“Pretty good. The prosecuting attorneys for a big city usually number lots more than two. And there are some other mistakes they make. But one thing they do well is to separate police and legal work. Cops carry through the initial investigation and maybe make the arrest-on that program, they always make an arrest. They turn over all they’ve found to the prosecuting attorney, who takes over. Somebody in his office will determine what the charge will be-or if there will even be a charge. That office decides it alclass="underline" whether there’ll be plea bargaining, how much bail to request, and the rest.”
“What you’re saying” — Koesler was paying close attention-“is that police work is still going on. No arrest has been made. So-what did you say his name is? — Kleimer is here a bit prematurely.” He looked puzzled. “So, I give up. Why is he here now?”
“He wants this case. He wants to prosecute it. It’s a celebrity trial. A bishop is murdered. That’s gonna get lots of ink locally-nationally-hell, probably internationally. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled this stunt.”
Koesler thought for a moment. “Yeah, I remember that name. I’ve read about cases he’s handled. I’ve seen him on TV and heard him interviewed on the radio. He always came on like the celebrity prosecutor. But, now that you mention it, it’s the defendant who’s usually the celebrity.…” Koesler hesitated. “But he does, doesn’t he … usually get convictions, I mean?”
Tully, his expression unfathomable, nodded. “That’s the only reason the police cooperate with him at all. Most of us don’t like him personally. He’s a headline-grabbing son-He’s a grandstander. But cops like to see bad guys put away. So, more often than not, they cooperate with Kleimer. Some cops go a bit further.” He paused. “Let’s say it’s no accident that he’s on this scene, laying claim to it, and that Quirt is leading the investigative task force.”
Koesler was appreciative of Tully’s ability to enlighten effectively as well as succinctly. Tully was grateful that Koesler was such an apt pupil.
Tully, with the easy familiarity of one in his own work space, continued to survey the room. “Back there in the corner” — Tully indicated the far reaches of the squad room-“there’s your man, looking like he hasn’t got a friend in the world-which may be damn near true right now.” Tully inclined his head in Carleson’s direction. “You might want to talk to him.”
Koesler brightened. “I would indeed. May I?”
“Sure, go ahead. Nothing significant’s gonna happen until we get the lab report.”
Koesler made his way through the swarm, conscious of the quizzical stares following him. Outside of Father Carleson, he was the only one in clerical garb.
He was halted halfway toward Carleson by a man who stepped directly in his path. “Excuse me,” the man said in a friendly manner, “I’m Brad Kleimer from the prosecutor’s office. And you are …?”
“Koesler, Father Koesler.”
“Is that K-e-s-s-1-e-r?”
“No, the German way: K-o-e-s-l-e-r.”
“May I ask what you’re doing here?”
Koesler was tempted to ask Kleimer the same question, and, utilizing what he’d gleaned from Lieutenant Tully, add that whatever Kleimer was doing here, he shouldn’t be here in the first place.
But, true to his innate courtesy, Koesler replied only, “I’m here with Lieutenant Tully.” That seemed inadequate, so he added, “A few times in the past I’ve supplied information to the police when questions regarding Catholicism or the Catholic Church were part of their investigation. I’m also a bit of a friend of Father Carleson. I was just on my way to visit with him, if you don’t mind.”
Kleimer made no move to get out of Koesler’s path. Rather, the attorney studied the priest for a few moments with an expression of dawning recognition. “Yeah,” he said finally, “I remember. I’ve read about you in the papers. But you haven’t been on TV, have you? I don’t remember seeing you.”
“No, I haven’t. You didn’t miss me. I’m surprised you remember me at all.” Koesler had the impression that according to Kleimer no one’s fifteen minutes of fame began until the TV cameras were there to film it.
“What was it you said you helped with?”
“When the police need some insights into things Catholic. There are times when, without an insider’s direction, the Catholic Church-its rules and regulations-can seem a bit of a maze.”
“I see,” Kleimer said. “As when a bishop is murdered?”
“Well, not on the surface, I suppose. But there can be complications like-oh-the role of an auxiliary bishop or the possible values of priests.” Koesler found this conversation increasingly awkward.
“Interesting.”
“Now, if you don’t mind …”
“Oh, you wanted to see Father Carleson, didn’t you? Sure. Go ahead.” He stepped aside.
Tully, meanwhile, was trying to find out what news there was from the street.
Odd; there wasn’t much. That was ominous.
“Ordinarily the Latinos are tight,” Sergeant Moore explained, “but this is different No leads or breaks at all. Vice cooperated with us. We called in our markers, talked to our snitches-all we could find quickly. But … nothing.”
“What’s the water temperature?”
“Warm,” Mangiapane said. “Maybe under the surface it’s boiling. Something’s going on out there, Zoo. Like, overnight there was new bread on the street. But we can’t find anybody who’ll say how much or who’s dealing.”
Tully ran his tongue between his lips and teeth almost as if trying to taste the object of all this secrecy and silence. “The guys turned all the screws?”
“Tight as a drum,” Mangiapane replied.
“Nothing?”
“That’s it. Nada. Zilch.”
“Now,” Tully said, “we ask ourselves what does all this mean?”
“All that new money on the street,” Moore speculated, “and close to five grand may have been taken from Bishop Diego just last night. A connection?”
“Could be,” Tully acknowledged. “But then, why this solid brick wall? Given all the pressure we put on, how come we’ve got no names? If some punk hit the bishop for as much as five grand, and if this punk starts stockpiling dope, you’d think there’d be a leak someplace down the line.”
“Maybe it’s not a punk,” Mangiapane said. “Maybe it’s a big hitter.”
“Maybe,” Moore offered, “it’s a punk-but maybe areal dangerous punk. Maybe it’s fear that’s keeping everybody quiet.”
“Two very good maybes,” Tully said. “If either of them eventually points to the killer, we’ll have to program our investigation to find a really big hitter or a very dangerous punk. We gotta get back on the street and start looking for somebody who fits one or the other of those profiles.”
“But Zoo,” Mangiapane said, “what about Father Carleson?”
“The fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”
Father Koesler had finally made his way across the crowded room. As he neared Father Carleson, the priest’s face lit in recognition. “Boy,” Carleson exclaimed, “are you a sight for sore eyes! Welcome …” He hesitated. “… friend?”
Koesler smiled warmly. “Of course, ‘friend’; what did you think?”
“Right now, I can’t be too sure. But if anybody ever needed one, I sure do.”
“I think you’ll find you have lots of them. Maybe not in this room, but certainly among the priests and people who know you.”
Carleson smiled wryly. “What? They think I killed Public Enemy Number One?”
Koesler was instantly quite serious. “Of course not. Because they know you didn’t do it.”
“That ‘they’ definitely excludes most of the people in this room.”
Koesler looked about. His gaze met the deadly serious expressions of the detectives around them-some covertly glancing at the two priests who seemed to have sealed themselves off from the larger group. Reluctantly, he had to agree with Carleson’s dark observation.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Koesler asked. “You haven’t been arrested.”
“You know that?”
“I’ve been with Lieutenant Tully for the past few hours. So I pretty well know what’s going on.”