William Kienzle - Bishop as Pawn

Koesler regarded the banana. The last of its bunch, it had seen the better part of its life. He hoped it would not be too ripe. He preferred bananas to be bright yellow-even greenish-and firm. He’d have to remember to get more today.

“Recapping our lead story,” the newscaster said, “a Detroit bishop was found murdered in the rectory of Ste. Anne’s church just west of downtown Detroit. Police are on the scene and their investigation has just begun into the death of auxiliary bishop Ramon Diego. We’ll be bringing you more details as we get them.”

The radio continued to play, but Koesler no longer heard it. His mind was whirling. He went to the front porch and retrieved the Free Press. He paged through it, but found no mention of the death. Of course not; the story must have broken long after the Freep’s final edition had gone to press.

What had the announcer said? Diego’s body was discovered.…

The bishop couldn’t have been found before Koesler delivered Carleson to the rectory. Otherwise the neighborhood would have been teeming with police cars. He remembered how dark and apparently peaceful Ste. Anne’s had been last night.

Then who …? Could it have been Don Carleson who found the body? It almost had to be. Obviously everyone else had gone to bed. The four Basilians who staffed the parish had left last night’s meeting relatively early That was why Carleson had no ride home. That was why Koesler had volunteered a ride.

Evidently, the four had not found the body … or the murder had not taken place before their return.

It must have been Carleson who discovered the body … probably only moments after Koesler had driven off.

Why hadn’t Carleson called him?

On second thought, why would he? There was nothing Koesler could have done. He must have called the police.

Of course, that must have been it.

He wondered what was going on now, at this very moment. None of the priests at Ste. Anne’s could have gotten any sleep last night. Poor Don Carleson to have found the body.

For the first time, Koesler wondered how the bishop had been killed. Had it been messy with blood and gore? Or, perhaps, just the innocent little hole a bullet might make?

On second thought, would it have made any difference? In all the time Carleson had spent in Third World countries, he must have witnessed death in all its stark varieties.

Instinctively, Koesler dialed Ste. Anne’s. Busy. He pictured the turmoil that must be engulfing that scene. This was not an opportune moment for him to barge in.

He would wait to see when-or if-he was needed. No point in intruding where one was not wanted.

Still, he could not help wondering what was going on.

“I don’t care. I don’t like it, Zoo,” Sergeant Phil Mangiapane said.

“Sometimes it works,” Lieutenant Alonzo Tully replied.

“Maybe. But not when you got Quirt,” Mangiapane insisted.

Tully shrugged. “Look at it this way, Manj: Lieutenant George Quirt didn’t ask to head this task force-”

“As far as you know!”

“As far as I know. Okay. Just make sure your head’s on straight. We gotta close this one, and fast.”

“But what I can’t figure, Zoo, is why Koznicki put us on the same case with Quirt. And then, on top of that, to put him in charge of the case! He’s gotta know that we-especially you-and him don’t get along.”

“Walt Koznicki didn’t fill in the cast of characters, Manj.”

“No?”

Tully lifted his eyes heavenward. It was the only show of emotion he would allow himself. “Far as I know, this came down right from Cobb himself. And it was Cobb who insisted on Quirt leading this thing.”

“Just what we need: the Mayor messing in the squads!”

“Pull it together, Manj. And get those interviews in. We’re gonna debrief pretty soon.”

It had been Father Carleson who had called 911. The uniformed officers who responded quickly determined that this was no run-of-the-mill homicide. When they called it in, they made sure it was clear that the deceased was a bishop.

That led to calling in a number of homicide detectives who had expected a complete night’s sleep. It also occasioned the waking of Maynard Cobb, mayor of Detroit.

The mayor sounded out his chief of police. They quickly were of one mind that this was one the national media would feast on. Bishops died from time to time, but they weren’t murdered.

Cobb could envision the leads in newspapers, on radio and TV. “Only in Detroit …” The stories would enumerate the actual totals along with the per capita numbers of murders. Then the Cobb administration would try to find at least a bronze lining. Washington, D.C.’s murder rate was higher per capita. Or Los Angeles or New York had a higher total. Or Detroit’s record was not as high as last year’s. And that-the search for light at the end of this long, dark tunnel-made up the administration’s major effort to control this gun-crazy city.

While Cobb and his police chief did confer on the necessity for and composition of this task force, still they were not in complete agreement.

The chief was uneasy about putting Tully and Quirt on the same squad. It wasn’t that Tully was black and Quirt white: That was not a racial problem as far as those two were concerned. It was the disparity in their methods and personalities that occasioned the chief’s hesitation. Each was a lieutenant leading a homicide squad. Equal in rank, the two were, under the circumstances, likely to be on a collision course.

As far as the mayor was concerned, he simply figured that Tully and Quirt were the two most effective detectives in Homicide. They’d make an airtight arrest in the briefest possible time.

That Quirt was to be in charge merely indicated that the mayor wanted a speedy close to the case. Tully was more likely to be deliberative but accurate. Quirt tended to be swift and expeditious but slipshod. Cobb thought them a good mix. Quick but sure, with the emphasis on getting a body into jail in the least amount of time and the media off the mayor’s aging back.

Not surprisingly, the mayor’s view won out.

“Hey, Zoo, whaddya think?”

Thinking was exactly what Tully had been doing before Quirt’s sudden approach.

The two men were about the same height. Tully’s hair was close-cropped. He was lean, fit, and dressed conservatively. Quirt, almost completely bald, was noticeably overweight. He wore mostly bright colors and suspenders.

“I dunno, Quirt. A little early.”

“Good lookin’ guy.”

“Who?”

“The dead guy.” Quirt’s impatience was obvious. “The bishop.”

“He didn’t look that good to me. Just dead.”

“Yeah, kind of messy. But look here …” Quirt motioned Tully into the bishop’s office. “Look at all these pictures on the walls. Good lookin’ guy?”

Tully had noted the pictures earlier. He had put them on the back burner for later study. Now that his attention had been drawn, he considered them more carefully.

“Looks like a movin’-pitcher star,” Quirt suggested. “Looks like … who’s that guy … you know, the spic in those commercials for the car … the … oh, hell … the Cordoba?”

“Montalban. Ricardo Montalban.”

“Yeah. Don’tcha think?”

The late bishop was, or rather had been, indeed a handsome man. But that was not what interested Tully. Each photo showed Diego with one or more people. Without exception, the others in these candid shots were among the wealthiest and most prominent men and women in the metropolitan area. Tully recognized almost everyone. Not one was or appeared to be Hispanic.

“He was Latino?” Tully asked.

“Yeah, sure. Whaddya think he was doin’ in this part of town? There ain’t many people left around here. But what’s here are spics.”