Bishop as Pawn Page 0,17
diocese and Don was willing to live with it. It had to end sometime!
“Bishop Diego was a most difficult man. He made life pretty miserable for any number of people—mostly priests. And Bob Carleson was not alone in being a special target of the bishop.”
Quirt thanked his instinct and experience for letting McCauley ramble on. This was exactly what he was hoping for—another lead, maybe someone as good a suspect as Carleson. “And who would that be? Someone who was a ‘special target’ for the bishop?”
McCauley blanched. Too late he realized he had fallen into Quirt’s trap. Now he had no recourse but to implicate another priest as a possible murder suspect. In the brief interlude that Quirt gave him to consider what he’d say next, McCauley tried to rationalize his blunder. Eventually, Ernie Bell would have become entangled in this investigation. Among priests particularly, Bell’s combat with Diego was common knowledge. If he, McCauley, had not revealed this fact, someone else surely would have.
McCauley’s attempt at self-exculpation wasn’t entirely effective. But it was the best he could muster at the moment. “Well,” he said at length, “Father Ernest Bell has had some problems with the bishop.”
“No, no, Father,” Quirt said unctuously, “you and your friends here have had ‘problems’ with the bishop. Father Carleson has had his life made miserable by the bishop. Father Bell have much the same experience?”
Reluctantly, with much hesitation, McCauley told of the enmity that had grown steadily from almost the first meeting of Bell and Diego. Bad chemistry, McCauley declared. In any case, the conflict had escalated to the point where it was now larger than just the two men. Bell’s very parish was under attack by the bishop. Everyone involved in the Latino community was in agreement that St. Gabriel’s parish was vibrant and growing, doing great work, really. But would the power structure downtown realize that? Or would they be influenced by a bishop who had been brought into the diocese for the very purpose of providing leadership to the Latinos? Bell, understandably, was beside himself with concern for his parish and his people.
Quirt did not grasp the essence of the dispute between the clergymen. But he very clearly recognized a suspect when he saw one. And this Father Ernest Bell surely qualified. “So,” Quirt said, “if I got this right, you, you’re saving that this Father Bell felt threatened by Bishop Diego.”
“Yes, I guess that’s a fair statement.”
“The power structure of the local Church could close down a parish if it wants to?”
“Well, I don’t want to give the impression that they’d do such a thing capriciously. But, with the clergy crisis and all, sometimes a closing does solve a bunch of problems. Especially if a nearby parish can take over the displaced parishioners.”
“But now” —Quirt’s tone was eager—-” now Bishop Diego is dead. And Father Bell’s problems seem to be solved … don’t they?”
“Well … yes,” McCauley admitted. “But that doesn’t mean—”
“Lieutenant,” Carleson broke in, “are we quite done here, at least for the moment? I’m way behind, and getting more so, on my hospital rounds. Do you mind if I leave now?”
Quirt, pleased with his progress and eager to begin checking out his theories, did not bother to answer Carleson, but merely waved him away.
Carleson left immediately.
McCauley was about to follow suit, when Sergeant Mangiapane stuck his head in the door. “Zoo,” Mangiapane said almost breathlessly, “the autopsy’s over—”
Tully shook his head and inclined it toward Quirt, who was obviously not pleased with what he took as a slight.
Mangiapane shrugged and turned to address Quirt. “This’ll make more sense, I think, if we go to the bishop’s office.”
“Let’s go.” Quirt led the way.
Return to the scene of the crime, thought McCauley. All those crime movies weren’t a complete waste of time after all.… Although he assumed that he had been dismissed, he decided to tag along.
The rectory’s entrance, appropriately enough, fronted on Ste. Anne Street. A sidewalk led to a rise of wooden steps. The heavy door opened to a small foyer that in turn led to a long hallway. Bishop Diego’s office was the first door to the right after entering the corridor.
The office itself was moderately large. Had there been much furniture or bric-a-brac, it would have looked crowded. However, it was sparsely outfitted. The eye-catching feature was the previously mentioned collection of photos adorning the walls. They came close to constituting a Who’s Who of Detroit, with the bishop’s image the only constant in each of