Bishop as Pawn Page 0,104

since the other day. But he knows we got Carleson back in jail. And he knows that Carleson’s charged with two murders—and the second puts the seal on the first. But Wayne hasn’t blinked. I think if he had any doubts about Julio, he’d get in touch. But: nothin’.”

“Did you get anything at all from Julio?” Moore asked.

“Only that he ‘did it’!”

“That sounds pretty convincing to me.”

“Yeah … except he’s not too sure whether he used a gun or a knife or a voodoo doll.”

“Not exactly the kind of defendant you’d want to put on the witness chair. I can’t think of too many judges who’d accept multiple-choice weapons.

“But, Zoo: What about this? What if Julio comes out of this completely and remembers everything? Suppose he says he did it and identifies the weapon—the correct weapon? Then what? What happens with the prosecutor who keeps on insisting that he’s got the perp? And that he’s got motive, opportunity, and means? He’s got a half ton of circumstantial evidence.… And the priest claims he’s innocent, while Julio claims he’s guilty. What happens then?”

Tully seemed to be considering these contradictions for the first time. As he returned his attention to the file he’d been studying, he said, “Angie, we live in interesting times.”

Father Koesler was getting through this day in a more or less mechanical manner.

The high point of Father Koesler’s day always was his celebration of Mass. Each day he tried to prepare well for this sacred ritual—the essence of his life. But this morning Mass had been filled with distractions.As was the rest of this day.

Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary, had sorted the mail, pointing out that the separate pile needed his immediate attention.

He tried to give it undivided concentration but found himself rereading paragraph after paragraph. Somehow he got through it all. But it took up to three times what it normally would have.

It was the same with his appointments. He conscientiously tried to focus on what his visitors said, the problems they brought to him. But if their presentation was at all on the dull side, they would lose him. He could not count the number of times he had punctuated the conversation with, “Sorry, could you repeat that?” or “I beg your pardon …” or “What was that you were saying?” As he saw each of these visitors to the door, he felt the need to apologize.

Mary O’Connor left for home about 4:00 P.M. She was worried about him. There had been distractions before, but not a whole day full. She had tried to make things as easy as possible for him, but nothing seemed to help. She could only hope that a good night’s sleep might set things straight for him.

After Mary left, Koesler donned his sweats and went into the basement for the series of exercises that had been suggested by a physical therapist. Requiring attention was a shoulder that had lost its rotator cuff to a stray bullet, as well as a creeping arthritic condition.

Mercifully, the exercises helped clear his mind. He returned to his second-floor suite perspiring, but much more organized and put together.

It was in the shower that the puzzle began to unravel. Why, he wondered, did this sort of thing so frequently occur while he showered? Possibly because during showers he almost always was thinking of nothing. And in that vacuum that nature despised, fresh ideas were born.

He’d been trying to recall a simple statement Lieutenant Tully had made when last they’d talked. About Father Carleson’s apparent involvement in the death of Herbert Demers. Tully had said something to the effect that it was too bad that he—Father Carleson—had done it.

The gist of the remark was that it was the second murder that gave crediblity to the first.

The immediate and growing reaction to Father Carleson’s arrest for the murder of Bishop Diego had been disbelief. The media accurately reported what they discovered. Which was that everyone who knew Father Carleson knew him to be dedicated, generous, peaceful, kind, thoughtful, gentle—and very long-suffering—the very antithesis of a murderer.

What circumstantial evidence the prosecution was gathering had begun to pale in the face of the spotless reputation that continued to emerge.

Then came the death of Demers. Carleson’s image took a sharp downturn. It wasn’t so much that people and the media suddenly pictured him as a ruthless criminal and murderer. The figure that now emerged was of a priest gone mad.

Here was a priest who—with or without the best of intentions—could snuff an elderly