It was at once evident to the major that he was now in charge. But, what to do?
To buy time, he ordered Carleson placed in captivity. The villagers were commanded to construct a bamboo cage. When it was finished, the soldiers shoved Carleson into the cage and lowered it into the well. There they left him while what passed for a judicial board was created.
Some on the board plumped for Carleson’s immediate execution. Others preferred torture and death. A few pointed out that this Contra unit itself was in considerable trouble.
After all, they had not been in combat with the Sandinista army. They had been sent to terrorize a helpless village. How to explain a security so vacuous that the ranking officer is killed by a Yankee priest?
And that reminded them that the assassin was, indeed, Yankee. Without knowing exactly how such things worked, they knew the priest belonged to some organization-a diocese, a religious order? — in North America.
If they killed the priest, it would cause an uproar in the United States. Their financing could be interrupted-even crippled.
Of course, they could kill the priest and all the villagers-and no one would be left to tell the tale. Such wholesale slaughter was not beyond their experience. But if there were no villagers, there would be no village-and no stock or crops to sustain them in future raids. Amazing how these villagers managed to grub up food out of nothing.
The major had never perspired so freely.
In the end, he decided to leave the priest caged for the few days required to round up all possible supplies. Then, after a brutal beating of the priest, which all the villagers were forced to watch, and graphic threats of what would happen should anything concerning this episode ever be made public, they would return to their base camp. They would report that their colonel had been infected by some lethal bug and had been buried on the trail.
Carleson had no idea what his fate might be. He assumed he would be executed. He hoped his death would not include torture.
He had ample time and seclusion to reflect on what he had done. The thought of killing anyone had never ever occurred to him. Now he’d done it, and it had proved not all that difficult or strange … oddly, almost natural. If he had it to do over-God forgive me, he prayed-he would do what he had done.
Three days passed. Carleson was terribly weak, having had nothing to eat or drink. He was beaten within an inch of his life.
The Contras packed all they had commandeered and left. The villagers nursed Carleson back to relative health. They began the arduous and dogged effort to return to their former condition.
When his superiors at Maryknoll learned what had happened, they quickly arranged his return to the New York headquarters. There he was professionally cared for, physically and emotionally.
What had happened to the Contra colonel was never mentioned. It was part of no readily accessible report.
When he recovered, he was returned to another Central American mission. And then another and another. But he no longer had patience with red tape and institutional protectionism.
He realized he would have to take more command over his own life. He no longer could trust the bishops with whom he had to deal. Thus his request to be incardinated into Cardinal Boyle’s Detroit.
The cell block in Detroit Police Headquarters was quieting down. Still, Carleson couldn’t sleep.
Compared with those three days in his cage in Sandego, this could realistically be described as comfortable.
Still he lay awake. What would happen to him? Was he a disgrace to the priests of Detroit?
And the most disturbing question of alclass="underline" Would anyone reveal or discover what had happened when the Contras had invaded his precious little village?
Prayer did not come easily. But it was his only consolation. He prayed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It had snowed overnight, an inch or so. Just enough to put a quiet white cover over the outside.
Father Koesler had retrieved the morning Free Press almost as it hit the porch. He’d pulled off the plastic cover and unfolded the paper on the dining room table.
Three separate stories relating to Diego’s murder and Carleson’s arrest on page 1A. Two of them jumped to an inside page where there were more sidebars and photos. Those seeking saturation information would not be disappointed.
He’d already heard the radio news, where the essence of the story kept being repeated. Radio did not have as much time as the newspapers had space. Television, with film of Ste. Anne’s and its neighborhood, as well as a series of talking heads-mostly priests-had somewhat more personalized coverage than radio.
And the story had gone national. The networks were picking it up from their Detroit affiliates.
Seldom had Koesler been this interested in a breaking story. Normally he was content to let each new drama play itself out. In his sixty-five years, there were few varieties of story that he had not experienced before.
This one was different. He could not recall in his lifetime a priest being charged with killing a bishop. Of course, that was the fascination everyone else was experiencing. People couldn’t get enough of this developing story with its bizarre if sketchy details.
And of course the media were in a feeding frenzy. No matter how they tried, they couldn’t keep up. Too much was happening behind the scenes where the media were not allowed.
No one could possibly be tracking the story with as much absorption as Koesler. He had noted the frequent appearance on radio and TV of attorney Kleimer and Lieutenant Quirt. Koesler wondered what impression he might have had of them had he not met them both yesterday. As it was, having been briefed at least partially by Lieutenant Tully, Koesler had some notion not only of the roles they were playing, but also what the stakes were.
From redundant interviews with both of them, it was crystal clear (a) that Lieutenant Quirt had broken this case and made the arrest and (b) that Brad Kleimer was going to prosecute this case.
Kleimer brought to mind Alexander Haig immediately after Ronald Reagan was shot. Haig had been near manic in insisting that all was well because he was now in charge of the country.
It was difficult for Koesler to settle into his usual routine. He had appointments to keep and things to do. But, in a desire that was, for him, almost unprecedented, he wanted to get involved in this case. The problem was that, after his briefing of Lieutenant Tully yesterday, no one seemed to want him anymore.
Brad Kleimer was running on adrenaline.
He had slept only a few hours, fitfully at that. He’d had no breakfast, just coffee, black and lots of it. To say that everything he did now was important was to beat the life out of the obvious.
The arraignment that would take place in just a couple of hours was, he felt, pro forma. He had no doubt that Carleson would be bound over for trial. But there must be no slipups. Kleimer was painfully aware of the pitfall of overconfidence. He was making sure that everything was being done by the book.
In a sense, the media interviews had been a distraction. In another way, they were part and parcel of the grand plan. Detroiters were no strangers to Kleimer’s voice and image. But this trial was going to make the impression he created indelible. Of much greater importance, in this case he was playing to the country. To the world!
Everything seemed in place. But time was running short.
What made it particularly frustrating for Kleimer was that he was not actually involved in these early steps. The public generally is unaware of the layers of specialists in the prosecutor’s office. Today’s show would be handled by the Warrants Section. This was the intake department of the office. They decided whether or not there would be a charge. They were the experts at getting a warrant signed by a judge for a specific charge which they would determine.