Bishop as Pawn (31 page)

“That’s a generalization,” Dorr protested.

“He’s got a point, Henry,” Koesler said. “Go ahead and take a careful look. None of the local leaders are here. I guess Diego didn’t fool all of the people all of the time.”

“And,” Dempsey added, “the priests are here just to make sure he’s dead.”

“Speaking of priests,” Koesler said, “I wonder why there aren’t any Dallas priests here for the funeral? Maybe they’ll get here for the Mass tomorrow.”

“The Dallas contingent?” Dempsey snorted. “They’re having a fiesta down there.”

“Come on,” Dorr protested.

“It’s true,” Dempsey insisted. “They knew he was a three-dollar bill before we got to know but not love him.”

“Really? I thought his social climbing started when he became an auxiliary here,” Koesler said.

“Down there,” Dempsey explained, “he traded on his good looks. That’s how he made a name for himself. He also had a talent, even down there, for raising money. His archbishop got nothing but glowing reports about him. Well, why not? He was popular. And with his movie-picture looks, there wasn’t a hint of any hanky-panky. And the SOB poured money into diocesan collections. That’s how come, when Boyle went looking for an Hispanic auxiliary, the Dallas power structure pointed their collective finger at Diego.”

Ted Walberg and Armand Turner had worked out a deal whereby they each had been named coproducer of the made-for-TV movie, “Death Wears a Red Hat.” As the filming progressed, they were beginning to work out a marginally acceptable relationship.

Just now, Turner, complete with sound and camera people, was working the church floor, while Walberg was supervising the filming from the organ loft and other precarious vantages.

“This is very good,” Walberg said into the mike that connected him with Turner. “Lots and lots of action. Maybe too much. I’m not sure anybody will believe this actually could happen in real life.”

“I tend to agree, Teddy,” Turner said. “But we can always edit this down, or out. What’ll definitely be a keeper are these lines of people waiting to view the body. They get serious when they get in these lines. No more dancing to the mariachi band.”

“You’re right, Mondo. But there’s something going on up front in that line that doesn’t play.”

“What? What’s that?”

“The people, just recently, seem to be bending over when they get to the casket. They seem to be looking for something. But I’ll be damned if I know what.”

“Okay. I’m making my way to the casket. But can you say again? What is it they’re doing?”

“Bending … bowing … I’m not sure.”

“A curtsy?”

“No, dummy! I know a curtsy when I see one. They’re bending from the waist. But I’m damned if I can figure out what the hell they’re doing.”

“I’ll check it out.” Turner, complete with camera, sound, and lighting people, made his way through the crowd to the front of the church. He watched the odd ritual, as people continued to do precisely what Walberg had described from his perch in the organ loft.

Turner approached a woman who had just completed the bow and was moving away from the casket. “Can you speak English?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“What was it you were just doing?”

“When?”

“Just now … when you bent down by the casket.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Then why did you do it?”

“Everybody else was doing it. I think maybe it’s got something to do with the dead bishop. I was never at a bishop’s funeral before. Maybe that’s the way we pay our respects to a bishop … I don’t know.”

“Did you get that, Teddy? She doesn’t know. We’ll have to check with some expert … no, not Lieutenant Quirt—hey, wait a minute! This is good! There’s a woman sobbing—real quiet like—right next to the camera. Real emotion! The real stuff! Did you get that, guys?”

“I missed it,” the cameraman admitted. “I was tight in with the dame you were talking to. But she’s still doing it. I’ll get her now. Lenny, turn the sun-gun around.”

The woman, startled by the sudden flood of light, and sensing she had become the center of attention, stopped in midsob. A tear hung halfway down her cheek. A surprised look on her face, she just stood there, bewildered.

Turner approached her and, in a reassuring tone, said, “That’s all right. We wanted a shot of you crying. Could you do it again?”

“Que?”

“Could you cry some more?Nothing hysterical. Just the way you were doing.”

“Que?”

“Don’t you understand English?”

“Que?”

“Oh damn! Goddam!”

The man next in line after the now-dry madonna said, “This for TV?”

“Well, the movies, really.”

“Movies! You turn camera on my wife here. I make her cry!”

Father Henry Dorr motioned for both Fathers Koesler and Dempsey to lean in so they could hear him.

“Have you noticed,” Dorr said, “who isn’t here?”

“You mean,” Koesler said, “besides the aforementioned wealthy friends of the late bishop, and the Hispanic leaders?”

“Yeah. Who else?”

“I suppose you’re referring to Ernie Bell and Don Carleson,” Koesler said.

“The suspects,” Dempsey said with a broad grin. “They didn’t return to the scene of the crime … eh?”

“Don’t you ever get serious?” Henry Dorr chided. But then, somewhat thoughtfully, he added, “Wouldn’t you expect them to be here? That is, unless they feel embarrassed to be here. Unless they feel guilty about something.” His tone made their absence seem singularly significant.

“You mean,” Dempsey countered, “the fact that both Bell and Carleson are absent tonight means there was a conspiracy? They both killed Diego?”

Dorr clearly had not considered that possibility. His original, not articulated, point being that at least one of the two had a guilty motive for not showing up for the wake. But now that a connection had been drawn between the two priests, Dorr: liked the idea. So he adopted it. “Well, why not? Maybe the cops haven’t thought of that. They both had a motive and the opportunity. Maybe one held Diego while the other hit him.”

“Henry!” Koesler was horrified. “I can’t imagine any priest killing a bishop … anybody, for that matter. And you’ve got two priests in a murder conspiracy? Really, Henry, that’s too much!”

“Oh, all right,” Dorr said. “But if that’s the way this works out, remember you heard it here first.”

“We’ll remember, Henry,” Dempsey said. “And, speaking of confusion …”

“Nobody said anything about confusion, Frank,” Koesler said.

“I know, I know,” Dempsey replied. “But I heard this joke about confusion today—”

“Frank, this is a wake!” Dorr reminded.

“It seems,” Dempsey plowed on, “that this Irish maid went to confession and confessed that the butler had his way with her. So the priest asked, ‘Was this against your will?’ ‘No,’ the maid says, ‘it was against the china cabinet … and it would’ve done your heart good to hear them dishes rattle.’”

Don affected shock. Koesler’s shoulders shook with laughter.

“Well,” Dempsey said, “will you look who’s coming down the aisle!”

“Stan Kowalzki.” Koesler identified the bishop, the center of his procession.

Garbed in a flowing white cape, holding his crosier and wearing the tall miter and preceded by some priests in cassock and surplice, the retired auxiliary bishop smiled and nodded to everyone as he passed by.

“Well,” Don said, “that’ll tell you something. They send an auxiliary bishop for the vigil service—and a retired one at that!”

“I don’t think that’s so odd,” Koesler said. “The Cardinal will probably be here for the Mass tomorrow. He’s probably busy tonight.”

“This isn’t a mere priest lying in state,” Don insisted. “This is a bishop. Boyle should be here. Mark my words, there’s a statement being made here.”

“Mondo! What the hell is that going down the center of the church?”

“I don’t know, Teddy,” Turner said. “Wait! I’ve seen this getup before. Richard Burton in
Becket.
It’s a bishop.”

“Get this! Get as many closeups as you can,” Walberg directed. “Great panoply! Right out of the Middle Ages. God, don’t Catholics know how to throw a funeral!”

CHAPTER

TWENTY - THREE

It was now 11:00
P.M.
Tuesday. The vigil service was long over. The boys had gathered in a couple of the large rooms on the first floor of Ste. Anne’s rectory. Clerical collars and vestments had been put aside.

It was customary when a significant number of priests gathered that they would engage in shop talk, friendly conversation, and a bit of clerical gossip. And when the opportunity presented itself, someone was likely to break out the cards and poker chips.

And so it was tonight. The only thing different from the days of yore, some twenty-or-so years before, was that now the rooms were rarely smoke-filled and the stakes were generally not as high.

The game was going on in the large dining room. The smaller room was given over more to conversation, plus, in one corner, Bishop Kowalzki was playing chess with Father Dempsey. Standing near the chess players, only vaguely interested in the game, were Fathers Dorr and Koesler.

“Does this sort of give you the creeps?” Dorr asked.

“What?”

“Being so close to where Diego was killed.”

“I hadn’t thought of it … until now. I wish you hadn’t mentioned it,” Koesler added. “I guess I just got lost in having the gang around. But, okay, now that you brought it up, yeah, it
is
creepy being just a few rooms away from a murder scene. I don’t think I want to think about it.”

“I suppose Don Carleson is upstairs in his room.” Dorr’s eyes lifted in the general direction of the second-floor bedrooms.

Koesler turned a trifle edgy. “Any particular reason why you want to connect the fact that Don’s room is not all that far from Diego’s office?”

“No, no …” Dorr was patently apologetic. “I was just wondering how he can sleep.”

“You mean with his conscience?”

“No, with all the noise going on down here. You’re getting awfully defensive, aren’t you, Bob?”

“Maybe. But I have it from your own lips that you think he did it. Maybe even in a conspiracy with Ernie Bell!” It was obvious that Koesler considered both theories preposterous.

Their attention was drawn to the chess game. Bishop Kowalzki was telling a story while continuing to move his players. And when the bishop told a story, he expected others to listen.

“I think you were there—at Jimmy Welch’s retirement party.…” The bishop was speaking to Dempsey, his opponent in the chess game.

“That was back in September!” Dempsey wondered about the odor of a story that old.

“Yes, it was,” the bishop acknowledged, “but if you haven’t heard it yet, you should. You remember it was very warm that day.”

“Not really.”

“You didn’t think it was warm?”

“No, I don’t remember.”

“Well, it was warm, unseasonably warm,” the bishop said. “I remember because I was just in shirtsleeves, no clerical collar. When I came up to the back door of the rectory, who gets there at the same moment but Irene Casey, the editor of the
Detroit Catholic.
Well, anyway, the housekeeper is waiting at the back door to welcome the guests. For a moment no one says anything. Then I remember I’m not wearing anything that would show I’m a clergyman. But I figure the housekeeper will recognize my name. So I just say, ‘Kowalzki.’ And the housekeeper smiles and says, ‘The party is downstairs. You can go right down, Mr. and Mrs. Kowalzki.’”

“Checkmate.”

“What?”

“Checkmate.” Dempsey indicated the chessboard now almost emptied of the bishop’s men, with Kowalzki’s king decidedly mated.

The bishop smiled and swept his king from the board. “Another game?”

“I don’t think so. Thanks,” Dempsey said. “It’s getting kind of late. I should be heading back soon.” Dempsey stood and joined Koesler and Dorr. He yawned elaborately, striving for a convincing indication that he was indeed tired. The truth was that he didn’t want to go through another game with the bishop.

The bishop, receiving no takers, left the room and prepared to depart the party.

“Nice enough guy,” Dempsey said, “but he plays chess like a member of the hierarchy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Koesler asked.

“Sort of a full-court press …”

“To mix metaphors.”

“Yes. Well, he just comes at you with everything he’s got. Tries to overwhelm you. It works only if he catches you unprepared. It’s sort of strange seeing everything used like a pawn. Knights, rooks, bishops—anything but the queen—and sometimes even her. It’s an interesting maneuver the first couple of times you see it. After that, it gets dull in a hurry.”

“But he’s a nice guy,” Dorr said.

“I said that,” Dempsey said.

“And he conducted a sensitive, touching vigil service, I thought,” Koesler said.

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Dorr agreed.

“And he had determined opposition,” Dempsey said.

“Huh?”

“Those Hollywood freaks who’re doing the movie. They were about as intrusive as they could get. Cameras and those bright lights right in the bishop’s face. I swear, I don’t know how he kept from telling them to get the hell out of there.”