“Tully. The nice-looking black guy? He sure didn’t have much to say when I was being questioned at Ste. Anne’s.”
“This is a task force. I gather it’s kind of rare for them to put together one of these things. But Lieutenant Tully isn’t in charge … which is, I think, a mistake. Lieutenant Quirt’s the one in charge.”
“That’s not good news to me.”
“But you haven’t answered. What are you doing here?”
“I kept saying yes. Yes to looking through my car. Yes to coming down to headquarters while they were processing What they found in my car.”
Noting Koesler’s expression, Carleson concluded the question was not yet satisfactorily answered. “It just seemed to be delaying the inevitable,” he said. “They assured me they could get a warrant to search my car. They didn’t look like they were kidding. So I agreed to let them look. Even signed a paper giving permission. Don’t know why I had to do that: I’d already agreed.
“Anyway, they scraped something off the dashboard. That’s what they’re examining at, I think, the crime lab.
“As to why I’m here: They asked if I would accompany them and wait for the results of the test. Well, they took my car down here. So it seemed sensible to go along. I wasn’t going to go far without a car, and I didn’t want to impose on anybody by borrowing a car.
“So, here I am.”
From an offhand manner, Carleson grew quite somber. “Bob, I’ve got a hunch I’m not going to leave here anytime soon.”
Koesler was shocked. “Why? Why do you say that? Hey, we’ll probably leave here together. Let’s go to Carl’s Chop House. On me.”
Carleson shook his head. “I’m pretty sure what they’re going to find.”
“You … you are?” Koesler was almost afraid to ask.
“I’m pretty sure it’s blood. I wouldn’t be that sure except they seem to be that sure. They haven’t said it in so many words, but that’s what they believe. I know that.”
“Blood!” Tully had said “substance,” and Koesler hadn’t given it any further thought. “But how …? Whose …?”
“It didn’t make any impression on me at all at the time. It happened a couple, three days ago. I was shipping the bishop somewhere-I forget where. It doesn’t make a great deal of difference. But he sneezed. Diego sneezed. And the sneeze was the beginning of a nose-bleed. I didn’t pay much attention. I was driving and looking out for traffic. I didn’t know he had a problem until he complained. Then I glanced over at him. He was holding a handkerchief to his nose, and the handkerchief was bloody.
“I told him to lean his head back, put some pressure on the bridge of his nose, and breathe out through his mouth and in through his nose. Pretty soon the bleeding stopped.
“That was about the extent of it.
“But when he sneezed, some of the blood must’ve hit the dashboard. I didn’t pay any attention, and I didn’t notice anything. That’s got to be what they found.”
The explanation sounded unconvincing. But Koesler had believed Carleson to this point. He Would stay the course even if he had to suspend disbelief to a degree. “If you’re so sure, did you give your explanation to the police?”
“Yeah, but they weren’t buying any of it.” He shook his head. “For the most part, they weren’t even listening.”
Koesler surmised that the officers preferred not to arrest Carleson before they had identified the substance and, at the same time they didn’t want to cloud the Miranda warning. “Are you sure … I mean are you certain that what they got from your dashboard was Bishop Diego’s blood?”
Carleson nodded, then hesitated. “No. I can’t be absolutely sure. What do I know? Like I said, I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even know there was anything on the dashboard except dust.” He shrugged. “But what else could it be?”
His brow knitted. “Maybe I’m just preparing myself for the worst. I don’t know. All I know is I’m pretty darn miserable. I wish I’d never heard of Detroit. I wish Ramon Diego had stayed in Texas until he rotted.”
Carleson did look drained. Koesler could think of nothing else to say. He put one hand on Carleson’s shoulder. The gesture was intended to be supportive.
At that moment there was a commotion near the door. Without knowing for certain, Koesler felt that the first “verdict” in this case was in. His grip on Carleson’s shoulder tightened.
The detectives, like the parting of the waters, peeled back to let Lieutenant Quirt through.
The lieutenant seemed barely able to control his pleasure. He squared off dramatically in front of Father Carleson. “Father Donald Carleson, I’m arresting you for the murder of Bishop Ramon Diego.” Without turning, he said, “Charlie, read him his rights, and book him.”
For Carleson as well as for Koesler time seemed to stand still. It was as if everything were happening in slow motion. Neither priest was able to focus on the words of the Miranda warning. Each of them had heard at least the beginning of the cautionary statement on TV and in the movies.
“You have the right to …” There was something about a lawyer and something about what you said could be held against you.
But none of this was truly sinking in.
Next, Charlie Whoever-he-was was taking Carleson away. And Koesler stood numb, unable to make sense of what had happened.
There was a sense of elation in the room. An arrest had been made in a complex murder case. By anyone’s standard, this was high profile. The media had concentrated its considerable attention on this case. And now it looked to have been solved in record time. Almost twenty-four hours to the minute.
Of course, not everyone was an instant convert to the validity of this arrest. But when they heard Detective Williams read aloud the finding of the crime lab-that the substance found in Carleson’s automobile was not only blood, but the same rare type as Bishop Diego’s-almost everyone was swept away with the sense of accomplishment.
Father Koesler, overwhelmed and confused, sought out Lieutenant Tully. In the emptying room, it wasn’t difficult to locate him. He was near the door, talking with several people. Koesler recognized Sergeants Mangiapane and Moore. The others he assumed were members of Tully’s squad.
As Koesler approached the group, he could hear Tully’s quietly earnest tones. While Koesler couldn’t make out every word, he gathered that Tully was ordering some of his people to thoroughly check out both Mr. and Mrs. Shell. Talk to friends and business associates and see what they had to say about the Shells’ relationship with each other and especially with the late bishop. Others were to return to the streets and see if they could break through the silence that had met their earlier attempts.
Koesler stopped short of the group and waited until Tully’s squad members had left. He was buoyed by the impression that Tully’s group, at least, was continuing the investigation. Tully’s expression invited Koesler forward.
“I couldn’t help overhear,” Koesler said. “I’m really pleased you haven’t given up the investigation.”
“This?” Tully motioned toward the departing detectives. “A precaution. From what I’ve heard, we’ve got a pretty good case against Carleson. But, you never know. There were other leads, some of them pretty good. If, by any chance, the case against Carleson doesn’t go down, that’s a bad time to have to go back to square one.”
In the moment it took for Tully to explain his continuing with the case, Koesler’s budding hopefulness deflated like a leaking tire. “Just finding that blood?” Koesler protested. “Father Carleson has an explanation of how it got on his dashboard.”
“So does Quirt,” Tully replied. “According to his scenario, this thing started sometime yesterday between when Carleson and Diego left the Carson residence and when they got back to Ste. Anne’s. Probably when they arrived at Ste. Anne’s. That part is incidental. Anyway, Carleson’s animosity toward Diego has already been established. Yesterday it exploded. Carleson struck Diego either with his fist or some hard object. Diego was hit flush on the nose, causing the blood flow, some of which got on the dashboard.