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.”
“Wait a minute. You can’t be-”
“Father …” Quirt was unctuous. “… all I’m doing is putting together what was just said by Father McCauley and yourself. Nothing more than that. Now, let’s just see where everybody was last night. Father McCauley, where were you between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00 P.M. yesterday?”
“Really!” As intimidated as McCauley was, he certainly had not expected to be treated as a murder suspect.
Quirt let his very authentic nasty side show through. “This is a homicide investigation. I don’t give a damn whether this Bishop Diego was a living saint or a son of a bitch. He’s dead. And I’m gonna find out who did it. With a guy who made as many enemies as this guy seems to have made, the line of possible suspects can get kinda long. But no possible suspect is excused just because he happens to be clergy.
“Now, Father McCauley, Father Carleson, you can answer our questions here and now, or … we can go down to the station. It’s just a short drive. But it ain’t as pleasant there as here.
“What’ll it be?”
McCauley lowered his head and nodded.
“Okay.” Quirt resumed. “Between 4:00 and 6:00, Father McCauley?”
“I was tired. We always are after the weekend schedule of Masses. And I was looking forward to the evening meeting of the priests. But I wasn’t looking forward to it very eagerly. And since we were committed to going, I decided to rest up and maybe take a nap-”
“Wait a minute,” Quirt interrupted. “How come you were ‘committed’? I thought it was voluntary. How come you had to go?”
McCauley hesitated. “Well, we had promised Don. He had never been to one of these meetings-uh, they’re actually parties. So we agreed to go for his sake.”
Quirt looked at Carleson. “Funny how you keep popping up at the center of things, isn’t it, Father?” He turned back to McCauley. “So you took a nap? Conveniently from 4:00 to 6:00.”
“No. I went up to my room about 3:00 in the afternoon. I read for a while. Watched a little basketball on the TV. And then napped a bit. Until about 5:00, I guess. Then I got ready to go. We left about 5:30. The dinner was at 6:00.”
“Anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts during this time?”
McCauley smiled lopsidedly. “No. We each have our own separate rooms. As far as I know, the others did just about what I did.”
“But you can’t know for sure. Maybe we should get the other three priests in here. One of you could have been with the bishop, couldn’t that be true? Maybe, since no one can testify that you spent all that time in your room, maybe you spent some time with the bishop. Eh?”
“Not hardly,” McCauley said.
“No? Not hardly? Why’s that?”
McCauley looked almost helplessly at Carleson.
“He couldn’t have spent time with the bishop,” Carleson said.
“Why not?” Quirt’s question was expectant.
“Because,” Carleson explained, “because the bishop was with me.”
“Between 4:00 and 6:00?”
“There wasn’t anything odd or out of the ordinary about it.” Carleson chose to ignore the implication in Quirt’s question. “Given my druthers I’m sure I’d have spent the afternoon the way Dave did. It’s sort of natural, especially for guys our age. That weekend liturgy can sap you. So, I was going to relax a while before leaving for the Cathedral. But the bishop wanted to go out.”
“Out?”
“An afternoon cocktail party in Grosse Pointe.”
“The bishop doesn’t own a car?”
“The bishop doesn’t … didn’t … even own a driver’s license.”
“You were his chauffeur?” Quirt sounded incredulous.
Carleson simply nodded.
“Did the bishop go out much? Travel?”
“A bit.”
“And with Detroit’s mass transit being what it is, and, I suppose, the bishop being a bishop, he wouldn’t want to depend on that. All in all, I guess you had to haul him around quite a bit.”
Again Carleson nodded.
“So, yesterday,” Quirt said, “just what did you and the bishop do and when did you do it?”
Carleson sighed. “He waited until about 1:00 in the afternoon to tell me. To be honest, I tried to beg off. But he insisted that it was important-‘essential’ was the word he used-for him to be at this gathering. He said there would be important people there-people who could do lots for the Latino community-”
“From your tone of voice,” Quirt interrupted, “I gather you didn’t believe him.”
“That depends. That there were many wealthy people there was probably true. That any of them would lift a finger for the community was … well, doubtful.
“Anyway, I don’t think the bishop would ask anybody to show some genuine commitment.”
“You didn’t want to do it,” Quirt said. “You didn’t think there was any point to it. But you did it anyway? Sounds kinda heroic!” The tone was laced with sarcasm.
“Look, Lieutenant, I’m no hero, or martyr, or saint. The way this arrangement began, it was supposed to be a short introduction to this urban ministry, sort of a brief probationary period.”
“What happened? You keep signing up?”
Carleson snorted. “The deck was stacked. Diego loved the arrangement. Out of nowhere he got a slave. Each time I was due for an independent assignment, Diego would pull rank with the head of the Curia-the one who proposed assignments.”
“Couldn’t you go over this … this guy’s head?”
“I’m not a crybaby … at least I try not to be.”
“Back to yesterday,” Quirt ordered.
“Yes, well, there was no getting out of it. So we left here about 2:00. The party started at 1:00, but Diego always likes to make an ‘entrance.’ The party was at Harry Carson’s home. He’s an executive with Co-merica Bank. There must have been about fifty people there … at least while we were there.”
“You attended the party?”
Carleson smiled briefly. “I am a priest. I would never have been left alone to wait in the car. Actually, I would have preferred that; I just hang around on the fringes on these occasions. Anyhow, Diego had promised me we would leave by 5:00 so I could join the others here and go with them to the Cathedral.
“But as the afternoon wore on, he showed no inclination to leave. That is, until this guy showed up at the party. It was about four o’clock, maybe a little later. He acted surprised to see Diego there. But the minute he spotted him, he headed for him like a guided missile. They had a few hot words before Carson steered them into another room.
“After a while, Diego came out looking somewhat the worse for wear. He was obviously embarrassed. He came right over to me and said we were leaving right then and there. He didn’t even say good-bye to anybody. That was about 4:30. We got back here about 5:00. I went upstairs immediately to freshen up for the party. I don’t know where Diego went … I suppose to his office.”
Tully was alert for almost the first time during this interrogation. “Who was the guy who created the scene with Diego?”
“I don’t know. I never saw him before. But that doesn’t mean much: Lots of people at these affairs Diego dragged me to I would meet for the first, and often the last, time.”
“Then,” Quirt said, “you were the last one to see Bishop Diego alive.”
“Not quite, Lieutenant. I was at least second last. Whoever killed him would have been last.”
“Now, see here, Lieutenant, this is becoming patently unfair!” McCauley said forcefully.
Quirt was about to reply in kind, when experience and instinct told him to swallow it and see what happened next. So, rather than trump McCauley’s ace, Quirt put on an attentive and agreeable face, encouraging McCauley to complete his thought.
“You seem determined to twist everything we tell you into some sort of statement of guilt. I’m speaking mostly on behalf of Father Carleson here. Aren’t you supposed to read us our rights or something?”
“I’m not arresting anyone. Or even charging anyone with anything.” Quirt was downright benevolent.
“We’ve tried to tell you,” McCauley forged on, “in the most tactful manner at our command that the late Bishop Diego was … a difficult man. And I say this cognizant of the maxim nil nisi bonum.” He slipped into the Latin aphorism.
“What?” Quirt meant to halt any incursion of a foreign tongue, and especially Spanish.
“Nil nisi bonum,” McCauley repeated, and then clarified, “Nil nisi bonum de mortuis … nothing but good of the dead. Say nothing about the dead except good things.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy Quirt, so McCauley continued. “In spite of the nil nisi bonum disclaimer, we have been very open about the actual, and largely abrasive personality of, uh, our fallen comrade. All right, he was difficult to get along with-a challenge, to say the least.
“Speaking for my fellow Basilians, after we learned what to expect from him, we were not enchanted with the prospect of his being here with us. But that was the arrangement the diocese made, and we were ready to live with it. That did not imply that any or all of us wished him harm, or, per impossibile, that any of us would kill the man.
“And, all right, Father Carleson was much more involved with the man than the rest of us were. But that was the decision of the diocese and Don was willing to live with it. It had to end sometime!
“Bishop Diego was a most difficult man. He made life pretty miserable for any number of people-mostly priests. And Bob Carleson was not alone in being a special target of the bishop.”
Quirt thanked his instinct and experience for letting McCauley ramble on. This was exactly what he was hoping for-another lead, maybe someone as good a suspect as Carleson. “And who would that be? Someone who was a ‘special target’ for the bishop?”
McCauley blanched. Too late he realized he had fallen into Quirt’s trap. Now he had no recourse but to implicate another priest as a possible murder suspect. In the brief interlude that Quirt gave him to consider what he’d say next, McCauley tried to rationalize his blunder. Eventually, Ernie Bell would have become entangled in this investigation. Among priests particularly, Bell’s combat with Diego was common knowledge. If he, McCauley, had not revealed this fact, someone else surely would have.
McCauley’s attempt at self-exculpation wasn’t entirely effective. But it was the best he could muster at the moment. “Well,” he said at length, “Father Ernest Bell has had some problems with the bishop.”
“No, no, Father,” Quirt said unctuously, “you and your friends here have had ‘problems’ with the bishop. Father Carleson has had his life made miserable by the bishop. Father Bell have much the same experience?”
Reluctantly, with much hesitation, McCauley told of the enmity that had grown steadily from almost the first meeting of Bell and Diego. Bad chemistry, McCauley declared. In any case, the conflict had escalated to the point where it was now larger than just the two men. Bell’s very parish was under attack by the bishop. Everyone involved in the Latino community was in agreement that St. Gabriel’s parish was vibrant and growing, doing great work, really. But would the power structure downtown realize that? Or would they be influenced by a bishop who had been brought into the diocese for the very purpose of providing leadership to the Latinos? Bell, understandably, was beside himself with concern for his parish and his people.
Quirt did not grasp the essence of the dispute between the clergymen. But he very clearly recognized a suspect when he saw one. And this Father Ernest Bell surely qualified. “So,” Quirt said, “if I got this right, you, you’re saving that this Father Bell felt threatened by Bishop Diego.”
“Yes, I guess that’s a fair statement.”
“The power structure of the local Church could close down a parish if it wants to?”
“Well, I don’t want to give the impression that they’d do such a thing capriciously. But, with the clergy crisis and all, sometimes a closing does solve a bunch of problems. Especially if a nearby parish can take over the displaced parishioners.”
“But now” — Quirt’s tone was eager-” now Bishop Diego is dead. And Father Bell’s problems seem to be solved … don’t they?”
“Well … yes,” McCauley admitted. “But that doesn’t mean-”
“Lieutenant,” Carleson broke in, “are we quite done here, at least for the moment? I’m way behind, and getting more so, on my hospital rounds. Do you mind if I leave now?”
Quirt, pleased with his progress and eager to begin checking out his theories, did not bother to answer Carleson, but merely waved him away.
Carleson left immediately.
McCauley was about to follow suit, when Sergeant Mangiapane stuck his head in the door. “Zoo,” Mangiapane said almost breathlessly, “the autopsy’s over-”
Tully shook his head and inclined it toward Quirt, who was obviously not pleased with what he took as a slight.
Mangiapane shrugged and turned to address Quirt. “This’ll make more sense, I think, if we go to the bishop’s office.”
“Let’s go.” Quirt led the way.
Return to the scene of the crime, thought McCauley. All those crime movies weren’t a complete waste of time after all.… Although he assumed that he had been dismissed, he decided to tag along.
The rectory’s entrance, appropriately enough, fronted on Ste. Anne Street. A sidewalk led to a rise of wooden steps. The heavy door opened to a small foyer that in turn led to a long hallway. Bishop Diego’s office was the first door to the right after entering the corridor.
The office itself was moderately large. Had there been much furniture or bric-a-brac, it would have looked crowded. However, it was sparsely outfitted. The eye-catching feature was the previously mentioned collection of photos adorning the walls. They came close to constituting a Who’s Who of Detroit, with the bishop’s image the only constant in each of them.
Now assembled in the office were Mangiapane, Tully, Quirt, Kleimer, and Father McCauley.
“Doc Moellmann,” Mangiapane began, referring to Wayne County’s medical examiner, “says that the bishop was hit once-a powerful blow to the back of the head between the crown and the neck. The weapon was a blunt instrument-a pipe, or a heavy bottle, or a baseball bat. We haven’t turned up anything yet.
“We found the bishop sitting in this chair and slumped over the desk. This figures out pretty good. The fatal blow was at a slightly downward angle. The bishop was kinda tall, almost six feet. If he’d been standing, to get that kinda angle, the perp’d have to be a giant.
“But if the bishop was sitting, then the perp’d be in the neighborhood of five feet six or seven-someplace between five-five and five-eight.
“Also, the time of death that we were estimating at between four and six o’clock yesterday evening is on the nose.
“As far as prints go, they’re all over the place. Everybody and his mother’s been in here touching things-and they don’t spend a lot of time dusting. One of the guys said they probably got Gabriel Richard’s fingerprints in here.” Mangiapane was alone in thinking this quite humorous.
“We been through this office and the bishop’s room upstairs,” he continued, “but we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”
“Nothing unusual!” Father McCauley exclaimed. “You don’t think all that money is unusual?”
“All what money?” Quirt was feisty.
“The bishop always kept some money-he called it petty cash-in the office here. We advised against it, of course. We told him it could be an irresistible temptation. We told him he’d be lucky if the worst that happened would be that somebody would steal it.”
“You mean Diego kept money here in the office?” Quirt pursued.
“That’s right.”
“And it was commonly known that he did?”
“Well …” McCauley hedged, “I wouldn’t say that it was common knowledge. Not everybody on the street would know about it. Sometimes the ‘deserving poor,’ as the bishop referred to them, or a family in desperate need of food or clothing-things like that. Well, the bishop liked to help such people.…” McCauley looked at the policemen. “He wasn’t a complete villain, you know. And” — he gestured to include the pictures on the walls-“he had friends in high places. He could-and did-tap some pretty wealthy people. With them he called it his ‘discretionary fund.’ They usually contributed generously.
“Anyway, I thought you would find that unusual or out of the ordinary,” he concluded.
Mangiapane was furious. “We didn’t know about it! We didn’t know anything about it. Where does he keep it?”
McCauley, rocked by the vehemence of Mangiapane’s reaction, spoke almost apologetically. “Why, right here in the cabinet.”
It was an ordinary metal cabinet, about five feet high and two feet wide. Its double doors swung open to reveal four shelves. McCauley reached toward a container about the size of a cigar box.
“Don’t touch it!” Quirt shouted.
McCauley nearly leaped back from the box. His nervous system could not stand shocks like these.
After a moment, as everyone stood transfixed by the nondescript box, Mangiapane picked up a small stack of file folders from the desk, slid the stack under the box, and lifted it to the desk. Then, taking a letter opener, he flipped the catch lock and, with the opener, raised the lid.
The box was empty.
“How much did he keep in there?” Quirt asked, after a moment of silence.
“Oh, $4,000, maybe $5,000,” McCauley said.
“Could he-would he-have given it all away?” Tully asked.
McCauley shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. I’ve never known him to let the supply dwindle down to nothing.”
“Mangiapane,” Quirt said, “get the techs back here. I want the box dusted.”
Mangiapane was dialing before Quirt finished the order.
Tully’s mouth curled in a slight smile. “Well, well, possibly a robbery/murder.”
“Or,” Kleimer said, “somebody wants it to look like a robbery,’ murder.”
Tully looked quizzical. Quirt seemed puzzled, but recovered quickly. “What do you want to take, Zoo?”
“I’ll take the quarrel at the party yesterday, and hit the streets.”
“Check,” Quirt said.
Tully and Mangiapane left without further comment.
Kleimer’s eyes went from McCauley to Quirt, who got the hint. “You can leave now, Father.”
That was all the word McCauley needed. He was gone.
Quirt turned to Kleimer. “What’d you mean about somebody wanting this to look like a robbery/murder?”
“Sit down for a minute,” Kleimer invited.
The two sat facing each other, knees almost touching.
“Picture this as a news story, George.” Kleimer’s gestures conjured up headlines. “‘Bishop Killed by Crackhead,’ or, ‘Bishop Killed by Wealthy Socialite’-or ‘Bishop Killed by Priest.’” He looked at Quirt fixedly. “You get it?”
Quirt thought a minute. “That pretty well covers the possibles we got now.”
“Yes, but more …” Kleimer edged his chair closer. “‘Bishop Killed by Crackhead’: How does the public react to that?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “It’s old hat. The big, important thing is the word ‘Bishop.’ But that he was offed by some nobody, some street kid with a head screwed up with crack or whatever-that’s run of the mill. Killings like that are in the news all the time. Everybody knows these punks will do anything for a fix. So he kills a bishop … too bad. But that’s life in the big city.
“Now” — Kleimer’s tone grew emphatic-” take, ‘Bishop Killed by Wealthy Socialite.’ Better. Why would one of the movers want to take out a bishop? Would he do it himself? Or would he hire somebody? People would want to know. There’s a juicy story for you.”
Quirt’s face was expressionless, but he was listening intently.
“But …” A gleam appeared in Kleimer’s eyes. “… ‘Bishop Killed by Priest.’ Now we really got something! This is right out of the Middle Ages, Thomas a Becket and all that.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Just remember this: ‘Bishop Killed by Priest’ is going to be written up forever. And that’s just how long our names are going to be in the public eye. It’ll be the biggest bust you ever had or ever could have. And,” he added with some satisfaction, “the biggest conviction I ever had.”
Before the lieutenant could respond, Kleimer swept on. “Now, get this: I’m not suggesting that you rig this investigation. But let’s say if one of our priest suspects does prove to be the killer, he didn’t do it for the money. Now don’t get me wrong …” He waved his hand. “I’m not saying a priest couldn’t steal money. But … Carleson and Bell both hated this guy’s guts.
“So now what does it look like? Like somebody got in here for the purpose of robbing the bishop and, for some reason-or for no reason-killed him.
“But I ask you, George: If I’m a priest, and I got to get rid of this guy, how do I throw the cops off the trail?”
Quirt’s visage slackened in the light of recognition. “You take the money. You don’t spend it right away. Maybe never. And we go out on the street where Zoo is, and we start looking for some loser out there who has suddenly started buying acid like he never has before.”
Kleimer said nothing. He extended his hands, palms up. A grin lit his face. Then he grew grim again.
“And let’s think of this: No matter who you arrest, and no matter who I convict, that’s no sign that the poor schmuck is guilty. Let’s face it, if that were the case, there’d be no innocent people in prison. And you and I know that not everybody who’s in jail is necessarily guilty.
“The upshot of all this, George, is that if you arrest some punk and I get a conviction, we might very well be sending a loser-an innocent guy, but a loser-to prison. And neither one of us is going to profit from it. The story’ll be dead just like the publicity we won’t get.
“On the other hand, if we arrest and convict a priest, he may or may not actually be guilty. But we’re going to get ourselves some media exposure we couldn’t buy.… Have I made myself clear?” Kleimer’s extended trip through a tortuous path of rationalization was concluded.
“Perfectly.”
“I’m grateful to you, George. And just to prove it … I hear that Koznicki will be looking for a new number-two man to back him up in Homicide. You know Hunter’s taking an early leave. I’ll just see what I can do to get the right man in that job.”
Quirt was grinning from ear to ear.
Kleimer gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and left.
Quirt knew what he had to do. But for a few moments he would savor his prospects.
Quirt understood Kleimer’s motives and aspirations as well as his own. The two were cut from the same cloth.
For months-no, more like years now-Quirt had been observing Kleimer’s unswerving, persistent ascent in the prosecutor’s office. With some 170 lawyers and legal interns on the staff, a person could get lost in a hurry.
Kleimer reminded Quirt of Silky Sullivan, that marvelous racehorse of yore. He had a habit of getting out of the gate slowly, and in no time he was lost in the pack near the rear. But, if you knew what to look for, and kept your eye on him, he would just gradually-almost leisurely-move along, overtaking one horse at a time until, approaching the finish line, he would be in the lead and pulling away confidently.
So it had been with Kleimer. He had moved up through the ranks steadily. At one point, he was one rung removed from chief prosecuting attorney. That, under a previous administration, was the highest-profile position in the office. Of course it was not the prosecutor, but, arguably, as far as media attention, and as a recognition factor, the C.P.A. got more ink, more coverage and exposure than even the boss. Kleimer was on the edge of genuine fame.
However, under the present prosecutor’s administration, the attorneys were required to specialize in various categories of crime. So that they would become expert in specialized fields. For all practical purposes, that nipped Kleimer’s career just as it was about to come to full bloom.
But just as that door was closed on Kleimer, he surreptitiously opened a window.
Most of the court cases in any large metropolitan venue are handled backstage. Out-of-court settlements and plea bargains clear a good percentage of the docket. Lots of other cases come to trial, but by general consensus, the media pass on them.
Then there are the crimes particularly heinous, bizarre, or abhorrent, as well as those involving the rich, famous, or celebrities that show up on the screen, the front page, and the top of the newscast. By no means always, but increasingly, the attorney of record and the talking head on television was Brad Kleimer.
Most readers, listeners, viewers, simply took it for granted that if a crime was notorious enough, Kleimer would be trying it.
Quirt was watching and learning.
As often as feasible, Kleimer tried to insinuate his presence early on in these cases. He became the presence whom police technicians had to walk around.
When it came time to assign the case to a prosecutor, Kleimer frequently could claim truthfully that he had been in on that case from the beginning and was far more familiar with it than anyone else on the staff.
There were times when this argument was dismissed. For one thing, nearly everyone on the staff was on to him. He was neither Mr. Popularity nor Mr. Congeniality.
But-and this was a large condition-he did get his share and more of convictions. Kleimer had a talent not only for coming up with favorable rationalizations but also for getting judge and jury to go along with his predisposed logic.
Thus, even though the method of his success was no secret to others on the staff, he still got much more than his share of plum cases.
While Quirt watched this recurrent yet successful technique with fascination, he could only guess at Kleimer’s goal. Though the possibilities were obvious.
One day Kleimer would cash in on all this valuable publicity. He certainly wasn’t building this reputation just to remain anywhere near his present position. He would assuredly move on-very likely into elective office. Perhaps prosecutor. More probably, governor, Congress, a presidential administrator. Who knew; maybe even president of the United States.
Nothing mattered to Kleimer but his advancement. He would sacrifice anything to be Somebody. This ruling passion had already cost him his marriage and the custody of his children. That hurt. But it was a price to pay for his advancement, and by damn, he would pay it.
Once Quirt had learned what was going on, he’d decided to attach himself as securely as possible to Kleimer’s coattails.
For Quirt too had aspirations. He did not want to spend his time until retirement in the police horse stables or watching over parking meters. His first desire was Homicide. That was where the preponderance of action was. That was a unit so elite that, in the early years, one needed a sponsor even to be considered for admission.
Quirt sowed his seeds of cooperation with Kleimer very carefully. Of course, there were severe limitations to what Quirt could do for Kleimer. But, as one of the patrolmen frequently first on the scene of a crime, he could at least try to guess where these cases might go. Each time he found one that was promising, he would call Kleimer.
Kleimer could recognize a promising source when he found one. It was clear that the higher this patrolman advanced, the more fruitful a source he would be.
Kleimer found a sponsor for Quirt and he was admitted to Homicide.
Quirt, in turn, was not without talent. His investigations of homicides, while tending to be shallow, were bolstered by some pretty good instincts, as well as considerable luck. Quirt was a true believer in the tenet, I’d rather be lucky than good.
In due time, Kleimer needed only minimal influence to see his protege move up to the rank of lieutenant-and become head of one of Homicide’s seven squads.
This, for Quirt, was almost enough. He would have been happy to remain right there until retirement beckoned.
However, a satisfied Quirt was not desirable as far as Kleimer was concerned. A satisfied Quirt would be complacent and not at all motivated to cue Kleimer into promising cases.
So it was simply a matter of advanced planning for Kleimer to suggest that the number two spot in Homicide might be in Quirt’s future. Quirt’s ambition was renewed.
The important thing, as Kleimer saw it, was to keep the carrot just beyond Quirt’s grasp. A hungry Quirt resulted in prime tips for Kleimer.
If everything worked as planned, there would come a time when Kleimer would need no help from any police officer. He would be far above that. Once he had advanced beyond the prosecutor’s office, he would drop Quirt like a child’s outgrown toy. Nor would Kleimer care that he was responsible for having someone promoted way above that individual’s competence.
Neither Kleimer nor Quirt cared for anything or anyone but themselves.