Father Koesler shuffled into the kitchen of St. Joseph’s rectory. He wore his pajamas, a robe, slippers, his glasses, and his ever-present watch.
He was grateful St. Joe’s scheduled no early-morning Mass. Much of his priesthood had been marked by parish Masses programmed for 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning. A 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Mass was an invitation to sleep in.
Now, with the daily Mass offered at noon he had the leisure to wake up gradually and prepare a more thoughtful homily. Habit, however, kept him waking and rising at 7:00.
Neither the housekeeper nor the secretary, Mrs. Mary O’Connor, would be in for another couple of hours, thus the informal attire.
With yawns and stretches punctuating his movements, he added a banana and skim milk to cold cereal, and turned on the small radio. Station WJR was halfway through its news broadcast. “And now with the weather, here’s John McMurray.”
Koesler lifted the coffeepot from its stand. Empty. Then he remembered having drained the pot last night with Don Carleson. Koesler decided he could wait until after breakfast.
“There is a mass of cold, arctic air invading the area from northern Canada,” John McMurray announced. “It will be accompanied by a strong high-pressure system which will usher in clear skies and plenty of sunshine. However” — McMurray pronounced it “howevah”; a native New Yorker, Koesler assumed-” the windchill factor will make our high temperature today of twenty-eight feel like it’s only five above zero. And I’ll be back in twenty minutes with WJR’s exclusive three-day forecast.”
Koesler regarded the banana. The last of its bunch, it had seen the better part of its life. He hoped it would not be too ripe. He preferred bananas to be bright yellow-even greenish-and firm. He’d have to remember to get more today.
“Recapping our lead story,” the newscaster said, “a Detroit bishop was found murdered in the rectory of Ste. Anne’s church just west of downtown Detroit. Police are on the scene and their investigation has just begun into the death of auxiliary bishop Ramon Diego. We’ll be bringing you more details as we get them.”
The radio continued to play, but Koesler no longer heard it. His mind was whirling. He went to the front porch and retrieved the Free Press. He paged through it, but found no mention of the death. Of course not; the story must have broken long after the Freep’s final edition had gone to press.
What had the announcer said? Diego’s body was discovered.…
The bishop couldn’t have been found before Koesler delivered Carleson to the rectory. Otherwise the neighborhood would have been teeming with police cars. He remembered how dark and apparently peaceful Ste. Anne’s had been last night.
Then who …? Could it have been Don Carleson who found the body? It almost had to be. Obviously everyone else had gone to bed. The four Basilians who staffed the parish had left last night’s meeting relatively early That was why Carleson had no ride home. That was why Koesler had volunteered a ride.
Evidently, the four had not found the body … or the murder had not taken place before their return.
It must have been Carleson who discovered the body … probably only moments after Koesler had driven off.
Why hadn’t Carleson called him?
On second thought, why would he? There was nothing Koesler could have done. He must have called the police.
Of course, that must have been it.
He wondered what was going on now, at this very moment. None of the priests at Ste. Anne’s could have gotten any sleep last night. Poor Don Carleson to have found the body.
For the first time, Koesler wondered how the bishop had been killed. Had it been messy with blood and gore? Or, perhaps, just the innocent little hole a bullet might make?
On second thought, would it have made any difference? In all the time Carleson had spent in Third World countries, he must have witnessed death in all its stark varieties.
Instinctively, Koesler dialed Ste. Anne’s. Busy. He pictured the turmoil that must be engulfing that scene. This was not an opportune moment for him to barge in.
He would wait to see when-or if-he was needed. No point in intruding where one was not wanted.
Still, he could not help wondering what was going on.
“I don’t care. I don’t like it, Zoo,” Sergeant Phil Mangiapane said.
“Sometimes it works,” Lieutenant Alonzo Tully replied.
“Maybe. But not when you got Quirt,” Mangiapane insisted.
Tully shrugged. “Look at it this way, Manj: Lieutenant George Quirt didn’t ask to head this task force-”
“As far as you know!”
“As far as I know. Okay. Just make sure your head’s on straight. We gotta close this one, and fast.”
“But what I can’t figure, Zoo, is why Koznicki put us on the same case with Quirt. And then, on top of that, to put him in charge of the case! He’s gotta know that we-especially you-and him don’t get along.”
“Walt Koznicki didn’t fill in the cast of characters, Manj.”
“No?”
Tully lifted his eyes heavenward. It was the only show of emotion he would allow himself. “Far as I know, this came down right from Cobb himself. And it was Cobb who insisted on Quirt leading this thing.”
“Just what we need: the Mayor messing in the squads!”
“Pull it together, Manj. And get those interviews in. We’re gonna debrief pretty soon.”
It had been Father Carleson who had called 911. The uniformed officers who responded quickly determined that this was no run-of-the-mill homicide. When they called it in, they made sure it was clear that the deceased was a bishop.
That led to calling in a number of homicide detectives who had expected a complete night’s sleep. It also occasioned the waking of Maynard Cobb, mayor of Detroit.
The mayor sounded out his chief of police. They quickly were of one mind that this was one the national media would feast on. Bishops died from time to time, but they weren’t murdered.
Cobb could envision the leads in newspapers, on radio and TV. “Only in Detroit …” The stories would enumerate the actual totals along with the per capita numbers of murders. Then the Cobb administration would try to find at least a bronze lining. Washington, D.C.’s murder rate was higher per capita. Or Los Angeles or New York had a higher total. Or Detroit’s record was not as high as last year’s. And that-the search for light at the end of this long, dark tunnel-made up the administration’s major effort to control this gun-crazy city.
While Cobb and his police chief did confer on the necessity for and composition of this task force, still they were not in complete agreement.
The chief was uneasy about putting Tully and Quirt on the same squad. It wasn’t that Tully was black and Quirt white: That was not a racial problem as far as those two were concerned. It was the disparity in their methods and personalities that occasioned the chief’s hesitation. Each was a lieutenant leading a homicide squad. Equal in rank, the two were, under the circumstances, likely to be on a collision course.
As far as the mayor was concerned, he simply figured that Tully and Quirt were the two most effective detectives in Homicide. They’d make an airtight arrest in the briefest possible time.
That Quirt was to be in charge merely indicated that the mayor wanted a speedy close to the case. Tully was more likely to be deliberative but accurate. Quirt tended to be swift and expeditious but slipshod. Cobb thought them a good mix. Quick but sure, with the emphasis on getting a body into jail in the least amount of time and the media off the mayor’s aging back.
Not surprisingly, the mayor’s view won out.
“Hey, Zoo, whaddya think?”
Thinking was exactly what Tully had been doing before Quirt’s sudden approach.
The two men were about the same height. Tully’s hair was close-cropped. He was lean, fit, and dressed conservatively. Quirt, almost completely bald, was noticeably overweight. He wore mostly bright colors and suspenders.
“I dunno, Quirt. A little early.”
“Good lookin’ guy.”
“Who?”
“The dead guy.” Quirt’s impatience was obvious. “The bishop.”
“He didn’t look that good to me. Just dead.”
“Yeah, kind of messy. But look here …” Quirt motioned Tully into the bishop’s office. “Look at all these 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.
“‘Richard,’” said a voice behind them, giving it the French inflection. Quirt and Tully turned. “It’s ‘Richard,’ said the tall man in clerical collar and black cassock buttoned from neck to ankles. The material was stretched to the breaking point at his ample midsection. “Richard,” the tall man repeated, “like the former Montreal hockey player, Maurice ‘the Rocket’ Richard.”
“Yeah, Richard.” Tully pronounced the name correctly: Reesharrd. “There’s a statue or a park somewhere … near Belle Isle?”
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 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.