Bishop as Pawn

by William Kienzle

  Koesler was sitting transfixed before the TV set when the phone rang. It was Lieutenant Tully returning his call.

  Tully brought Koesler up to the moment, after explaining all the overnight developments. “The thing of it is, Demers was terminal. Hell, he could have checked out last night on his own.”

  “The thing is,” Koesler responded, “maybe he wouldn’t have died last night. From all you’ve said, Mr. Demers has been dying for a long time. He could have gone on a long time more. Father Carleson had no way of knowing.”

  Tully was surprised. “Hey, you don’t think Carleson did it, do you? Somehow, I thought no matter how convincing the evidence might be, you wouldn’t believe it. I mean, I thought euthanasia or assisting suicide was against your religion.”

  “Well … yes.”

  “You have doubts?”

  “Not doubts so much as developments.” Koesler realized that expounding on this topic might compromise Father Carleson, but it seemed important to be candid with Tully. After all, they had confided in each other throughout this case.

  “There’s been a lot of talk among theologians,” Koesler said, “about what happens when one’s productive life is over. When all that a person planned to do is accomplished and all he or she faces is pain and vegetation.

  “See, the Church teaches that it is not necessary to prolong life if the only way to do it is by extraordinary means. This—euthanasia—is the next step. This is not pulling a plug to let nature take its course. This means actively doing something that will take a life.

  “There hasn’t even been much written on this. The theologians that propose these ideas are afraid of retribution. The present Pope would not tolerate such an idea. The next one might.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tully said. “Would Father Carleson know about this kind of talk?”

  Koesler hesitated. “I don’t really know. We haven’t discussed it specifically. But he strikes me as being well informed. I still don’t believe that he was involved in a mercy killing. It’s just that I can sympathize with him if he was. I’ve watched people die too slowly when there wasn’t any purpose left to their lives. It’s one of those things we might be able to do something about someday. But not yet.”

  “And Father Carleson is not the type to wait, is he?”

  Koesler considered the question rhetorical. Though unconcerned with replying to that, another question occurred to him. “What does Father Carleson say he was doing last night?”

  “I didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “It slipped my mind. He claims he had a sick call. At just that time.”

  Koesler was relieved. He’d half feared Carleson might have claimed he hadn’t left the rectory. “That must’ve been where he was going when we saw him.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes. It was late in the evening … 11:30, as I recall. Father Dorr and I happened to look out and saw Father Carleson getting into his car. And then he drove off.”

  “Did you hear the phone ring before that?”

  “N … no. But there was a lot of conversation going on. And also, Father Carleson and Bishop Diego had their own line. So the phone would’ve rung upstairs in his room. With all the noise downstairs, we probably just didn’t hear it.

  “But that would confirm his alibi, wouldn’t it? I mean, whoever called him could testify for him.”

  “If such a person exists.”

  “What?”

  “He claims there was no such address. He says he drove around for a while to see if he could see any signs of anything going on in case he’d gotten the wrong address.”

  “Bad luck! But it’s happened to me, Lieutenant. I’ve been called out on an emergency on a false alarm more than once. What sometimes happens is that the person who calls is so caught up in the excitement that he gets the house number wrong, or maybe the wrong street name, or both. So for the priest it’s a wild goose chase.

  “Then, usually the next morning, someone will call, angry because you didn’t show up, or apologetic about giving the wrong address.”

  “Only thing is there hasn’t been anything like that. Nobody’s gotten in touch with anybody. We’ve got nothing but Carleson’s story. And nothing to back it up. He says he was called out on an emergency—that no one else knows about—at just the time a bunch of hospital personnel claim he was there. When he gets to talk to his lawyer some more, he may want to retract that statement and claim he never left home. But now that you’ve said you saw him leave, he’s not going to be able to back away from his first statement.”

  Koesler got the clear impression he hadn’t done his friend any favor.

  “Funny thing,” Tully said, “he was sailing pretty well on that first charge. It was all circumstantial. And I had a pretty good lead on a suspect. If only he hadn’t pulled the second murder.

  “But I suppose he’s saying that same thing to himself right now.…

  “Well, anyway: Does all this answer your questions?”

  “I guess so, Lieutenant. I think I’ll just wander over to Receiving later to set my mind at ease about a couple of things. Any objections?”

  “Nope, none. And thanks for all your help, Father.”

  As Koesler hung up he realized that Tully’s last statement seemed to indicate that his further services would not be required or requested.

  Maybe this case was closed, and all the hope in Koesler’s heart would not change that.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY - SIX

  By the time Father Koesler’s last appointment left, it was almost 10:30—much later than he had planned. He was tired. A perfect time and a perfect mood to call it a day. Maybe jot a few notes about tomorrow’s schedule. Maybe have a little nightcap, watch the late news on TV, and then to bed.

  But he was all too conscious of what he had told Lieutenant Tully earlier in the day. In effect, he had asked Tully if visiting Receiving Hospital would interfere with the ongoing investigation.

  Koesler didn’t have any clear plan; he just wanted to help Father Carleson in any way possible. Not only was a fellow priest in trouble, but also Koesler felt that, in a brief period, a budding friendship had begun.

  With no other strategy in mind, Koesler thought of just walking through what Carleson had done last night. Perhaps something would surface. What? He had no idea.

  He drove to Ste. Anne’s rectory. Everything was quiet. Quite a change from last night.

  Diego’s funeral had been held this morning. But last night had marked the clergy’s celebration of what was hoped to be Diego’s entry into heaven. Whether or not the bishop made it, the clergy had had their little celebration.

  Last night, almost all the lights on the rectory’s first floor were burning bright. There had been a good bit of noise. If any of the faithful had lingered after the vigil service, they might have been slightly scandalized. Certainly that was possible if they’d thought all the visiting clergy went home after the service. Or if the faithful assumed the clergy did not celebrate every chance they got.

  Koesler glanced at his watch. It was about 10:40, almost an hour earlier than when he and Father Dorr had seen Carleson leaving last night. But Koesler figured he was in the right time frame.

  He drove to Receiving Hospital and swung his car into the parking garage on St. Antoine.

  At the bottom of the incline, an automatic machine spit out a parking ticket. Koesler removed it from the machine’s mouth, and an automatic arm raised and beckoned him enter.

  There were many open spaces. He took the first slot he came to.

  He put the car in park, turned off the engine, and sat and mulled.

  He hadn’t given this maneuver a moment’s thought or hesitation. Yet there were lots of places to park on the street. Many of the No Parking signs had an expiration time. But he had given no consideration whatever to parking anywhere, but in the garage.

  Why was that, he wondered. But not for long. There was a good reason why drivers chose not to park
on the streets of Detroit, especially at night. It was almost an invitation to the criminal mind to take the hubcaps, the battery, the tires, the wheels, the contents, or, of course, the entire vehicle. That’s why it was so common, so natural to swing into the garage. This, undoubtedly, is what Father Carleson had done last night.

  Good! He was off to a good start.

  He tucked the parking ticket in his wallet. Another automatic action. The ticket would be safe there. He wouldn’t have to try to remember where he put it. And he’d have it handy when it came time to pay for the parking.

  Koesler wanted to be consciously aware of everything he did as he attempted to retrace his friend’s movements last night.

  He stood on the sidewalk looking at the hospital. Yes, he thought, Don must’ve stood at this point. Lieutenant Tully said Father Carleson was first recognized by a couple of attendants in the Emergency Department.

  Koesler was standing about fifteen yards from the Emergency entrance. As luck would have it, three attendants were standing in conversation just inside the door. Not unlike last night when, according to Tully, a couple of people were working over a gurney when they looked up and noticed Carleson standing right about where Koesler now stood. Conditions could scarcely be better to reenact what had happened last night.

  So Koesler turned up the collar of his overcoat against the cold and stood there. And stood. And stood. He kept thinking that any moment now one of those people should look out to see if someone, anyone—the injured, or very ill—was approaching or trying to enter Emergency.

  At length, he concluded it was a matter of chance. Eventually, someone would look up. But in the meantime he was freezing waiting for that glance. As luck would have it, last night someone had looked up and out as Carleson had reached this point. It just wasn’t worth it to Koesler to become an ice sculpture while waiting outside for that eventual notice.

  Tully said that Carleson, after being spotted by the Emergency people, had entered through the main entrance.

  Koesler would do likewise. But first he hoped he would be able to speak with whoever had identified Carleson.

  As the automatic doors slid open, Koesler had everyone’s attention. He explained to the threesome what he was looking for.

  “You want Lenny and Frank,” a young man said. “They’re the ones who spotted the priest last night. Lenny’s taking sick time. But Frank’s the redhead over there.” He indicated a man inventorying supplies in a cabinet.

  Koesler approached and identified himself. He explained that he was checking out what had happened last night.

  “I told this to the cops already, you know,” Frank said.

  “I know. I talked with Lieutenant Tully of Homicide earlier today.” The name seemed to make no impression on the young man. “He told me what happened. But I wanted to check it out for myself. If you don’t mind …?”

  Frank shrugged. “All I can tell you is what I told the cops. Lenny and I were working out there in the corridor near the entrance. Lenny’s the one who first spotted Father Carleson. When he said something, I looked out and, sure enough, there he was.”

  “Was he standing or walking?”

  Frank looked at Koesler. “The cops didn’t ask that one.

  “Okay …” He gave the question some thought. “He was like making up his mind about whether to come in through Emergency or not. He was standing. But as soon as we saw him, he turned and went toward the main entrance. See, he usually comes through here. We all know him. He’s a good guy. Knows a lot about medicine too. I guess he picked that up in the missions.

  “Too bad what’s happening to him. Lenny and I hated to dig a hole for him, but we had to tell the cops what we saw.”

  “Of course. I understand. But are you sure it was Father Carleson you saw? I mean, I just stood about where he must’ve been standing last night. It’s not exactly close to the door. The part of the pavement that leads either into the main entrance or into Emergency is about fifteen yards from the doors. Add to that you and Lenny must’ve been inside the doors some way back. No?”

  “Yeah … yeah, that’s about right for him. And us? We must’ve been maybe forty-five or fifty feet inside. But we saw him clearly. The first thing you spot is the all-black clothes. Then that spot of white in the front of the collar—like you’ve got. The white hair showing at the side of his hat—your know, by his ears. Same height, same build.

  “Okay, so we weren’t standing right next to him, but it was him. It was Father Carleson. Yeah, it was Father Carleson. Lenny and I agreed on that. He’d tell you the same if he was here.”

  “Well, thanks very much.”

  Koesler retraced his steps to the point where the walkway forked, one path leading to the main entrance, the other to Emergency. Now he walked toward the main entrance.

  Still following Tully’s description of events, Koesler went immediately to the bank of elevators, making no attempt to attract the attention of the individual in the information booth.

  Tully had given Koesler the floor and the room number. He took the elevator to Herbert Demers’s floor. Exiting the elevator, he walked slowly and softly down the corridor, through the mesmerizing sounds of labored breathing, pain, loneliness, support machinery, and the ever-present opiate, television.

  As he reached the room in which Demers had lived and died, he noted he was not far from the nursing station. He was surprised to find not one, but two nurses occupying the station.

  He was not as surprised as the nurses were. One of them let out a little screech. “Who are you?” the screech demanded.

  Smiling, Koesler approached the station. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. My name’s Koesler, Father Koesler. I’m pastor of Old St. Joe’s downtown. I’m a friend of Father Carleson.”

  “You gave me a start,” said the screecher. “For a second there, I thought you were Father Carleson.” She spoke more calmly. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Maybe. I’m walking through where Father Carleson was last night … sort of hoping to find something that might help him.”

  “Well, good luck. He’s a nice guy. Nobody here can believe that he killed that bishop.”

  “The bishop, eh? What about Herbert Demers? You believe that Father Carleson killed Demers?”

  “What can I say?” Sensing this conversation was going to go on a while, the screecher introduced herself. “I’m Alice Cherny and” —turning to the other nurse— “this is Ann Bradley. I’m on night shift. She’s afternoon.”

  “And neither of you doubts that Father killed Mr. Demers?”

  “The thing I’m uncomfortable with,” Alice said, “is the word ‘kill.’ It was more like snuffing out a candle. A tomato has more life in it than Herbert had. We’re all glad Father did it. If the truth be known, we all would like to have done it. We’re just sorry he got caught.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened if that detective hadn’t ordered an autopsy,” said Ann. “Until then we just assumed that Herbert slipped away during the night. The cops were sore that we’d sent down the linen to the laundry. They thought they might have picked up some fingerprints. But how were we to know?”

  “The worst part of this,” Alice said, “is that we had to answer the police officer’s questions honestly.”

  “I had to tell them how Father and I talked about helping Herbert die,” Ann added. “That’s what Father said Herbert asked him to do. He said that just a couple of days ago, Herbert communicated in gestures and asked Father to help him die. Then yesterday, I heard Father fairly shouting at Herbert to let go of life and die.

  “Naturally, the police thought all that was very relevant. Nobody in the hospital wanted to end Herbert’s suffering more than Father Carleson. Unfortunately, that’s still called murder.”

  “And then,” Alice said, “my testimony was more damning than anyone’s, I actually saw him go into Herbert’s room—just about an hour later than right now.”

  “You got a good look
?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course, it’s kind of hard to see down the corridor. The lights are so bright here around the station and so dim in the hallway that it’s a little hard to focus quickly. But it was Father Carleson. I haven’t seen him as much as Ann, of course.” She thought for a moment. “Now that I think of it, he seemed to have put on a little weight. But it was him.” She looked at Koesler. “When you think about it, who else could it have been?”

  “Were both of you on duty here last night when Father Carleson came?”

  “No. No,” Ann said. “This is report time. Actually, I’m on duty till 11:30. But Alice is my replacement, and she comes on duty at 11:00. The half-hour overlap gives me a chance to advise Alice about the state of things as she replaces me. I sort of bring her up to speed before I leave.”

  “So,” Alice added, “last night Annie briefed me from 11:00 to 11:30, when she went home. It wasn’t until near midnight that Father Carleson came in.”

  “One last question then: Last night—and tonight—did you talk about Herbert Demers and Father Carleson and what’s happened to them?”

  “Sure!” Alice said. “Why shouldn’t we be talking about what everybody in the city is talking about?”

  “And you didn’t come up with anything that might help Father?”

  “Boy, I wish we could. Like I said, he seems to be a genuinely nice guy. And what he did here—no matter what the law says—was a favor for everybody—especially Herbert Demers.”

  “Well, thank you both very much.”

  In leaving, Koesler was painstaking in continuing to follow in Carleson’s footsteps, as Lieutenant Tully had described the event.

  He took the elevator to the lobby and quickly walked through it, staying some distance from the information booth. Once out the door, he turned up his overcoat collar and went straight to the parking garage.

  He entered his car, started the engine, and turned the heat on. He shivered. It would be a while before the engine would heat the forced air.