William Kienzle - Bishop as Pawn

“Very generous of you,” Koesler observed.

“Speaking of Quirt, he tells me he’s back in the movie business.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, that made-for-TV production they’ve been working on even while the investigation was continuing. They came to me first. But I was up to my neck with the Diego murder, so I passed them on to Quirt. They got so obnoxious that even Quirt dumped them. Now that the investigation is completed, George got reinvolved. They promised him some bucks. So far, that’s still just a promise.”

“Now that you mention it,” Koesler said, “I was reading something about that movie. Didn’t they have … oh, what’s his name?… Charles Durning signed? Hard to believe he’s supposed to play a Hispanic bishop.”

“They lost Durning. But they think they can get Donald Sutherland.”

“Donald Sutherland!”

“Guess who he’s supposed to play.”

Koesler shook his head.

“Me!”

“You.”

“Yes. Not bad, wouldn’t you say, having Donald Sutherland play me?” The very thought of someone so famous portraying him seemed to intoxicate Kleimer. He launched into a narrative expounding on his hopes and plans. This case had already gained him national, even international, recognition. There would be plenty more to come as the trial took place and as, inevitably, he won a conviction.

Of course, Kleimer expected a defense of insanity, but he was quite sure he could defeat that ploy. And even if Carleson’s insanity plea succeeded, the priest would be behind bars one way or the other. Kleimer couldn’t wait to lock horns with Avery Cone. Nothing like going against the best; his victory would be all the greater.

One word leading to another, Kleimer used up a lot of time blowing his own horn.

Throughout, every chance he got, Koesler scanned the room. He had to return his gaze to the speaker from time to time; he didn’t want to create the impression he was bored. He simply was searching for … what? He didn’t know. He felt like an actor in a play knowing neither his lines nor even which play he was in.

At length, Kleimer checked his watch. “Say, Father” — he was still looking at his watch-” it’s time I got on my horse or the lady will kill me.” As he and a reluctant Koesler rose to their feet, the phone rang.

Kleimer hesitated. “I’ll be just a minute,” he said as he left the room.

“Just a minute,” Koesler repeated in his mind. Just a minute! He could not chance picking up even one of these mysterious and strangely promising folders in “just a minute.”

Once again he scanned the room. At least now he didn’t have to worry about holding eye contact. But there was nothing he hadn’t seen earlier. And nothing that seemed even remotely incriminating. Koesler’s heart sank. What a dumb idea this had been!

Kleimer leaned back into the living room, a distressed look on his face. One of his hands covered the phone. “The lady wants to cancel tonight. I’ve gotta talk her out of that. Would you mind letting yourself out?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Thanks. We’ll talk.”

He disappeared again into the kitchen, whence Koesler could hear him cajoling, kidding, and pleading alternatively.

Koesler shrugged and headed for the closet to retrieve his hat and coat. Not for an instant did he blame God. It simply was not to be.

After all, he had no more than a theory, a mere hypothesis. For all he knew, his theory might be no more than a product of his wishful thinking. Perhaps he wanted so to help Don Carleson that his fancy had taken flight.

As he walked to the closet he became aware that his vision was slightly impaired by dirty glasses. He’d been in such a hurry since his shower and frustrated sleuthing that he’d paid no attention to how smudged his eyeglasses were.

Fortunately, he routinely kept a clean handkerchief in his overcoat for just such exigencies.

He opened the closet door and slid his hand inside the vest pocket of his overcoat. Strange, he didn’t feel the folded cloth he expected. Rather, it felt like a slip of paper.

He had no idea what it could be. He was forever stuffing pieces of paper, cards, notes, in his pockets. He assumed almost everyone did likewise. It always proved a revelation, sometimes an amusing diversion, to pull everything out and try to place the source of each.

He pulled the slip of paper out.

He recognized it immediately. His only question was what had happened to his clean handkerchief. Then he looked more closely at the piece of paper.

No, that wasn’t right. How could anyone have made such a stupid mistake?

Then, slowly, very slowly, it all began to fall into place.

Hoping against hope, he looked further into the closet. There was another black overcoat. He reached into its vest pocket and found his clean handkerchief.

Paraphrasing from My Fair Lady , he wanted to sing out, “I think I’ve got it! By George, I’ve got it!”

Hurriedly, he slipped into his coat and hat-making certain both were his own. Hurriedly, he returned to St. Joe’s. Hurriedly, he called Lieutenant Tully. Hurriedly, Tully started the process to secure a search warrant.

“I think I’ll take that coffee now,” Lieutenant Tully said.

“Now that you mention it, I will too, if it is not too much trouble,” Inspector Koznicki said.

Father Koesler was tempted to feel insulted, or at least slighted. Earlier, he had offered both officers coffee. Both had declined. Now Mary O’Connor had arrived. She offered to make coffee, and the two accepted readily enough.

From time to time, Koesler was almost convinced he was incapable of brewing coffee to anyone’s taste but his own. Then something would happen to restore his confidence. Why just a few evenings ago Father Carleson had welcomed not only Koesler coffee, but warmed-over Koesler coffee.

And of course it was Father Carleson who brought them together this frigid but clear and sunny February morning.

The priest and the police officers had gathered in St. Joe’s dining room to, in effect, celebrate the conclusion of the police investigation of the Diego and Demers murders. The court trials were yet to come.

“It was almost a miracle that led you to that receipt,” Koznicki said.

Koesler laughed. “If you could have seen me-if you could have read my mind while I was in Brad Kleimer’s apartment, you wouldn’t have a single doubt that it was a miracle. But, then, as someone once said, ‘More things are wrought by prayer than this world knows of.’ Did you pray, Lieutenant?”

Tully wore a bemused smile. He considered the question rhetorical. He could not argue that prayer mightn’t work if one believed in it; but prayer played an almost nonexistent role in his life.

“I literally didn’t know what I was looking for, and I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize it even if I found it. That’s how bad off I was,” Koesler said. He had already, at least in part, explained to Tully what had happened in Kleimer’s apartment. He would go over what had transpired for the benefit of both officers. It was a ritual they had gone through in the past and would repeat now.

“Things happened in that apartment that some might ascribe to chance, but I think it was Providence,” Koesler said. “Starting with Mr. Kleimer’s invitation to visit him sometime. I have no idea why he did that.”

“He would have found some use for you sometime,” Koznicki suggested.

“I suppose. Anyway, I had no idea then that I would be taking him up on that offer.”

“And he had no idea his invitation was going to backfire,” Tully added.

“That’s right,” Koesler agreed. “Anyway, just as he was about to usher me out, his phone rang. If that hadn’t happened, he would certainly have handed me the right black overcoat.”