had lost some of his ebullience. “There’s that series … ‘Law and Order.’ Yeah, that’s the one-the one where the prosecuting attorney wins.”
“He doesn’t always win,” Turner reminded.
“It doesn’t matter,” Walberg snapped. “That was just an illustration. Moviegoers are in the mood to see that justice is done. And, Mr. Kleimer, your job is to see that justice is done.”
“Let me return for just a moment to that program you were just talking about,” Kleimer said. “The one called ‘Law and Order.’ The first part of that show is how the police prepare the case for trial. Then the prosecutors take over.”
“Yes, but …”
“Hear me out, please. All I’m suggesting is that you consider filming your movie through the eyes of the police rather than the prosecutor.”
“But …”
“I can tell from the kinds of questions you were asking a few minutes ago that you want to talk to the police. This business about sex, for instance. From the police investigation of this case, I think you’re on the right track. But I’m not at all sure it’ll come up during the trial.”
Turner exuded triumph. “See? I told you, Teddy: It’s a police story. If I said it once, I said it a million times: It’s a police story.”
Good, Kleimer thought. One of the idiots is happy. Now to make sure the other one doesn’t go away angry. “Actually, this approach may make your job easier. I suppose one of your problems is that the real life story isn’t over yet.”
Kleimer had not recovered from his initial amazement that they would attempt to portray an event whose conclusion was still unknown. He suspended disbelief for the moment. “You know your business far better than I, but it seems to me you’d be doing yourselves a favor by starting your film with the police work on this case. Then time would be on your side. You could work right into the trial. Like I said, you know your business better than I, but this procedure does seem logical.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Turner was enthusiastic. “It’s a police story.”
Kleimer was drawing the obvious conclusion that Walberg was a court nut while Turner loved police work.
“Well …” Walberg had lost an edge on his self-assurance. “… you are going to convict, aren’t you … the priest, I mean?”
“Put your bottom dollar on it.” Kleimer smirked.
Good-byes were said with promises to get back together as this venture proceeded. The odd couple left.
No sooner were they gone than Kleimer was on the phone.
“I know this isn’t the kind of return favor we talked about, Quirt, and we’re still in the ballpark of working on a promotion for you. But I’ve got something that will tide you over for a little. Are you alone?
“Well, then, find a place where you can be alone. You’re about to get some visitors who just might change your life. I’ll tell you all about it…”
With Kleimer’s forewarning, Quirt was preparing himself.
First he secured an interrogation room, guaranteeing privacy for himself and his prospective visitors.
Then he used his electric razor, patted down his thinning hair, and tightened his belt several notches until he had a real problem breathing comfortably. Finally, he made sure someone would greet the visitors and have them cool their heels for a while. He didn’t want to seem too eager.
All was ready. Quirt was prepared. At the last moment, he decided to let them wait just a little longer.
Armand Turner looked about with ill-concealed disgust. “This reminds me of the sign you’ve got on your desk.”
“Which-oh, you mean ‘This Mess Is a Place.’”
“Exactly.”
“You’re right, of course. But isn’t it perfect?”
“It doesn’t look like any police headquarters ever seen on TV. Most of them look as if someone has at least mopped within the previous five years.”
“Forget TV for a moment, Mondo. This quite obviously is reality.”
“Screw reality! Audiences will never accept such a tawdry scene. Our headquarters will have to measure up to what the audience expects.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Remember our budget. What if we can get them to let us film here? We’ve got to keep thinking economy. Already I’m thinking about that church … what was it?”
“Ste. Anne’s.”
“Ste. Anne’s, right. I’m sure they’ll let us use the interiors. Save us a wad not having to build those sets. Add a measure of reality, too. We can use this kind of stuff in the teasers: ‘The actual room where the bishop was clubbed to death,’ ‘Where he prayed before being martyred’ … that sort of stuff.”
“You’ve got a point, Teddy. I must admit I wouldn’t be unhappy losing these vomit-green walls.” His face brightened. “But hey, now that we’re talking budget, just what do we have? I mean, just to recapitulate. The event?”
“The cold-blooded murder of a Roman Catholic bishop by a Roman Catholic priest.”
“That does have a ring to it. The TV players?”
“Gold Coast Enterprises and a cable network.”
“Right. The reaction time?”
“A month or less. There’s a very definite limit to audience attention span when it comes to murder in Detroit. Even when both the victim and murderer are Catholic clergymen.”
“Right. The payoff?”
“We can look for a ceiling of about two seventy-five. So far we haven’t had to pay off anyone. But that’ll begin soon enough.”
“The problem is, everybody thinks TV pays like the big screen where six figures are what’s served for breakfast.”
“Let’s just hope our detective-what’s his name?… Quirt … doesn’t think he’s worth auctioning Disney Studios for.”
“Moving right along: the story spin?”
“How ’bout, ‘Changing Church explodes as priest kills bishop.’”
“Mmm … a little weak … but okay for beginners,” he concluded. “And, lastly, the problem?
“No ending.”
“The price you have to pay for being first on the scene.”
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Mondo, I just remembered something. It just dawned on me why I thought this place was so perfect. Beverly Hills Cop! Remember?”
“How could anyone forget Beverly-oh, I see: The opening was filmed in Detroit. Right here in these rooms, wasn’t it? Okay, so I guess if the movie had the ‘typical Detroit headquarters,’ viewers would wonder why Detroit had cleaned up its act. We almost have to use these interiors, for the simple reason that Eddie Murphy did.”
“And” — Walberg rubbed his hands together-” think of the savings!”
Quirt entered the hallway. Self-introductions were made. The lieutenant ushered the moviemakers into the small room ordinarily used for interrogations.
“We were admiring your decor.…” Walberg waved his arm in an encompassing way.
“Our what?”
“The colors, the furnishings.” More gestures.
Quirt’s eyes popped. He leaned forward. “This shit?”
“We were thinking of it more in terms of vomit,” Turner said.
“Yeah,” Quirt agreed, “puke is more like it.”
“You must’ve been here when they filmed Beverly Hills Cop, weren’t you?” Walberg asked.
Quirt nodded.
“Did you have to vacate the premises while they filmed?”
“What?” Quirt looked mock-astonished. “They didn’t shoot here. They couldn’t. This is a pretty busy place. They had to build their own sets.” He nodded. “But they did manage to capture the pukey atmosphere all right.”
“Well, Teddy …” Turner turned to his partner in slime. “At least it won’t be very expensive to recreate this place. And it’ll be an appropriate setting for the language.”
“The language?” Quirt’s brows knotted questioningly. “You gonna have cops wandering around using the F word the way they did in Beverly Hills Cop? I gotta tell you guys, that ain’t real. I mean, our guys are not unfamiliar with the word. They just don’t talk like that … especially on the job.”
Turner sighed deeply. “We’re not in the business of teaching viewers about reality. We give them what they’re familiar with.”
“But” — Walberg changed the subject-” speaking of business, I guess Mr. Kleimer called and told you what we wanna do.”
Quirt nodded enthusiastically.
“We want,” Walberg continued, “to tell the tragic story of Bishop Diego’s murder, and help people understand why it happened.”
“Why it happened?” Quirt repeated. “Even we don’t know that for sure. We think Diego pushed the priest-Carleson-too hard.”
“Don’t worry,” Walberg said. “We’ll find more than one reason.”
“Was there any sex?” Turner asked.
“Sex?”
“Were either of them-or both-gay?”
“Gay! No, nothing like that.”
“A woman?” Turner persisted.
“A woman …?” That was one of the leads Tully had uncovered. Quirt couldn’t recall her name … but there was something about some broad who might have had it in for Diego.
Tully would know all the details, of course. But one of the last things Quirt wanted was for anyone else-especially not Tully-to get in on this. “A woman … yeah, there was something about a broad who might’ve been a suspect before we nailed Carleson.”
“A suspect? No. No,” Turner said. “We don’t want to confuse the issue. We’ll have the woman as a love interest. We can get explicit there. The bishop in mufti, sneaking up to her apartment. Climbing into bed among the shadows.”
Quirt’s mouth was open. “You guys don’t get real worked up about reality, do you?”
Walberg disregarded this. “I think we can get this show on the road. Do you have an agent, Lieutenant?”
“Me? An agent? You kidding?”
“Then we’ll have our lawyer get in touch. About compensation. We’ll be telling this story through the eyes of the detective … through your eyes.”
“No shit! Who you gonna have … who you gonna get to play me?”
“We’ve been negotiating with a bit player you wouldn’t recognize. But now that Mr. Kleimer has changed our direction, we’re thinking of Chris Noth … you know, one of the detectives on ‘Law and Order.’”
“No kidding!” Quirt was delighted. “Hey, he’s a good-lookin’ guy!” He paused. “Chris Noth as me! Oh, yeah; I forgot about you guys and reality.”
Quirt was being paged. He left the room to take a phone call.
“Just wanted to check: How’re things going?” Brad Kleimer asked.
“Great, just great. This could be a lot of fun,” Quirt said.
“Fun?”
“Guess who they got playing me in this movie? Forget it, you’d never guess. Chris Noth!”
“Chris Who?”
“The guy who plays one of the detectives on ‘Law and Order.’ And guess what else? I’m gonna get paid! This is movie money. Big bucks! They wanna tell this story through my eyes. I’ll probably have my name up there in the whatchamacallits-the credits. This is a gas. I gotta thank you, Brad. Wait’ll I tell the wife.”
“Slow down, George-”
“Say, Brad, do you remember anything about that dame Tully came up with? The one who might’ve had a motive for offing Diego?”
“No. Forget her, George. What about all that follow-up on Carleson I asked for? You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”
“Don’t worry, Brad; I’ll get someone on it.”
“Dammit, I don’t want ‘someone’; I want the best you’ve got!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you somebody good. Listen, Brad, I gotta get back to the movie guys. I’ll talk to you later.”
Slowly, thoughtfully, Kleimer lowered the receiver until it rested on the base.
Christ! He hoped he hadn’t outsmarted himself.