Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

For the first time in his life, Carleson knew rage. He felt hatred. There was not an ounce of forgiveness or understanding remaining in him.

  He opened his eyes to see the other four soldiers raping their helpless victim in turn.

  There was no clear thought in his mind. There was an explosion.

  While all around him were absorbed in the entertainment, he noticed a guard, who, in his glee, had loosened his grip on a machete.

  In one fluid movement, Carleson rose, grabbed the machete, and with a sweeping arc severed the colonel’s head.

  It was as a freeze-frame. Even in peripheral vision, everyone had seen the sweep of the blade. Everyone saw the colonel’s head fall to the ground, followed by his spurting blood.

  No one moved. The raping soldier halted in midthrust.

  Seconds later, when Carleson made no further threat to anyone, a soldier raised his gun to the priest’s temple, finger on the trigger. Before Carleson could even think his last thoughts or pray his last prayers, a shouted command from the major halted the soldier’s straining trigger finger.

  It was at once evident to the major that he was now in charge. But, what to do?

  To buy time, he ordered Carleson placed in captivity. The villagers were commanded to construct a bamboo cage. When it was finished, the soldiers shoved Carleson into the cage and lowered it into the well. There they left him while what passed for a judicial board was created.

  Some on the board plumped for Carleson’s immediate execution. Others preferred torture and death. A few pointed out that this Contra unit itself was in considerable trouble.

  After all, they had not been in combat with the Sandinista army. They had been sent to terrorize a helpless village. How to explain a security so vacuous that the ranking officer is killed by a Yankee priest?

  And that reminded them that the assassin was, indeed, Yankee. Without knowing exactly how such things worked, they knew the priest belonged to some organization—a diocese, a religious order?—in North America.

  If they killed the priest, it would cause an uproar in the United States. Their financing could be interrupted—even crippled.

  Of course, they could kill the priest and all the villagers—and no one would be left to tell the tale. Such wholesale slaughter was not beyond their experience. But if there were no villagers, there would be no village—and no stock or crops to sustain them in future raids. Amazing how these villagers managed to grub up food out of nothing.

  The major had never perspired so freely.

  In the end, he decided to leave the priest caged for the few days required to round up all possible supplies. Then, after a brutal beating of the priest, which all the villagers were forced to watch, and graphic threats of what would happen should anything concerning this episode ever be made public, they would return to their base camp. They would report that their colonel had been infected by some lethal bug and had been buried on the trail.

  Carleson had no idea what his fate might be. He assumed he would be executed. He hoped his death would not include torture.

  He had ample time and seclusion to reflect on what he had done. The thought of killing anyone had never ever occurred to him. Now he’d done it, and it had proved not all that difficult or strange … oddly, almost natural. If he had it to do over—God forgive me, he prayed—he would do what he had done.

  Three days passed. Carleson was terribly weak, having had nothing to eat or drink. He was beaten within an inch of his life.

  The Contras packed all they had commandeered and left. The villagers nursed Carleson back to relative health. They began the arduous and dogged effort to return to their former condition.

  When his superiors at Maryknoll learned what had happened, they quickly arranged his return to the New York headquarters. There he was professionally cared for, physically and emotionally.

  What had happened to the Contra colonel was never mentioned. It was part of no readily accessible report.

  When he recovered, he was returned to another Central American mission. And then another and another. But he no longer had patience with red tape and institutional protectionism.

  He realized he would have to take more command over his own life. He no longer could trust the bishops with whom he had to deal. Thus his request to be incardinated into Cardinal Boyle’s Detroit.

  The cell block in Detroit Police Headquarters was quieting down. Still, Carleson couldn’t sleep.

  Compared with those three days in his cage in Sandego, this could realistically be described as comfortable.

  Still he lay awake. What would happen to him? Was he a disgrace to the priests of Detroit?

  And the most disturbing question of all: Would anyone reveal or discover what had happened when the Contras had invaded his precious little village?

  Prayer did not come easily. But it was his only consolation. He prayed.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  It had snowed overnight, an inch or so. Just enough to put a quiet white cover over the outside.

  Father Koesler had retrieved the morning Free Press almost as it hit the porch. He’d pulled off the plastic cover and unfolded the paper on the dining room table.

  Three separate stories relating to Diego’s murder and Carleson’s arrest on page 1A. Two of them jumped to an inside page where there were more sidebars and photos. Those seeking saturation information would not be disappointed.

  He’d already heard the radio news, where the essence of the story kept being repeated. Radio did not have as much time as the newspapers had space. Television, with film of Ste. Anne’s and its neighborhood, as well as a series of talking heads—mostly priests—had somewhat more personalized coverage than radio.

  And the story had gone national. The networks were picking it up from their Detroit affiliates.

  Seldom had Koesler been this interested in a breaking story. Normally he was content to let each new drama play itself out. In his sixty-five years, there were few varieties of story that he had not experienced before.

  This one was different. He could not recall in his lifetime a priest being charged with killing a bishop. Of course, that was the fascination everyone else was experiencing. People couldn’t get enough of this developing story with its bizarre if sketchy details.

  And of course the media were in a feeding frenzy. No matter how they tried, they couldn’t keep up. Too much was happening behind the scenes where the media were not allowed.

  No one could possibly be tracking the story with as much absorption as Koesler. He had noted the frequent appearance on radio and TV of attorney Kleimer and Lieutenant Quirt. Koesler wondered what impression he might have had of them had he not met them both yesterday. As it was, having been briefed at least partially by Lieutenant Tully, Koesler had some notion not only of the roles they were playing, but also what the stakes were.

  From redundant interviews with both of them, it was crystal clear (a) that Lieutenant Quirt had broken this case and made the arrest and (b) that Brad Kleimer was going to prosecute this case.

  Kleimer brought to mind Alexander Haig immediately after Ronald Reagan was shot. Haig had been near manic in insisting that all was well because he was now in charge of the country.

  It was difficult for Koesler to settle into his usual routine. He had appointments to keep and things to do. But, in a desire that was, for him, almost unprecedented, he wanted to get involved in this case. The problem was that, after his briefing of Lieutenant Tully yesterday, no one seemed to want him anymore.

  Brad Kleimer was running on adrenaline.

  He had slept only a few hours, fitfully at that. He’d had no breakfast, just coffee, black and lots of it. To say that everything he did now was important was to beat the life out of the obvious.

  The arraignment that would take place in just a couple of hours was, he felt, pro forma. He had no doubt that Carleson would be bound over for trial. But there must be no slipups. Kleimer was painfully aware of the pitfall of overconfidence. He was ma
king sure that everything was being done by the book.

  In a sense, the media interviews had been a distraction. In another way, they were part and parcel of the grand plan. Detroiters were no strangers to Kleimer’s voice and image. But this trial was going to make the impression he created indelible. Of much greater importance, in this case he was playing to the country. To the world!

  Everything seemed in place. But time was running short.

  What made it particularly frustrating for Kleimer was that he was not actually involved in these early steps. The public generally is unaware of the layers of specialists in the prosecutor’s office. Today’s show would be handled by the Warrants Section. This was the intake department of the office. They decided whether or not there would be a charge. They were the experts at getting a warrant signed by a judge for a specific charge which they would determine.

  The next process that would occur no more than twelve days later was handled by the Preliminary Examination Unit. They took charge of the preliminary hearing. This was a formal hearing before a judge to determine whether there was sufficient evidence to hold the defendant for trial.

  Only after these procedures could Brad Kleimer take center stage and take responsibility for the trial he’d been promised.

  So this was a nerve-wracking time for him. All the attorneys who handled the early prosecution maneuvers were veterans of the system. Especially given the importance of this case, only the most experienced prosecutors would move things forward. Nevertheless, Kleimer worried. He needed this trial. It could well be his ticket to the big time. Meanwhile, he was getting the word out that when everything was on the line, he would carry the ball.

  He stopped pacing, thought a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed.

  It was answered on the second ring. “Yeah.”

  “Quirt, this is Kleimer.”

  A guttural laugh. “You’re all over the place, ain’tcha? We can’t turn on the radio or TV without finding you.”

  “Forget that. What’s going on at headquarters?”

  “With the Diego case? I talked to Koznicki first thing … got him to dissolve the task force.”

  “Good! Very good. No problems?”

  “I don’t think Tully’s very happy about it. But I headed this investigation and I said it was over. That’s by the book … and Koznicki goes by the book.”

  “Okay. Now, we don’t know what bail will be. And we don’t know whether Carleson can make it. But we’ve gotta be ready. If he stays locked up, that’s one thing. But if he makes bail, I want somebody from your squad to hang loose on him. Not a tail, not surveillance—just check on him from time to time.

  “But whether he’s locked up or cut loose, I wanna know more about him. Who he’s close to, who he hangs with, what he does with his free time, stuff like that.”

  Kleimer was, once more, out of line. He had no authority to commandeer any Homicide officer’s authority. But he was secure in the presumption that Quirt would prove cooperative. One hand washing the other once again.

  “Okay, okay.” Quirt was stung by Kleimer’s brashness. “Only, don’t forget: You owe me for this one. You owe me big.”

  “You got it.” Kleimer hung up without further nicety.

  No sooner was the receiver down than the phone rang.

  Kleimer was sick to death of the phone. But you couldn’t tell: Maybe the networks had sent their teams in by now. To this point, the national media were tapped in to their local affiliates. Pretty soon the big boys would be here. It was inevitable. Maybe now. “Yes?” he answered brightly.

  It was his secretary. “There are a couple of gentlemen out here to see you.”

  “Who, Marge?”

  “A Mr. Walberg and a Mr. Turner. From Los Angeles.”

  Kleimer’s eyebrows arched. He had expected the biggies to come from New York. “Send them in.”

  Walberg and Turner were tanned to the degree of leather. Neither was dressed for northern winter. But both were outfitted stylishly. Tall and slender, they moved in a studied graceful manner that brought to mind synchronized Olympic swimmers. As he shook hands with each of them, Kleimer noted both had very soft hands.

  “So, gentlemen” —Kleimer indicated chairs, which they took—” I’m a little pressed this morning. What can I do for you?” No cameras, from the wrong coast … could these guys be something other than representatives of the media?

  “We’ll be brief,” Walberg said. “We represent Gold Coast Enterprises—an independent film studio … perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

  Kleimer shook his head. The movies?

  “It doesn’t matter,” Walberg dismissed that. “To be frank, this is some story you’ve got going here. Have any other studios contacted you?”

  Again Kleimer shook his head.

  “Super! Our project is in the form of a made-for-TV movie. The religious angle is irresistible. ‘Priest kills bishop.’ Out of the Middle Ages. Tell me, is there sex?”

  “Sex?”

  “You know—a woman. Someone they fought over. A broad plays one against the other. Or maybe there isn’t a woman. Maybe they’re gay lovers—the bishop and the priest. Maybe the bishop is unfaithful and his significant other offs him.… Any of that? It’d be perfect.”

  Kleimer counted the change. He’d have to play his hand most carefully. This—a movie—had no place in his plans. Although, confronted with the reality, he should’ve figured on this. But … a movie. Did he want to get involved in this?

  “Would you like some coffee?” His visitors accepted. He could have had his secretary bring it, but he went for it himself. He needed time to consider their overture.

  A movie! It was attractive. That was indisputable. It might be fun. And everyone knew Hollywood is where the bucks are.

  Of course money was a consideration, but in his priority system not the primary one. If money were high on his list, he’d be in private practice.

  No; he had established his agenda and it was working very well. He had made a name and reputation for himself far faster and far more dependably than he might have as a moderately big fish in a gigantic pond.

  Then too, movies were chancy. No matter what kind of offer these two slimeballs would make, once they got going, he would have little input, and no control whatever of the finished product. Their stupidity easily could rub off on him.

  No; all things considered, getting in on their deal made no sense for him.

  But he’d have to let them down easy. If they got their cockamamy idea off the ground, and if he left them with a bad taste, they could easily screw up his character in the movie.

  So, how to let them down gently?

  Quirt. Of course! Quirt would be thrilled to be part of moviemaking. To top that, he owed Quirt some sort of immediate favor. This was tailor-made.

  Quirt would assume that Kleimer, having been offered this opportunity, desperately wanted it—who wouldn’t?—but had given up his opportunity for Quirt’s sake. That would have to be the way this scenario worked out.

  Whether he took it on or not, Quirt would have to believe that Kleimer had sacrificed his own chances to pass on this golden opportunity.

  The welcome reality would be that it cost Kleimer nothing. He was dumping what to him was garbage. And Quirt would see it as a gourmet offering.

  Kleimer returned to his office with the coffee for his guests. He leaned back and sat on the edge of his desk. As he looked down at them, he smiled. “Gentlemen, I don’t think I can help you. I’d like to, but I don’t think I can.”

  Walberg and Turner exchanged a smug smile.

  “Don’t be so modest, Mr. Kleimer,” Walberg said. “You have an inside track on a terrific story. We want to tell this story through the eyes of the one who sees that justice is done.”

  “You’re right on the money. But it’s not my eyes you want to look through.”

  Walberg smiled. “Think Perry Mason.”

  “Mason’s a defense attorney,” Turner interject
ed.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Walberg had lost some of his ebullience. “There’s that series … ‘Law and Order.’ Yeah, that’s the one—the one where the prosecuting attorney wins.”

  “He doesn’t always win,” Turner reminded.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Walberg snapped. “That was just an illustration. Moviegoers are in the mood to see that justice is done. And, Mr. Kleimer, your job is to see that justice is done.”

  “Let me return for just a moment to that program you were just talking about,” Kleimer said. “The one called ‘Law and Order.’ The first part of that show is how the police prepare the case for trial. Then the prosecutors take over.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Hear me out, please. All I’m suggesting is that you consider filming your movie through the eyes of the police rather than the prosecutor.”

  “But …”

  “I can tell from the kinds of questions you were asking a few minutes ago that you want to talk to the police. This business about sex, for instance. From the police investigation of this case, I think you’re on the right track. But I’m not at all sure it’ll come up during the trial.”

  Turner exuded triumph. “See? I told you, Teddy: It’s a police story. If I said it once, I said it a million times: It’s a police story.”

  Good, Kleimer thought. One of the idiots is happy. Now to make sure the other one doesn’t go away angry. “Actually, this approach may make your job easier. I suppose one of your problems is that the real life story isn’t over yet.”

  Kleimer had not recovered from his initial amazement that they would attempt to portray an event whose conclusion was still unknown. He suspended disbelief for the moment. “You know your business far better than I, but it seems to me you’d be doing yourselves a favor by starting your film with the police work on this case. Then time would be on your side. You could work right into the trial. Like I said, you know your business better than I, but this procedure does seem logical.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Turner was enthusiastic. “It’s a police story.”