Bishop as Pawn (39 page)

“This would be of no concern to him personally. He didn’t care about Church laws as they affected him, because as far as he was concerned they
didn’t
affect him.

“But they
did
affect his Catholic wife. And, sure enough, after their civil divorce, his wife discovered that as far as the Church was concerned, she would be considered married to him until one of them died.

“Now his wife did eventually marry. But she had to marry without a Catholic ceremony. And, just as Kleimer had planned, at her core she was miserable.

“Then Father Carleson came on the scene. To make a long story shorter, he passed over every single one of those many, many Church laws and witnessed the marriage vows of Kleimer’s former wife and her present husband.

“Kleimer didn’t discover this until after Father Carleson was indicted for murder. Kleimer was already determined to convict Father. Imagine how he felt when he learned that his former wife was happy and there wasn’t much of anything he could do about it? Even if he tried to get some ecclesiastical action against Father, he’d likely not be successful in this diocese. And even if he
were
successful, it wouldn’t take away his wife’s bliss. She had her marriage in the Church; she had returned to her sacramental life.

“And that was it!” Koesler concluded on a triumphant note. “That’s what tipped the scales in my mind toward Brad Kleimer as the murderer of Herbert Demers. It wasn’t only the fame he saw slipping from his grasp; it was that Father Carleson had utterly destroyed Kleimer’s carefully planned revenge against his ex-wife.

“I think it was almost a miracle that he killed Demers and not Father Carleson. But he had better plans for Father—plans that included shame, disgrace, conviction, incarceration.” Koesler shook his head in sorrow. “Not, all in all, a very nice person.”

Koznicki and Tully had listened with rapt attention. Each realized how truly helpful this priest had been in this case, as well as in past cases when a crime carried an essentially Catholic character.

“Now that Father Carleson is no longer behind bars and Kleimer has been charged with the murder of Herbert Demers, how goes the case against Julio Ramirez?” Koesler asked.

“Better than I had any reason to expect,” Tully replied. “Ramirez and the two Sanchez girls are out of the hospital but in custody. Julio’s memory is improving. And the details he can’t recall, Estella Sanchez is supplying.

“According to their three individual statements, they knew—as did lots of others—about the bishop’s stash. It was Julio’s idea to take it. His plan was to just go right up to the rectory when they knew the bishop was in his office. They staked out the rectory Sunday afternoon. They spotted the bishop and Carleson when they got back around 5:00. They waited till the lights went on in the bishop’s office. Then they just walked up to the door, rang the bell, and waited while the bishop deactivated the alarm system. He let them in. They gave him a sad song-and-dance about Julio’s mother being in great need. None of them had eaten in days, so they told him.

“It hadn’t occurred to Julio they’d have to kill the bishop to keep him from identifying them. Vicki Sanchez had brought along a piece of lead pipe. When the bishop was sitting in his chair, she passed the pipe to Julio and whispered what he must do.

“So he clobbered Diego in the back of the head. One blow did it. They got the money. They ditched the pipe a few blocks away. Then they bought enough crack to keep a pretty big gang senseless for a long while.

“They even brought us to the pipe. So now we have the murder weapon, complete with prints. We even got it down to this: Doc Moellmann estimated—based on the height of the bishop, the fact that he was sitting down, the angle of the blow—that the perp was about five-six or -seven. Julio is five-seven.”

“One thing, Lieutenant,” Koesler said, “I don’t understand why the kids are being so cooperative.…”

Tully smiled. “Mr. Anthony Wayne. Whatever we could do to them is absolutely nothing compared with what Mr. Wayne’s organization would do to them if they didn’t cooperate with us and tell us the truth.”

“So,” Koznicki said, “it is as Lieutenant Tully thought in the beginning: robbery and murder for drugs. It happens so often. If we had not been sidetracked from the beginning with that preoccupation with Father Carleson, much of this might not have happened.”

Koznicki did not mention Quirt, who was responsible, as far as the police were concerned, for the Carleson preoccupation. It was not in the inspector’s nature to needlessly place blame.

“Kleimer,” Koznicki continued, “might have ended up prosecuting the guilty parties. He might not even have learned what happened to his former wife and her reconciliation with the Church. He definitely would not now be accused of murder. Fate is strange.

“By the way …” Koznicki turned to Tully. “… have you heard who will be defending Kleimer?”

Tully chuckled. “Yeah. Avery Cone. He’s got some free time now that he’s no longer retained by the Church to work on Carleson’s case.”

“And Father Carleson,” Koznicki asked Koesler, “what will he be doing?”

“He hasn’t decided. So much publicity! But I think he’s going to continue his incardination procedure with the Detroit archdiocese. He is, naturally, quite impressed with Cardinal Boyle. And I’m particularly pleased: He has become a dear friend.”

Tully picked up the coffeepot from the hot plate and tipped it over his cup. Nothing emerged.

Koesler reached for the pot. “It’s empty. Here, let me just go fix another pot—”

“No!” Tully responded, somewhat more forcefully than necessary. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. But thanks anyway.”

Koesler looked invitingly at Inspector Koznicki.

“No, no … none for me either. We must be back at headquarters. There is always so much to do.”

Once again, Koesler had to wonder. Oh, well; at least his newfound friend Father Carleson liked his coffee.

The two officers were getting into their overcoats. Tully, head tilted toward Koesler, said, “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you …” His tone indicated a facetious question. “… is there any possibility that something Catholic—something spectacularly Catholic—is scheduled for next year?”

“Well,” Koesler said in utter sincerity, “there has been talk of a Papal visit to Detroit—”

Koznicki’s mouth dropped. “A Papal visit! Good Lord, save us!”

To which Koesler replied, “Amen.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Gratitude for technical advice to:

Father Harry Cook, pastor, St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Clawson

Sergeant James Grace, detective, Kalamazoo Police Department

Thomas Hinsberg, ethicist emeritus, St. Joseph’s Hospital, Pontiac

Father Anthony Kosnik, S.T.D., J.C.B., professor of ethics, Marygrove College

Irma Macy, religious education coordinator, Prince of Peace Parish, West Bloomfield

Gwenn Samuel, director of external publications, Detroit College of Law

Colleen Flaherty Stuck, director, Ameritech

Rita Sudol, commissioner, Commission on Spanish Speaking Affairs, Pontiac

Rabbi Richard Weiss, marriage and family therapist

Archdiocese of Detroit:

Father Robert Duggan, C.S.B., pastor, Ste. Anne, Detroit

Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., pastoral care (retired), Mercy Hospital

Father Patrick Halfpenny, pastor, St Vincent de Paul, Pontiac

Father Donald Hanchon, pastor, St. Gabriel, Detroit

Jo Garcia, Theological Library Service, Sacred Heart Major Seminary

Karen R. Mehaffey, Theological Library Service, Sacred Heart Major Seminary

Msgr. Stanley Milewski, chancellor, SS. Cyril & Methodius Seminary, Orchard Lake

Ned McGrath, director, Department of Communications

Nancy Ward, Alumni Memorial Library, St Mary’s College

Detroit Police Department:

Inspector Richard Ridling, Vice Section

Inspector Barbara Weide, Criminal Investigation Bureau

Office of Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney:

Timothy Kenny, assistant Wayne County prosecuting attorney

John O’Hair, Wayne County prosecuting attorney

Andrea Solak, chief of special operations

Wayne State University:

Ramon Betanzos, Ph.D., professor of humanities

Anna Ledgerwood, M.D., professor of surgery

Charles Lucas, M.D., professor of surgery

Werner U. Spitz, M.D., professor of forensic pathology

Any technical error is the author’s.

In Memory of Father Thomas McAnoy

Bishop as Pawn
copyright © 1994, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

www.andrewsmcmeel.com

This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.

ISBN: 9781449423735

Cover design by Kevin Williamson. Photo by StockXchange/KayPat.

William X. Kienzle
died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.

1. The Rosary Murders

2. Death Wears a Red Hat

3. Mind Over Murder

4. Assault with Intent

5. Shadow of Death

6. Kill and Tell

7. Sudden Death

8. Deathbed

9. Deadline for a Critic

10. Marked for Murder

11. Eminence

12. Masquerade

13. Chameleon

14. Body Count

15. Dead Wrong

16. Bishop as Pawn

17. Call No Man Father

18. Requiem for Moses

19. The Man Who Loved God

20. The Greatest Evil

21. No Greater Love

22. Till Death

23. The Sacrifice

24. The Gathering

God, I hate air travel.

He felt he was entitled to this sentiment. He had clocked tons of hours on airliners, many of them long before some enterprising bean counter had thought up frequent-flier miles.

He easily recalled pleasant trips before deregulation and “hub” cities. Relaxing flights, uncrowded, with room to stretch out, room to breathe, cheerful service. Desirable destinations: Louvain, Tübingen, Rome. Student days. Memories never to be duplicated.

Peripherally, he was aware of being watched … studied … by a man seated immediately across the aisle. He regretted having worn his black suit and clerical collar.

He was, in fact, a Catholic priest, and the uniform his identification. The only thing that prevented the neighbor from invading his priestly privacy was his open breviary—the book of daily prayer. He wasn’t sure how long this ruse would work. But he would stay with it as long as possible.

Meanwhile, he could keep his own counsel.

Nothing, he thought, is as good as it was. Today’s music was cacophony compared with the classics of old and the show tunes and popular music of the fifties and before. Cars weren’t as sturdy now. Appliances were programmed to self-destruct. Planned obsolescence.

A smile passed quickly. He was becoming a curmudgeon. A little early in life for that. But he didn’t mind; as far as he was concerned, it was all true.

To hell in a handbasket. That’s where the world was going. And, he feared, the symposium was not going to help.

He didn’t want to think about that conference.

He shifted his mind into neutral. He recalled a class he’d taught recently. In analyzing a composition of Palestrina, he had mentioned the musical figure
ostinato,
referring to a motif repeated persistently throughout the composition. To help the students remember the term, he gave them the mnemonic “obstinate.” Obstinate, he informed them, derives from the word
ostinato.
And, while the class seemed to absorb all this, years of experience prompted him to check further: Could anybody define “obstinate”?

One confident lad raised his hand: “Obstinate is when you refrain from sexual intercourse.”

The kid had confused “obstinate” with “abstinence.” But, on second—or third—thought, the young man might just have stumbled onto a shred of confused truth. Surely some people must withhold intercourse out of sheer obstinacy.

His hands grew weary. The breviary fell to his lap, closed.

Instantly, his neighbor pounced.

“Pardon me, father”—the tone carried a measure of urgency—“but are you done with your brevity?”

Brevity,
the priest considered. It’s not all that brief. But, what the hell, he caught me with my prayer book down. “Not really … but, for the moment, yes.”

“Vince Weir.” The neighbor offered his hand and his name. He did not ask the priest’s name, nor was it volunteered. Apparently, he was content dealing with a generic priest. The priest was more than happy to remain anonymous.

Actually, this was Vince Weir’s usual means of getting religious questions resolved. If he had a nickel for every “brevity” he’d interrupted on flights …

“Father …” Weir spoke above the engines’ roar but not loudly enough to be overheard by nearby passengers; he was well practiced. “… you a parish priest?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I teach. At a German university.”

“Now that interests me. What?”

“‘What’?”

“What do you teach?”

“Oh … liturgy.”

“That like the Mass?”

“Uh-huh.” The priest hoped this wasn’t going to lead into one of those sick jokes. Like the one he’d heard last week:

What’s the difference between a liturgist and a terrorist?