Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

  Kleimer was drawing the obvious conclusion that Walberg was a court nut while Turner loved police work.

  “Well …” Walberg had lost an edge on his self-assurance. “… you are going to convict, aren’t you … the priest, I mean?”

  “Put your bottom dollar on it.” Kleimer smirked.

  Good-byes were said with promises to get back together as this venture proceeded. The odd couple left.

  No sooner were they gone than Kleimer was on the phone.

  “I know this isn’t the kind of return favor we talked about, Quirt, and we’re still in the ballpark of working on a promotion for you. But I’ve got something that will tide you over for a little. Are you alone?

  “Well, then, find a place where you can be alone. You’re about to get some visitors who just might change your life. I’ll tell you all about it…”

  With Kleimer’s forewarning, Quirt was preparing himself.

  First he secured an interrogation room, guaranteeing privacy for himself and his prospective visitors.

  Then he used his electric razor, patted down his thinning hair, and tightened his belt several notches until he had a real problem breathing comfortably. Finally, he made sure someone would greet the visitors and have them cool their heels for a while. He didn’t want to seem too eager.

  All was ready. Quirt was prepared. At the last moment, he decided to let them wait just a little longer.

  Armand Turner looked about with ill-concealed disgust. “This reminds me of the sign you’ve got on your desk.”

  “Which—oh, you mean ‘This Mess Is a Place.’”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re right, of course. But isn’t it perfect?”

  “It doesn’t look like any police headquarters ever seen on TV. Most of them look as if someone has at least mopped within the previous five years.”

  “Forget TV for a moment, Mondo. This quite obviously is reality.”

  “Screw reality! Audiences will never accept such a tawdry scene. Our headquarters will have to measure up to what the audience expects.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Remember our budget. What if we can get them to let us film here? We’ve got to keep thinking economy. Already I’m thinking about that church … what was it?”

  “Ste. Anne’s.”

  “Ste. Anne’s, right. I’m sure they’ll let us use the interiors. Save us a wad not having to build those sets. Add a measure of reality, too. We can use this kind of stuff in the teasers: ‘The actual room where the bishop was clubbed to death,’ ‘Where he prayed before being martyred’ … that sort of stuff.”

  “You’ve got a point, Teddy. I must admit I wouldn’t be unhappy losing these vomit-green walls.” His face brightened. “But hey, now that we’re talking budget, just what do we have? I mean, just to recapitulate. The event?”

  “The cold-blooded murder of a Roman Catholic bishop by a Roman Catholic priest.”

  “That does have a ring to it. The TV players?”

  “Gold Coast Enterprises and a cable network.”

  “Right. The reaction time?”

  “A month or less. There’s a very definite limit to audience attention span when it comes to murder in Detroit. Even when both the victim and murderer are Catholic clergymen.”

  “Right. The payoff?”

  “We can look for a ceiling of about two seventy-five. So far we haven’t had to pay off anyone. But that’ll begin soon enough.”

  “The problem is, everybody thinks TV pays like the big screen where six figures are what’s served for breakfast.”

  “Let’s just hope our detective—what’s his name?… Quirt … doesn’t think he’s worth auctioning Disney Studios for.”

  “Moving right along: the story spin?”

  “How ’bout, ‘Changing Church explodes as priest kills bishop.’”

  “Mmm … a little weak … but okay for beginners,” he concluded. “And, lastly, the problem?

  “No ending.”

  “The price you have to pay for being first on the scene.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Mondo, I just remembered something. It just dawned on me why I thought this place was so perfect. Beverly Hills Cop! Remember?”

  “How could anyone forget Beverly—oh, I see: The opening was filmed in Detroit. Right here in these rooms, wasn’t it? Okay, so I guess if the movie had the ‘typical Detroit headquarters,’ viewers would wonder why Detroit had cleaned up its act. We almost have to use these interiors, for the simple reason that Eddie Murphy did.”

  “And” —Walberg rubbed his hands together—” think of the savings!”

  Quirt entered the hallway. Self-introductions were made. The lieutenant ushered the moviemakers into the small room ordinarily used for interrogations.

  “We were admiring your decor.…” Walberg waved his arm in an encompassing way.

  “Our what?”

  “The colors, the furnishings.” More gestures.

  Quirt’s eyes popped. He leaned forward. “This shit?”

  “We were thinking of it more in terms of vomit,” Turner said.

  “Yeah,” Quirt agreed, “puke is more like it.”

  “You must’ve been here when they filmed Beverly Hills Cop, weren’t you?” Walberg asked.

  Quirt nodded.

  “Did you have to vacate the premises while they filmed?”

  “What?” Quirt looked mock-astonished. “They didn’t shoot here. They couldn’t. This is a pretty busy place. They had to build their own sets.” He nodded. “But they did manage to capture the pukey atmosphere all right.”

  “Well, Teddy …” Turner turned to his partner in slime. “At least it won’t be very expensive to recreate this place. And it’ll be an appropriate setting for the language.”

  “The language?” Quirt’s brows knotted questioningly. “You gonna have cops wandering around using the F word the way they did in Beverly Hills Cop? I gotta tell you guys, that ain’t real. I mean, our guys are not unfamiliar with the word. They just don’t talk like that … especially on the job.”

  Turner sighed deeply. “We’re not in the business of teaching viewers about reality. We give them what they’re familiar with.”

  “But” —Walberg changed the subject—” speaking of business, I guess Mr. Kleimer called and told you what we wanna do.”

  Quirt nodded enthusiastically.

  “We want,” Walberg continued, “to tell the tragic story of Bishop Diego’s murder, and help people understand why it happened.”

  “Why it happened?” Quirt repeated. “Even we don’t know that for sure. We think Diego pushed the priest—Carleson—too hard.”

  “Don’t worry,” Walberg said. “We’ll find more than one reason.”

  “Was there any sex?” Turner asked.

  “Sex?”

  “Were either of them—or both—gay?”

  “Gay! No, nothing like that.”

  “A woman?” Turner persisted.

  “A woman …?” That was one of the leads Tully had uncovered. Quirt couldn’t recall her name … but there was something about some broad who might have had it in for Diego.

  Tully would know all the details, of course. But one of the last things Quirt wanted was for anyone else—especially not Tully—to get in on this. “A woman … yeah, there was something about a broad who might’ve been a suspect before we nailed Carleson.”

  “A suspect? No. No,” Turner said. “We don’t want to confuse the issue. We’ll have the woman as a love interest. We can get explicit there. The bishop in mufti, sneaking up to her apartment. Climbing into bed among the shadows.”

  Quirt’s mouth was open. “You guys don’t get real worked up about reality, do you?”

  Walberg disregarded this. “I think we can get this show on the road. Do you have an agent, Lieutenant?”

  “Me? An agent? You kidding?”

  “Then we’ll have our lawyer get in touch. About compensation. We’ll be telling this story through the eyes of the d
etective … through your eyes.”

  “No shit! Who you gonna have … who you gonna get to play me?”

  “We’ve been negotiating with a bit player you wouldn’t recognize. But now that Mr. Kleimer has changed our direction, we’re thinking of Chris Noth … you know, one of the detectives on ‘Law and Order.’”

  “No kidding!” Quirt was delighted. “Hey, he’s a good-lookin’ guy!” He paused. “Chris Noth as me! Oh, yeah; I forgot about you guys and reality.”

  Quirt was being paged. He left the room to take a phone call.

  “Just wanted to check: How’re things going?” Brad Kleimer asked.

  “Great, just great. This could be a lot of fun,” Quirt said.

  “Fun?”

  “Guess who they got playing me in this movie? Forget it, you’d never guess. Chris Noth!”

  “Chris Who?”

  “The guy who plays one of the detectives on ‘Law and Order.’ And guess what else? I’m gonna get paid! This is movie money. Big bucks! They wanna tell this story through my eyes. I’ll probably have my name up there in the whatchamacallits—the credits. This is a gas. I gotta thank you, Brad. Wait’ll I tell the wife.”

  “Slow down, George—”

  “Say, Brad, do you remember anything about that dame Tully came up with? The one who might’ve had a motive for offing Diego?”

  “No. Forget her, George. What about all that follow-up on Carleson I asked for? You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

  “Don’t worry, Brad; I’ll get someone on it.”

  “Dammit, I don’t want ‘someone’; I want the best you’ve got!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you somebody good. Listen, Brad, I gotta get back to the movie guys. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Kleimer lowered the receiver until it rested on the base.

  Christ! He hoped he hadn’t outsmarted himself.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  It was disastrous. the only excuse Brad Kleimer could dredge up for his blunder in introducing George Quirt to the movie people was that he’d been caught off guard. Chalk it up to shortsightedness.

  Kleimer had not foreseen in any way the advent of Hollywood. Once he had determined that his involvement in a movie would be counterproductive, he should simply have washed his hands of the matter and left Walberg and Turner to their own devices. Instead, he had to be too clever by half and bring Quirt into it.

  He shouldn’t have done that. He now realized that if an airtight case was to be built against Carleson, he himself would have to personally take care of the nitty-gritty.

  Kleimer was miserable.

  News from the Thirty-sixth District Court, where Carleson had been arraigned a short time ago, didn’t help. Oh, the priest had been indicted on a charge of first-degree murder all right. But the judge had set bail at only $25,000. It could have been—should have been—much higher.

  The special problem was that the archdiocese of Detroit had gotten into the act.

  They—Cardinal Boyle actually—had put up $2,500, the 10 percent bond needed for Carleson to be freed on bail. On top of that, Boyle had retained Avery Cone, one of the area’s top trial attorneys, to defend Carleson.

  Thus, with Carleson free to come and go, Kleimer was deprived of the luxury of checking into the priest’s past while he was confined. Now Kleimer would have to get more deeply involved and take care of the pavement work that he’d expected to delegate to Quirt.

  In addition, no matter how capable Kleimer was, Cone was a most worthy opponent. This was no walk in the park to begin with. It was becoming more of a challenge by the minute.

  Kleimer was about to consider his next move when the phone rang. This might still be the long-awaited national news media. Masking his beleaguered mood, he greeted the caller in as upbeat a manner as he could muster. “Brad Kleimer. How can I help you?”

  There was a silence, as if the caller had gotten the wrong number. Then a decidedly female voice said, “My, aren’t we being sweet today. I didn’t expect that.”

  “What? Who is this?”

  “How soon they forget.”

  It was Kleimer’s turn to pause. “Audrey? Is that you?”

  “The ex-Mrs. Kleimer herself.”

  It had been almost a year since he’d heard from her. Now it all came tumbling back. He was not handling surprises well this morning.

  When Audrey remarried about a year ago, he had been released from the obligation of alimony. This as the result of a clever little clause he had worked into their divorce papers. When he stopped paying for her, he also stopped thinking of her. Which is why he hadn’t immediately identified her voice. “Well, Audrey, what brings the pleasure of this call?”

  “What makes you think it’s going to be a pleasure?”

  “Because I’m no longer paying for you. You know: Alimony payments can break my bones, but names will never hurt me. So what gives?”

  “I’ve been inundated with you this morning. The newspaper, the radio and TV, the phone interview with J. P. McCarthy! Everywhere I turn, there you are with the upcoming trial of the murdered bishop. Up to your old tricks, honey? Digging into a celebrity case while the homicide dicks are still investigating it?”

  “Don’t bad-mouth it, kid. Those old tricks are what paid for your clothes and jewels—not to mention those unlamented alimony payments.

  “But, all that aside, this isn’t the first time since we said good-bye that I’ve been in the news. What brings you out of the mothballs now?”

  “Just a coincidence, that’s all. Just a coincidence.”

  “Audrey, this is fun, and I’d like to play twenty questions with you some more. But, as you can probably guess, I’m up to my earlobes. Is there a point to all this?”

  “Uh-huh. The coincidence is that you are going to prosecute the priest who married me.”

  That stopped him cold. As he tried to absorb this unexpected statement, he didn’t stop to envision the delighted smile on his former wife’s face.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Audrey, what in hell are you talking about? You married a priest?”

  “No.” She chuckled. “No, he witnessed my marriage. Father Carleson witnessed my marriage. He married Lou and me.”

  “Have you been drinking? You and Lou got married a year ago. What did you do, wander around South America until you ran into this priest?”

  “It’s kind of complicated. Lunch?”

  Kleimer checked his watch and shook his head. “I shouldn’t, but … okay, I’ve got to. It’ll have to be a quickie.”

  “You were always so good at those.”

  He ignored it. “Where?”

  “Certainly not downtown Detroit.”

  “Kingsley Inn?”

  “Fine.”

  “Let’s beat the crowd. Eleven-thirty?”

  “See you.”

  Brad Kleimer arrived at the Kingsley first. He was seated, and ordered a Bloody Mary.

  He looked around the room. It was early, so there were only a few scattered diners. The crowd was yet to come.

  Kleimer had formed a habit of looking for recognition. After all, he had been in the news often enough to expect people to draw the connection between all those photos of him and the real live celebrity. Every time he caught someone’s eye, he assumed the identification had been made.

  He had just placed the napkin on his lap when Audrey arrived—Audrey Schuyler since her second marriage.

  Either she had checked her coat, or she’d left it in her car and used the valet parking. In any case, he was happy she wasn’t wearing any sort of wrap. She had such a trim, attractive figure, it was a pleasure to watch her walk into a room like this. Both men and women regularly did a double take when they saw her. In addition to being beautiful, she exuded confidence and charm.

  She came straight to his table. He neither stood nor attempted to; she expected no chivalrous gesture on his part. She merely slid into the chair opp
osite him.

  “Well, Audrey, still looking smashing. How nice that Lou can keep you in the style to which I accustomed you.”

  She ordered Perrier with a lemon twist. As she removed her black kid gloves, she said, “And you’re looking prosperous, especially for a humble prosecuting attorney.”

  “There are some perks, speaking fees, things like that. And, of course, I’m not paying for you anymore.” He leaned toward her and spoke in a confidential tone. “Seriously, I didn’t look forward to seeing you again. But now that you’re here, it brings back a lot of pretty good memories.”

  “Thanks, I wish I could say the same.”

  “Hey, lunch was your idea, remember?”

  “So it was. Sorry.”

  Leaning still closer, he said, “I really haven’t got time this afternoon, but, by God, I’d be willing to make some. You know, this is an inn. We could get a room.…”

  “The suggestion was for lunch.”

  He shook his head sadly. “Too bad. You always were a terrific piece of ass.”

  “Oh, Brad, you have such a way with words.”

  The waitress brought their drinks. In keeping with Kleimer’s pressing schedule, they each ordered a small salad.

  This modest order was not great news for their waitress. Her only hope was a tip out of all proportion.

  Kleimer unnecessarily smoothed the tablecloth with the palms of both hands. “Well, let’s come to the point of all this. Four years ago, you and I were married. We were married in a Catholic ceremony at, as I recall, St. Owen’s in Bloomfield. Not far from where we are now. You were Catholic. I was Protestant. The Catholic Church has problems with that sort of situation. We needed a dispensation. We got it.

  “You may remember I went a bit further than that. Partly because I’m fascinated by all law—civil or canonical—and partly because I didn’t want to leave you any loopholes, I looked up all the laws of your Church governing marriage. I made damn sure that when we ‘exchanged consent’—much more canonically correct than ‘speaking our vows’—you were locked into this until death do us part.

  “You wouldn’t agree to a prenuptial agreement. So my only consolation was that you’d never be able to remarry in your Church as long as I was alive.