It was not a pretentious house. But considering the neighborhood, the address, and the 48098 zip code, it probably went for about $500,000. Frankly, Tully had expected more from the Shells’ conspicuous consumerism. Perhaps more was coming.
The snow, somewhat deeper here this far north of Detroit, lay in neat rectangles, squares and other geometric shapes demarcated by crisply clean driveways, walkways, and streets.
Mangiapane pulled into the Shells’ driveway. One of the fringe benefits of riding with Manj, mused Tully, was that he knew his way around the city and its environs as well as or better than any cab driver. You not only never got lost riding with the sergeant, you got to your destination as quickly as possible.
They were met at the door by a maid in black dress and white apron. Tully displayed his badge and identified himself and his companion. The maid, displaying neither surprise nor awe, led them to a drawing room, where she announced them to a woman seated in a white deeply upholstered chair near the window. A white robe covered her from shoulder to ankle. Her complexion was a dusky tan. Though her eyes were obscured by shaded glasses, it was obvious she was the woman in the photograph on Mike Shell’s desk.
Tully introduced himself and Mangiapane. She acknowledged that she was Maria Shell, wife of Michael.
They declined her offer of coffee or tea. The maid was dismissed.
Mangiapane flipped open his notepad and prepared once again to record the session.
“You are aware of Bishop Diego’s death?” Tully asked.
Maria Shell nodded slowly. Despite the dark glasses, Tully could tell there was puffiness about her eyes. She seemed composed, but barely. He guessed she’d been crying.
“Why are you here?” She spoke softly and deliberately with no trace of accent.
“We just visited your husband.”
Tully expected a reaction, but Maria Shell appeared to be waiting for more explanation for their presence in her home.
“The bishop was murdered sometime between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00 yesterday afternoon. Your husband had angry words with him shortly before that time.”
“You think my husband killed Ramon?”
Tully, startled that she had used the bishop’s given name, quickly recovered. “We’re just conducting an investigation now. We haven’t accused anyone. Did you know about the altercation between your husband and the bishop?”
She nodded. “A friend told me.”
“You didn’t accompany your husband to the party.”
“I seldom do.”
“I would have thought that since the bishop was going …”
“He must have made up his mind at the last moment,” she interrupted. “I didn’t know he would be at the Carsons.’ In any case, I wouldn’t have gone with my husband. We seldom go anywhere together.” She paused. “What did you say those times were?”
“The bishop’s murder? Between 4:00 and 6:00.”
“My husband’s outburst?”
“Sometime between 2:30 and 3:00.”
“Michael was not home at all yesterday afternoon or evening. He didn’t come home until approximately 10:00 last night.”
Interesting. The wife goes out of her way to destroy her husband’s alibi sight unseen. “He didn’t claim to be home, Mrs. Shell.”
One corner of her mouth turned up. She shrugged. “Did he … suffer … much?”
The question derailed Tully. It seemed related to nothing. “Your husband?”
“No!” Her tone indicated she couldn’t have cared less if her husband had been hanged, drawn, and quartered. “Ramon.”
“Oh. ‘Suffered’?” Tully had not given the matter any thought. But the answer was not difficult, nor did he have to bend the truth. “No, I don’t think so. I think death came instantly. If death wasn’t instantaneous, he was at least unconscious and died in that condition.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. She made no move to brush it away. It was a poignant moment, and Tully paused, almost in memoriam to the bishop and the evident affection Mrs. Shell had for him.
“Your husband stated that your marriage for quite some time has been … I think his words were, ‘on thin ice.’”
Her generous lips pulled tight. “How would he know?”
“Beg pardon?”
“He was seldom here. Business interfered” — she spoke the word bitterly-“with his home life. I was his … seminal wastebasket.”
Now, there’s a descriptive phrase, Tully thought. “Whatever. Your husband stated that your already shaky relationship went downhill after Bishop Diego came on the scene.”
She made a disparaging sound. “If it hadn’t been for Bishop Diego, my marriage to Michael would have ended.”
Apparently, thought Tully, Maria had some mechanism, perhaps subconscious, that dictated whether she used the bishop’s given name or his title. It might be important to understand this choice. “Your marriage ‘would have ended’?”
“I’ll be frank with you, Lieutenant: If Ramon had shown the slightest interest, I would have left Michael in a minute to be with him!”
Tully was willing to reconsider Diego’s power to mesmerize. Quite a statement! And to the police … “One of the things we’re trying to find out” — Tully shifted the conversation slightly-“is just what sort of man Bishop Diego was. It might help us determine who might want him out of the way. Of all the people in this area, you probably would be best able to help. Would you?”
As she leaned back in the chair, her robe opened to the knee. Both detectives noted a very shapely leg.
“What can I say? Ramon was a kind, generous, dedicated priest.” She turned her head from side to side as if looking for something to say that would be more relevant.
“It has been mentioned” — Tully did not state how often and how forcefully it had been mentioned-“that the bishop was ambitious.”
“‘Ambitious’?” It was as if she’d never heard the word before.
“Quite a few of the people we’ve interviewed seem to think that Bishop Diego was using Detroit as a jumping-off platform to bigger things.” Tully left Diego’s ultimate goal vague because Tully had no idea where one went from bishop. Pressed, he probably would have guessed Pope.
A joyless smile spread on Maria’s face. But it quickly disappeared. “I know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant. But it simply isn’t true. To the best of my knowledge, Detroit has never had a Hispanic bishop before. And there is a large and growing Latino community here. So, I suppose, when Ramon was called from Texas and made a bishop here, many people just put two and two together and got five.
“He became the Great Spanish Hope. Just because he happened to be Hispanic and was assigned to the archdiocese. It happens. A black bishop comes to a diocese and the black community assumes he’s there for them alone. But that just isn’t the way it works.”
Tully smiled engagingly. “You’ll have to explain that a little more for my benefit, Mrs. Shell. That’s the way it works for me.”
“You’re not a Catholic.”
Tully shook his head but did not bother clarifying how far from being Catholic he was.
“I think,” Maria began, “St. Paul said something about that for the Christian-they did not use the term Catholic in those days, but it was the same thing-”
It was? Tully wondered.
“… there was no such thing as Jew or Gentile, male or female, bondsman or free man. We are all one in Christ.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Shell, but it doesn’t seem to workout that way in practice. Does it?”
“My very point, Lieutenant. I am speaking of the ideal. That’s what we all strive for. At least that is what we ought to be striving for. But, in practice, we regularly fail in this objective. So African-American Catholics feel separated from other Catholics. And if a black bishop is sent to their diocese, they feel he is God’s gift to them. Or, in this case, a Latino bishop is sent to Detroit and the Latino community believes he has been sent to them.”
“But he hasn’t.”
“But he hasn’t,” she confirmed. “He is sent to the archdiocese of Detroit and to all the Catholics of this archdiocese. Do you see?”
“Yes.” Tully nodded. “I think I see. But do you see how the Latinos could hope that he came for them?”
“Yes, of course I understand. But they are wrong.”
“Let’s just go a little further with this, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Shell.”
She nodded. But she was beginning to fidget. He was going to have to wrap this up. “Earlier today, I was in the late bishop’s office. Have you ever been there?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a simple, modest office. I would have expected that a bishop would have had something much more elegant.”
She smiled more unreservedly, with a sense of pride, Tully thought.
“But,” he continued, “I was struck by the photos on the walls of the office. You know the ones I mean?”
She made no response whatsoever. It was as if he had not posed the question.
“I think,” Tully said, “that the bishop is in every picture. Which is not surprising in itself. But just about everybody else in these pictures-at least all I managed to see-they were all prominent people, well known in this area.” He paused.
“So?”
“So, I was wondering just who the bishop had come to Detroit to save or serve-whichever way you want to say it.”
She said nothing.
“There weren’t any ‘ordinary’ people in any of those photos. Just the rich and famous.”
“Do not the rich and famous have souls?”
“I’m not in position to be an expert on souls and salvation. I’m just a cop with a problem. The problem is that a prominent citizen of the city of Detroit was murdered yesterday and it’s my job to find out who did it. Bishop Diego seems to have been a focal point for two local groups. One is the Latino community who expected him to spend pretty much his every effort on their behalf. The other group was the Catholic movers and shakers who had his interest just about all the time.
“Now, it’s pretty likely that somebody in one of these groups, for whatever reason, wanted him dead. One group, his own people, if you will, feel betrayed and accuse him of being ambitious. The other group has his complete attention. But maybe one or more of this group doesn’t appreciate his involvement with them … your husband, for instance.”
“You are intimating that my husband could have killed Ramon?”
“Could he?”
She reflected on this for a few moments. “He could not believe in his wildest imagination the type of relationship that Ramon and I had. Michael sees only one use for women. Most of his closest friends are similarly limited. If anyone were to tell them that Ramon and I communicated on a purely spiritual level, they would laugh themselves sick. But that’s what really happened. It was on the specific urging of Ramon that I stayed with Michael.”
“Your husband claims that your relation with Bishop Diego caused you to stop speaking to him … caused you even to sleep in a separate room.”
Maria snorted delicately. “What came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“But, would you agree with your husband that your relationship was on shaky ground-or thin ice-at about the time that Bishop Diego got here, and that it subsequently deteriorated?”
She thought for a moment. “I’d have to admit that, wouldn’t I? I’ve already let pass that we are no longer talking, and that we’re sleeping in separate beds.”
“Your husband hasn’t asked for a divorce?”
“I think he thinks he can win me back.”
“Can he?”
“No.”
“But he won’t take no for an answer?”
“Apparently not.”
“Going back to my original question: Could your husband have killed Bishop Diego?”
She turned her head to the window. With her eyes shaded by the glasses, it was impossible to tell what possible message might be communicated through her gaze. “If he were …” She hesitated. “If he were … I think something would have had to have happened. Something like drink. Michael would have had to be drunk-not comatose drunk, but very high. Or using drugs. And I don’t think he’s ever been on drugs. Not more than a marijuana cigarette on occasion.” She turned back to Tully. “So, yes, under certain circumstances, I guess he could have.”
“Do you think he did?”
“I don’t know. I sincerely hope he did not.”
“You care about your husband, then?”
“It would ruin his life. And it would not do wonderful things for my life either.”