William Kienzle - Bishop as Pawn

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?”