Koznicki nodded slowly. “I think with what we can bring the prosecutor’s office, they will issue a warrant.” He seemed saddened.
The sadness was not shared by a supremely self-satisfied Quirt. “And I broke the case in one day. Twenty-four hours. That’s gonna make a lot of people happy, up to and including the boss-Mayor Cobb.”
Koznicki turned to Tully. “You uncovered no suspects?”
“Suspects? Sure. There’s the guy who had it out with Diego yesterday afternoon. A Michael Shell who claims his already shaky marriage was further damaged by Diego. There’s his wife, Maria Shell, who could’ve reacted to Diego’s manipulating her. And we’ve got a feeling that something’s going down on the streets.”
“What!” Quirt was incredulous. “Listen, we’ve got the guy: It’s Carleson. It’d be silly to wait another ten to twenty years while we interview every punk on the street. Come on!”
“Anyway” Tully said evenly, “we’re gonna check out these leads and see where they go.”
“You can’t!” Quirt was angry. “We’re goin’ to court tomorrow morning. What’ll it look like if we bring in a suspect for arraignment and you’re still working the case?”
Tully regarded Quirt. “What’ll it look like if Carleson is acquitted and we’ve got no other leads? Look at it this way, Quirt: At worst we’re covering your ass. You ought to be grateful.”
Quirt’s sputtering response was unintelligible.
Koznicki gave every evidence that he was pleased at Tully’s decision to continue his investigation. “One final decision before we go home, gentlemen: Where is Father Carleson now, and what do we do with him Overnight?”
“He’s in a holding cell.” There was belligerence in Quirt’s tone. “And that’s where he should stay.”
“You put a priest in a holding cell!” Koznicki was not happy.
“He’s a murder suspect,” Quirt said defensively. Much would now depend on whether Tully would support his decision.
“Your opinion, Alonzo?” Koznicki asked.
“I’d have to agree with Quirt. I know how you feel about priests, Walt But we’ve got to consider that not only do we not know much about him, nobody around here-not even the other priests-knows much about him. Like Quirt said, he’s the prime suspect. And you know what would happen if we released him from custody and, say, he killed somebody else tonight.…”
Koznicki bowed his head in agreement. “I believe you are correct, Alonzo. Should that happen, I would be looking for another job tomorrow.”
With that prospect, Quirt felt a passing urge to recommend the release-to-appear of Carleson, just on the off chance the priest would kill again and Koznicki would be somewhat prematurely out of the way. Quirt kept this urge to himself.
“Very well,” Koznicki said. “Father Carleson stays in holding.”
The meeting was over. Now Tully would have to inform the waiting Father Koesler that his buddy would be kept at least overnight. One of those messages that was never easy to deliver.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had been long and tiring-but at last this demanding day was at an end. That was the good news. The bad news was that tomorrow would be just as taxing.
Ned Ferris, chief of operations for the Wayne County Prosecuting Attorney’s office, leaned back in his chair as far as he could and stretched tired muscles.
Wayne County comprised many Michigan cities, chief among them, by anyone’s measure, Detroit. Detroit with its long, interesting history. Detroit, the onetime “Arsenal of Democracy.” Where they built-or used to build-cars. Detroit with its pockets of wealth and its acres of poverty. With that glorious river linking the Great Lakes. With consistently looming violence and murder, this prosecuting attorney’s office was among the busiest in the country. With the responsibility for, among other things, determining what charges to bring against suspects, and selecting attorneys to try cases, the position of chief of operations would not soon be out of business.
One element of current crime that most troubled Ned Ferris was child murder-children being murdered, children being murderers. This very day was a case in point.
A fifth-grader walking to school was gunned down when a driveby shooter missed a house in which his enemy lived. Talk about not being able to hit the broad side of a barn!
That was this morning. This afternoon, an eighth-grader had demanded an expensive jacket from a classmate. The jacketed youngster ran and was shot four times, twice to the head, twice to the back The boy was dead before he hit the ground. The shooter explained that it was his classmate’s fault He ran away after being ordered to give up his jacket.
None of these kids was doing especially well in math or English. Their primary school was the street. And the primary lesson of the street was how to get a gun and how to use it.
The drive-by shooter had yet to be picked up.
But the eighth-grader was in custody. How should he be tried? Was he what he looked like: a little boy just starting his teen years? As such he would go through the juvenile justice system and, if convicted of an extremely serious crime such as murder, he would be incarcerated with other juvenile offenders until he was twenty-one. Would he learn anything helpful in those years? Or would he emerge older but just as lethal?
If he were fifteen or older, he could be tried as an adult and, if convicted, spend the rest of his long life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Ferris shrank from the prospect of such a young life, promising everything and anything, being buried forever-first in prison, then in the ground.
But, unless he missed his guess, that was the drift of the public’s reaction to kid crime. Such children, the consensus seemed to run, were beyond redemption as well as rehabilitation.
These cases were among the most difficult he had to juggle. But juggle and evaluate them he would. That’s what he was paid for.
He was about to turn out the light and call it a day-though not a good one-when his intercom sounded. He considered ignoring it. But he knew his secretary wouldn’t bother him at this closing hour unless something special had come up.
Brad Kleimer wanted a few moments of his time.
Through this day, Ned Ferris-just as every other power-wielding person in the city government-had been kept informed on the developments in the Diego murder. Had he not been so absorbed in the jacket shooting, Ferris surely would have been more actively involved in the Diego case. But the alleged perpetrator of the grade-school shooting was in custody and being processed-a procedure in which Ferris was actively involved.
And of course, with the priest charged in the bishop’s murder, that case too was in Ferris’s lap. And now the other shoe had dropped.
“Priest Kills Bishop,” and similar headlines, would be flashed on TV newscasts, on front pages and feature articles probably around the world. Undoubtedly, a scrum of prosecuting attorneys would be vying for this case. For just as surely as the case would engender headlines, so would the name of whoever prosecuted this case become famous.
Now why, Ned Ferris wondered whimsically, would he associate the arrival of Brad Kleimer with the Diego case? When considering a trial that could catapult the prosecuting as well as defense attorneys into national prominence, why on earth would Kleimer’s name come to mind?
Ned Ferris was bone weary and desperately wanted to go home. But he could always find time for a charade of musical hot seats: Which assistant prosecuting attorney would get the final chair?
Ferris loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt He bade the secretary let loose Kleimer.
Kleimer entered with studied nonchalance and took the chair that Ferris indicated. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. Some of his perspiration stemmed from the bum’s rush at the hands of Koznicki just a few moments ago. Part was due to his headlong dash to the chief’s office. It was not the cool entry he would have chosen, but he wanted to reach the chief before the other staff attorneys did. He fervently hoped he had.