Bishop as Pawn fk-16

by William X. Kienzle

  “Come, sit down.” Wayne gestured toward a padded straight-back chair in front of the desk. Tully seated himself, and Wayne returned to his high-back chair. “It’s been a long while.…” Wayne paused. “Twenty-five years.”

  Tully nodded. “Twenty-five years. You remember?”

  “Like it was yesterday. Even now there’s an emptiness in my heart. Freddie was a good boy.” Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. To forestall a tear?

  Yes, a good boy, thought Tully. If his son had lived, Mad Anthony probably would be considering retirement so that Freddie could take over “the business.”

  “I remember too,” Wayne said, “you performed a service for me then.”

  “It wasn’t that much,” Tully stated in all honesty. “I did my job.”

  “True. But we didn’t expect it. Hell, we thought the cops’d be glad to get rid of us.” Was there a hint of emotion on his face? “You almost make a guy respect the law.” He gazed at Tully thoughtfully. “Anyway, you treated Freddie with dignity … like a person who’d been wronged. I don’t forget that.”

  “That’s why I’ve come.”

  “I thought as much.”

  Tully shifted in his chair and inched forward. “Twenty-five years ago you offered me a favor.”

  Wayne waved his hand. “It’s been an uncashed check all these years. Is this the time?”

  “You know of the murder of the Mexican bishop?”

  “He was a fool.”

  “A fool?”

  “All that money … there for the taking.”

  “You knew?”

  “Hell, everyone knew. It was just a matter of time.”

  “The street’s hard to read. Something seems to be going on, but we can’t break the silence.”

  Was that amusement ever so briefly on Wayne’s face? “What do you think?”

  “My best guess would be … it’s not a heavyweight. That wasn’t enough bread for anybody to risk his reputation and a lucky collar. It just wasn’t enough.

  “On the other hand, it wasn’t a drifter or a street punk. A guy like that would get coughed up. We’ve got some pretty reliable snitches, but they’re not talking. They’d give the guy to us if he meant nothing to anybody.”

  “So …”

  “So I figure somebody important is protecting the guy.”

  Wayne leaned forward. “You have an excellent suspect under arrest.”

  “The priest? Maybe. But I’ve got a feeling.”

  “And you want the guy from the street.”

  Tully nodded.

  “This will clear the table for us,”

  Again Tully nodded.

  “You’re sure you want to spend your marker on this?” It was obvious he thought that Tully was wasting a valuable coupon.

  “Yes,” Tully said firmly.

  Wayne nodded curtly. “By tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ll contact me?”

  “Yes.” Wayne stood. Tully, taking the cue, also stood.

  “Albert will show you out.”

  Tully followed the giant out the door. There was no conversation. There was no intimation of any conversation.

  Had he been asked, Tully would have guessed the bodyguard’s name to be Tiny. But … Albert? Not even Big Al?

  The journey back to the outside world was as confusing as the trek in. However Wayne had managed it, it was a damned clever maze.

  As he left the Millender, Tully glanced at the directory. Whatever business Metro Development was in, Tully knew of one product. It would be whoever the street delivered to the police tomorrow through the good offices of Metro Development.

  Tully felt satisfied with his transaction. But deep down he wondered if he might have squandered a most valuable marker, as Wayne had implied.

  Whatever. The die was cast. More than likely he would soon slap cuffs on the killer of Bishop Diego.

  CHAPTER TWENTY — TWO

  Tuesday was drawing to a close. A fatigued Father Koesler drove over to Ste. Anne’s for the vigil service for Bishop Diego. The funeral, or Mass of Resurrection, would be held tomorrow morning. The vigil, as well as the Mass, essentially was a prayerful expression of faith in a life after death in the heaven promised by Jesus Christ.

  The church was fully lighted. It had been a long time since the old structure had held so large a congregation. Special police detachments were handling crowd control. Officers were stationed throughout the church for security purposes.

  Also in the church, making a nuisance of itself, was the camera crew from Los Angeles. In an unguarded moment, Father McCauley had signed a document giving permission for the filming on parish property.

  Near the sanctuary, before the altar, Bishop Diego’s coffin lay on a bier. The corpse was dressed in Mass vestments. The vestments were white, as was the miter on the bishop’s head.

  Ste. Anne’s might have passed for a ski lodge housing an extremely affable group. The crowd, largely Hispanic, moved about the church in serpentine fashion, people greeting long-lost friends and friends they’d shopped with this morning. There was even a mariachi band playing in what used to be known as the organ loft.

  The only activity that might be termed “orderly” was the double line that stretched from the sanctuary to the front doors. The lines were for people who wanted to “pay their respects” at the bier.

  A generous supply of clergymen was in attendance. Most of them joined the viewing lines and, after a moment at the casket, gathered in the gospel side of the sanctuary. It was not a section reserved for priests; the first two or three had probably wandered over there and the precedent was set.

  Two more priests arrived at the casket. They peered in, vacuuming every detail from the supershined black shoes to the bejeweled miter.

  “Looks pretty good, doesn’t he?” said Father Henry Dorr.

  “For a dead guy, yeah,” Father Frank Dempsey replied.

  “Don’t be funny.” Dorr bent from the waist and studied the right side of the corpse, particularly about the neck. “Look here. They said he got whacked on the back of the head. It must’ve been some blow to kill the guy. But I can’t see anything.”

  Dempsey, following Dorr’s observations, also bent down to see if he could find the indent. “No. I guess they must’ve patched it up somehow. I don’t know how they do that. Like Ronald Reagan used to say, ‘Progress is our most important product.’”

  “That was about General Electric, not mortuary science.”

  “That reminds me …” Dempsey straightened up and leaned over the body, studying Diego’s bishop’s ring. “… did you hear about the couple who got a marriage license and went to a judge to get married?” He didn’t wait for a response. “The judge looks at the license and says to the groom, ‘Are you John A. Brown?’ And the groom says, ‘No. My name’s John B. Brown.’

  “The judge says, ‘Take this back to the clerk and have him correct it.’

  “So the couple comes back, and the judge looks at the license again, and says to the bride, ‘Are you Mary B. Smith?’ And she says, ‘No. I’m Mary C. Smith.’

  “So the judge sends them back again for a correction. Then, they appear again before the judge. The license is correct now. But, for the first time, the judge notices a small boy standing between the bride and the groom.

  “‘Who is this young lad?’ the judge asks. The groom says, ‘That’s our son, judge.’ And the judge says, ‘I hate to tell you this, but he’s a technical bastard.’

  “And the groom says, ‘That’s a funny thing, judge. That’s what the clerk just said about you.’”

  “Very funny,” Dorr said, “but what’s the point?”

  “Your remark about Reagan and the product he used to peddle. You’re being a technical bastard.”

  “This is a church!”

  “Perfectly good Anglo-Saxon word.”

  What with the hubbub in the church, no one else could make out what the two were saying. But, hey, they were priests. And they were paying
special attention to the dead bishop’s neck and to his ring. There must be something going on.

  The interest was passed from person to person so that from that time on each of the faithful who reached the casket bent double to see-God knew what-at the back of Diego’s head. The procedure slowed the line considerably.

  Dorr and Dempsey moved on to join the other priests.

  “Hi, Bob,” Dorr greeted Father Koesler, who had already been through the viewing line. “Good crowd.”

  “Numerically, I’ll give you,” Dempsey said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dorr asked.

  “Well, look at who’s here.” Dempsey’s gesture encompassed everyone in the church. “You see any of Diego’s fancy friends? Any of the money people?” The question became rhetorical. The church was filled with blue-collar Hispanics.

  “So? All the better for the bishop. The common people are represented,” Dorr said.

  “Not all the common people,” Dempsey corrected. “See any of the Hispanic leaders? These people here are the ones who didn’t have a clue to what Diego was doing. These are the people who were just happy one of their own became a bishop to take special care of them. They rejoiced when he came here. They never saw him except may be at a confirmation or a parish festival. They heard he gave money to the deserving poor. They didn’t know he didn’t give a damn about them.”

  “That’s a generalization,” Dorr protested.

  “He’s got a point, Henry,” Koesler said. “Go ahead and take a careful look. None of the local leaders are here. I guess Diego didn’t fool all of the people all of the time.”

  “And,” Dempsey added, “the priests are here just to make sure he’s dead.”

  “Speaking of priests,” Koesler said, “I wonder why there aren’t any Dallas priests here for the funeral? Maybe they’ll get here for the Mass tomorrow.”

  “The Dallas contingent?” Dempsey snorted. “They’re having a fiesta down there.”

  “Come on,” Dorr protested.

  “It’s true,” Dempsey insisted. “They knew he was a three-dollar bill before we got to know but not love him.”

  “Really? I thought his social climbing started when he became an auxiliary here,” Koesler said.

  “Down there,” Dempsey explained, “he traded on his good looks. That’s how he made a name for himself. He also had a talent, even down there, for raising money. His archbishop got nothing but glowing reports about him. Well, why not? He was popular. And with his movie-picture looks, there wasn’t a hint of any hanky-panky. And the SOB poured money into diocesan collections. That’s how come, when Boyle went looking for an Hispanic auxiliary, the Dallas power structure pointed their collective finger at Diego.”

  Ted Walberg and Armand Turner had worked out a deal whereby they each had been named coproducer of the made-for-TV movie, “Death Wears a Red Hat.” As the filming progressed, they were beginning to work out a marginally acceptable relationship.

  Just now, Turner, complete with sound and camera people, was working the church floor, while Walberg was supervising the filming from the organ loft and other precarious vantages.

  “This is very good,” Walberg said into the mike that connected him with Turner. “Lots and lots of action. Maybe too much. I’m not sure anybody will believe this actually could happen in real life.”

  “I tend to agree, Teddy,” Turner said. “But we can always edit this down, or out. What’ll definitely be a keeper are these lines of people waiting to view the body. They get serious when they get in these lines. No more dancing to the mariachi band.”

  “You’re right, Mondo. But there’s something going on up front in that line that doesn’t play.”

  “What? What’s that?”

  “The people, just recently, seem to be bending over when they get to the casket. They seem to be looking for something. But I’ll be damned if I know what.”

  “Okay. I’m making my way to the casket. But can you say again? What is it they’re doing?”

  “Bending … bowing … I’m not sure.”

  “A curtsy?”

  “No, dummy! I know a curtsy when I see one. They’re bending from the waist. But I’m damned if I can figure out what the hell they’re doing.”

  “I’ll check it out.” Turner, complete with camera, sound, and lighting people, made his way through the crowd to the front of the church. He watched the odd ritual, as people continued to do precisely what Walberg had described from his perch in the organ loft.

  Turner approached a woman who had just completed the bow and was moving away from the casket. “Can you speak English?” he inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “What was it you were just doing?”

  “When?”

  “Just now … when you bent down by the casket.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Then why did you do it?”

  “Everybody else was doing it. I think maybe it’s got something to do with the dead bishop. I was never at a bishop’s funeral before. Maybe that’s the way we pay our respects to a bishop … I don’t know.”

  “Did you get that, Teddy? She doesn’t know. We’ll have to check with some expert … no, not Lieutenant Quirt-hey, wait a minute! This is good! There’s a woman sobbing-real quiet like-right next to the camera. Real emotion! The real stuff! Did you get that, guys?”

  “I missed it,” the cameraman admitted. “I was tight in with the dame you were talking to. But she’s still doing it. I’ll get her now. Lenny, turn the sun-gun around.”

  The woman, startled by the sudden flood of light, and sensing she had become the center of attention, stopped in midsob. A tear hung halfway down her cheek. A surprised look on her face, she just stood there, bewildered.

  Turner approached her and, in a reassuring tone, said, “That’s all right. We wanted a shot of you crying. Could you do it again?”

  “Que?”

  “Could you cry some more?Nothing hysterical. Just the way you were doing.”

  “Que?”

  “Don’t you understand English?”

  “Que?”

  “Oh damn! Goddam!”

  The man next in line after the now-dry madonna said, “This for TV?”

  “Well, the movies, really.”

  “Movies! You turn camera on my wife here. I make her cry!”

  Father Henry Dorr motioned for both Fathers Koesler and Dempsey to lean in so they could hear him.

  “Have you noticed,” Dorr said, “who isn’t here?”

  “You mean,” Koesler said, “besides the aforementioned wealthy friends of the late bishop, and the Hispanic leaders?”

  “Yeah. Who else?”

  “I suppose you’re referring to Ernie Bell and Don Carleson,” Koesler said.

  “The suspects,” Dempsey said with a broad grin. “They didn’t return to the scene of the crime … eh?”

  “Don’t you ever get serious?” Henry Dorr chided. But then, somewhat thoughtfully, he added, “Wouldn’t you expect them to be here? That is, unless they feel embarrassed to be here. Unless they feel guilty about something.” His tone made their absence seem singularly significant.

  “You mean,” Dempsey countered, “the fact that both Bell and Carleson are absent tonight means there was a conspiracy? They both killed Diego?”

  Dorr clearly had not considered that possibility. His original, not articulated, point being that at least one of the two had a guilty motive for not showing up for the wake. But now that a connection had been drawn between the two priests, Dorr: liked the idea. So he adopted it. “Well, why not? Maybe the cops haven’t thought of that. They both had a motive and the opportunity. Maybe one held Diego while the other hit him.”

  “Henry!” Koesler was horrified. “I can’t imagine any priest killing a bishop … anybody, for that matter. And you’ve got two priests in a murder conspiracy? Really, Henry, that’s too much!”

  “Oh, all right,” Dorr said. “But if that’s the
way this works out, remember you heard it here first.”

  “We’ll remember, Henry,” Dempsey said. “And, speaking of confusion …”

  “Nobody said anything about confusion, Frank,” Koesler said.

  “I know, I know,” Dempsey replied. “But I heard this joke about confusion today-”

  “Frank, this is a wake!” Dorr reminded.

  “It seems,” Dempsey plowed on, “that this Irish maid went to confession and confessed that the butler had his way with her. So the priest asked, ‘Was this against your will?’ ‘No,’ the maid says, ‘it was against the china cabinet … and it would’ve done your heart good to hear them dishes rattle.’”

  Don affected shock. Koesler’s shoulders shook with laughter.

  “Well,” Dempsey said, “will you look who’s coming down the aisle!”

  “Stan Kowalzki.” Koesler identified the bishop, the center of his procession.

  Garbed in a flowing white cape, holding his crosier and wearing the tall miter and preceded by some priests in cassock and surplice, the retired auxiliary bishop smiled and nodded to everyone as he passed by.

  “Well,” Don said, “that’ll tell you something. They send an auxiliary bishop for the vigil service-and a retired one at that!”

  “I don’t think that’s so odd,” Koesler said. “The Cardinal will probably be here for the Mass tomorrow. He’s probably busy tonight.”

  “This isn’t a mere priest lying in state,” Don insisted. “This is a bishop. Boyle should be here. Mark my words, there’s a statement being made here.”

  “Mondo! What the hell is that going down the center of the church?”

  “I don’t know, Teddy,” Turner said. “Wait! I’ve seen this getup before. Richard Burton in Becket. It’s a bishop.”

  “Get this! Get as many closeups as you can,” Walberg directed. “Great panoply! Right out of the Middle Ages. God, don’t Catholics know how to throw a funeral!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE

  It was now 11:00 P.M. Tuesday. The vigil service was long over. The boys had gathered in a couple of the large rooms on the first floor of Ste. Anne’s rectory. Clerical collars and vestments had been put aside.