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.”
CHAPTER
NINE
“What do you think, Manj?”
Without taking his eyes from the road, Mangiapane shook his head. “I dunno, Zoo. I’d hate to live with that broad and have to keep my hands off her.”
“There’s that.”
“Drive a guy nuts.”
“Nuts enough to commit murder?” Tully was asking himself as well as Mangiapane.
“I t
hink so.”
“Notice she said she thought he’d have to get loaded to off somebody.”
“Yeah.” Mangiapane started to smile. “And he said he went from Carson’s house to a bar.”
“Wasn’t that helpful of him to tell us that? Now, if anybody in that bar can remember Shell in there that night, the next important thing to check out is how long he stayed there.”
“Makes a pretty good case, Zoo. Shell bumps into Diego unexpectedly. He’s surprised the bishop is at this party. He doesn’t have a chance to get himself in control. So he blows his ever-lovin’ stack. Then he storms out. He drives around until he happens into this bar. He goes in, gets a few snootfuls. Not dead drunk, just high. Like the lady said, he needs to get some liquid courage. He’s sober enough to drive, and plastered enough to scramble the bishop’s brains.”
“Or,” Tully suggested, “she’s underestimating her husband. Maybe he doesn’t need to get juiced. Maybe his stop at the bar is in his head. Maybe he did happen on this bar, took a look, and saw there were so many people there no one would be able to testify whether there was a stranger there or not. So, he can tell us he was there, sure that nobody can say for certain whether he was or wasn’t there. Whatever. No matter what, we’re going to have to ask some questions there.”
They drove on for several minutes before Tully broke the silence.
“Manj, you’re a Catholic. How well do you have to know a bishop before you call him by his first name”
“Yeah, I caught that too. And I dunno, Zoo. I never knew one well enough to call him Fred or Charlie. They got a title, and I don’t even remember that. It’s Your Grace, or Your Excellency or Your Eminence, or something. Now that I think of it, I don’t even know anybody who calls any bishop by his first name.”
“What the hell kind of Catholic are you, anyway, Manj?” Tully was chuckling softly. “Not only don’t you know, you don’t even know anybody who knows.”
“There you got it.” Mangiapane was also chuckling. “I just sit in the pew and wait for the priest to tell me what to do.”
“No, actually” —Tully grew more serious—“ you told me something by not knowing. I’m going to guess that it’s very uncommon. And I’m going to guess that Mrs. Shell knew the bishop very, very well. And, you know what else I’m going to do? I’m going to quit guessing.”
“Huh?”
“Manj, drop me off at … oh, what the hell is it … the parish where Koesler is pastor.”
“Old St. Joe’s?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Mangiapane was grinning. “Finally going to call on Uncle, huh?”
“This stuff is getting too deep for me. I got a hunch Quirt is gonna come in with a lot of heavy stuff on those two priests. I also got a hunch he’s not gonna know what he’s talking about. I’m gonna go to school before this case gets much older.
“After you drop me off, get somebody—Angie, if you can—to take over that bar investigation. I want you to talk to everybody who’s been on the street. See if anybody’s come up with anything.”
“Sure thing, Zoo.… Uh, don’t you think you ought to call and make sure Father Koesler’s available?”
Available? It was as if the second shoe had been dropped.
He’d been distracted most of this Monday waiting for a phone call about the murder of Bishop Diego. After all, it wasn’t that he was a stranger to police investigations when they had to do with things Catholic. And what could be a more Catholic homicide than the murder of a bishop?
His surprise, if it could be termed that, was that the call came from Lieutenant Tully rather than Inspector Koznicki. Of course, Koesler knew the lieutenant. But Koznicki had become a dear and close friend.
In any case, he was about to get in the swim.
With some hesitation he asked Mary O’Connor to clear his calendar for the rest of the day. His reservations concerned two appointments he had scheduled—one late this afternoon, the other early this evening. Neither person was likely to take the postponement graciously. Neither could lay claim to either tact or diplomacy. Mary would have to suffer their predictable reactions. Koesler tended to believe Mary when she assured him that the job would be easier for her. The recalcitrant parishioners would be disappointed when she gave them the message—but they would save their venom for their pastor.
So he wouldn’t miss the dreaded appointments by putting them on the back burner.
Awaiting Tully’s arrival, Koesler thought about the two troublesome parishioners.
Mrs. McReedy belonged to the Church of Vatican Council I. In a sense, that was a comfortable Church. There were so many rules and regulations. Practically no one challenged their existence or relevance. The very keeping of them led to feelings of peace and comfort. The rules offered salvation. And salvation was comfortable. And, should one by and large keep the rules—such as fasting and abstaining and attending Mass on the appropriate days—one would go to heaven.
Mrs. McReedy would be objecting to the absence of many of these rules and regulations from Father Koesler’s homilies, ministries, and total life philosophy.
She would have been at the rectory at 3:30 sharp had not Lieutenant Tully rescued him.
Also headed off by Tully’s visit was Frank Parker, who thus would not be here at 7:00 this evening.
Frank belonged to a Church that might arise from some future Vatican Council. To call Frank an activist was like saying that John F. Kennedy liked women.
And Frank wanted his parish—Old St. Joe’s—to dive in no matter where the waters might lead. Some of his projected programs: March and parade through Lafayette Park to support AIDS research. A regular monthly Mass for and by Catholic gays enlisting a homosexual priest to celebrate the Mass. A regular evening weekly Mass for and by women—with a designated woman as celebrant each week. Remove all the remaining religious artifacts from the church’s interior. Have concelebrated liturgies regularly with Protestant and Jewish clergy.
Koesler believed Frank Parker’s heart was in the right place, but that his mind and his viscera had bonded.
Looking at this day that wasn’t going to happen, Koesler was again reminded that it didn’t matter whether you were killed by conservatives or liberals—you were just as dead either way.
He could remember the mid-fifties when he had been ordained a priest. How sure and certain things were then.
It had become a joke, but in those days—and for long years before—the Church structure resembled a triangle with the Pope at the summit. It was his vision and commands that trickled down to the bishops, from them to the priests and finally to the strong but subservient base of the laity.
The joke was that the hierarchy, for the most part, continue to think that nothing has changed. The hierarchy should consult with its priests, who are being squeezed from all angles.
Today’s canceled appointments surely were a case in point.
There was Mrs. McReedy, who, with the Lone Ranger, wanted to return to the days of yesteryear, and expected Koesler to lead the way. Then there was Frank Parker, who wanted to go, with the Trekkies, where no man has gone before. He expected Koesler to ignite the avant garde blast-off.
Yet were today’s priest to toy with one of the Parker programs, organizations such as Catholics United for the Faith, in close step with the bishop, would stamp on his obtrusive toes.
On the other hand, implementing Mrs. McReedy’s most fervent prayers would alienate many Catholics whose faith and interest had been awakened by Vatican Council II.
One of the many blessings of an inner-city ministry was that the more “inner” one got, the less anyone outside cared what was going on. Unhappily, Old St. Joe’s was on the outer fringe of “inner.” Thus the McReedys and Parkers could still stir things up.
The doorbell. Probably Lieutenant Tully. Fortunately, it would be neither Loretta nor Frank.
Footsteps resounded on the hardwood floor. The clicking heels of Mary O’Connor ushered in a male of light but fi
rm foot. Mary brought Tully to the dining room door. Ordinarily, Koesler received callers in his office. But Tully was special and did not come close to being a parishioner.
Declining Koesler’s offer to take his coat, Tully draped the garment over a chair and seated himself on another, more comfortable one.
“Could I get you a cup of coffee?”
Tully appeared eager to accept, then hesitated. “Is it already made?”
“No, but I can whip up some instant—”
“No! No! That’s all right. I’ve had too much today.”
It made no difference to Koesler whether the lieutenant wanted coffee, but the vehemence with which his offer was declined startled the priest. And yet so many reacted in that fashion. It was almost as if he were incapable of making a simple cup of coffee that was potable. But that couldn’t be true; just last night Father Carleson had enjoyed his coffee.
Was that just last night? It now seemed days ago.
“Who calls bishops by their first name?” Tully always got right to the heart of things.
“Who calls bishops by their first name?” Koesler was utterly perplexed by the question. “Well … I suppose … their parents, for two.”
Tully did not seem satisfied. “I guess I could take that for granted. Who else?”
Koesler pondered. He always took people seriously no matter how bizarre the question. “Don’t take it for granted. I can remember parents who stopped calling their little boys ‘Johnnie’ and started calling them ‘Excellency’ or ‘Bishop.’”
“No shi—Sorry.” Usually, Tully monitored his language better. This revelation was a genuine surprise. And he was not often taken by surprise.
“As a matter of fact,” Koesler said, trying to put the officer at ease, “I remember a rather close friend who became a bishop. The first time I met him after that happy day, I was pleased to address him by his new title. And he said, ‘Don’t give me that bishop shit. I’m still just plain Joe.’
“So, there’s more to it than that.
“Now that I think about it,” he mused, “it all seems to depend on the bishop, the person who’s addressing him, and the circumstances.”
Bishop as Pawn Page 11
