Bishop as Pawn Page 0,81
listening to the radio or catching the TV news?”
“Most of it,” Kleimer said glumly.
“Makes you wonder, don’t it?”
“What? You too? Don’t tell me you’re second-guessing us!”
“Oh, no. No, we got the right guy. But I think the media want us to give Carleson a medal instead of life in Jacktown.”
“Yeah, well, fortunately the media aren’t going to be in the jury box.”
“That’s true. But it makes you think, don’t it? Hey, Brad, is it possible for the prosecution to ask for a change of venue?”
“No—that’s just for the defense. Besides, where would we go? This is getting national—hell, international!—coverage.” With little hope, Kleimer asked, “Any of your guys come up with anything?”
“Nothin’ you could bottle. Williams thinks he’s on to something, but it’s pretty vague. Nothin’ to get your hopes up for.”
“Is he there with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Put him on.”
“It’s not much more than a hunch.”
“Put him on!”
“Okay, okay. Just a second.”
No one had to caution Kleimer to rein in a rampant exuberance. His single comfort, and it wasn’t much, was that things couldn’t get much worse.
There was a click on the line. “Williams?”
“Yeah. Listen, this is just a feeling—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kleimer interrupted. “Quirt’s already given me the disclaimer. Whatcha got?”
“Well, I was checking Carleson’s past assignments with Maryknoll headquarters in New York. Most of what I got was the same stuff they’ve got on radio and TV. It’ll be in the papers in more detail later today and tomorrow. But there’s one thing I’m pretty sure they haven’t got.”
“What’s that?” Kleimer tensed and leaned over his desk. The pen he’d been toying with he now poised over a legal pad.
“It was a routine question,” Williams said. “This priest …” Kleimer assumed Williams was checking his notes. “This priest—a Father Weber—was giving me a list of Father Carleson’s assignments—missions, I think they call them. Like I said, it was routine. He was giving me names of places—mostly Central and South America—and dates, and if anything outstanding happened because Father Carleson was there … you know, like chapels or housing units built, or wells being dug—stuff like that—”
“Yeah, yeah. So?”
“Well, he got to one place—Father Weber, I mean—it’s called … uh, Sandego. It’s in Nicaragua—close to Honduras—and, well, anyway, when he came to that point, this Father Weber hesitated. It wasn’t a long pause. But I got the impression that he was surprised by something to do with that assignment. I think he came across something, and he was trying to decide whether to tell me. And then he decided not to.”
That was it. Williams apparently was finished. “That’s it?”
“I said it wasn’t much.”
“What did you make of it?”
“It could’ve been anything. A word that was smudged and Weber was trying to make it out. Maybe his glasses got dirty. Maybe he got tired of reading through all these dates and places.”
“Did you press him on it?”
“Yeah. I did. I thought he spent too much time brushing it off as ‘nothing.’”
“Your gut feeling?”
“Without any real good reason, I got the idea that Father Weber was covering, uh, I don’t know what. Something that, for whatever reason, Maryknoll wants kept quiet. Father Weber—and I’m just guessing—well, I think he knew what was in the record. But then when he was reading me all the assignment stuff, he almost went too far. He stopped himself at the last minute.
“But I gotta tell you: All this is just one king-size guess … nothing more.”
Kleimer was no longer taking notes. He was tapping his pen on the desk pad. After a minute, he spoke. “Go there!”
“You want me to go to Ossining?”
“That’s it. I want you to read that record for yourself. Who knows; it could be the break we need. But we’ll never know with you here and that record in New York. See if you can tap a contingency fund. If not, I’ll see if I can free up some travel expenses here. Hell, if worse comes to worse, I’ll pay for it! Just go!”
Kleimer broke the connection and sat lost in thought.
What could it be? Something Maryknoll is trying to hide? Something Carleson did that nobody’s proud of? Molesting children? That sort of thing had become more common recently, it seemed. Maybe knocked up a local virgin?
Get serious, Kleimer admonished himself. Carleson may have reached the end of his rope and offed a bishop. But, be real: He’s not the venal type.
Nicaragua. What comes to mind? The Contras. Civil war. Thugs in uniform. Villages destroyed. What would a guy who didn’t give much of