William Kienzle - Bishop as Pawn

“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.

He found his wallet, took out the parking stub and the single dollar that was the fixed night rate.

He stopped at the attendant’s booth, gave him the stub and money. Without Koesler’s asking, the attendant gave him a receipt. Koesler figured so many medical and legal personnel used the garage, the receipt was automatic. He stuffed it in his pocket. The parking arm lifted; Koesler exited the garage and drove away from the hospital.

What, if anything, had he learned? He was not at all sure. He would have to think this through.

He let himself in through the kitchen of St. Joe’s rectory and checked the answering machine. No calls. Good.

He could catch the final few stories on the late evening news. It was sports, weather, and a cutesy closing bit. He was sure the lead story on all television and radio stations had been the rearrest and incarceration of Father Carleson.

He made sure the lights were out and the thermostat turned down.

He had recently begun an interesting book on the Jesuits in America. He tried that for a few pages, but he was suffering from major distractions.

He turned out the light and pulled up the blankets.

He tried to find the precise key that might unlock this puzzle and cast a fresh light on static presumptions. But he was too tired.

He had to agree with Scarlett O’Hara: I’ll think about that tomorrow .

“Brad, this is Quirt, George Quirt.”

Brad Kleimer propped the phone between ear and shoulder as he swiveled his chair toward the window. “George” was redundant; how many Quirts could he know? “Okay. Good morning, George. Whatcha got?”

“I just got done talking to Williams.”

“Yeah? He home now?”

“No … and that’s the problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

Quirt did not have happy news. But since sending Williams to Maryknoll had been Kleimer’s idea, the problem was Kleimer’s. “Williams hasn’t been able to see the Maryknoll assignment book.”

“Why’s that so tough?”

“Well, he got to Ossining okay, and eventually he touched base with the local cops. He let them know what he needed, but it took a helluva long time to get their cooperation. He finally got one of the guys to go with him, and then they spent pretty much all day yesterday trying to find a judge who’d issue a warrant.”

“What?” Kleimer came to his feet. “Why didn’t he just go to Maryknoll and look at the record?”

“Well, he did, Brad-go to Maryknoll, that is. But they wouldn’t let him see it.”

“They’re hiding something.”

“Maybe. Probably. But the guy he talked to-a Maryknoll priest with the title of procurator-said it was the policy of the order not to disclose the record of any of their missionaries.

“I got all this from Williams … it probably makes more sense to a Catholic-”

“Get on with it.”

“Yeah. Well, this procurator explained that the missionaries’ activities could be compromised if this stuff got into the wrong hands.”

“Williams is a cop, for Chrissake! What does he mean ‘get into the wrong hands’?”

“The procurator says it’s the rule-their rule. The records of the missionaries are strictly confidential and they don’t share ’em with anybody. That’s the only way they can be sure they’re not gonna get into the wrong hands: They don’t get into any hands.”

“So? That’s one guy.”

“Williams says he went to the rector of the seminary and even to the superior general-which, I take it, is the top guy. Same song and dance … matter of fact, the superior general said this rule originated with him. That’s when Williams went to the cops. He thought it would be a snap to at least get the cooperation of the police. But, it wasn’t. Then, like I said, he finally got one guy. But they spent all the working hours yesterday trying to find a judge who’d issue a warrant.”

Kleimer was irritated and growing more so. “What’s the problem with the warrant?”