“Yup. Obviously, the mayor had an offer my boss could not refuse. Pretty tricky with the mayor in city government and us in the county. Anyway, however he worked it, it happened in a hurry.
“But listen, George, you can free yourself up now, can’t you? I mean, you haven’t been shanghaied by that movie bunch, have you?”
“I’m keeping my distance. It’s getting so I can smell them.”
“And you can clear some of your people to sniff around Carleson’s doings?”
“We’re kinda loaded as usual. But I think I can cut a couple of the guys loose for it.”
“Can you spare Williams and his partner?”
“I guess … that what you want?”
“For now, yeah.”
“You got it.”
“Stay in touch.”
“You bet. How else am I gonna be close enough to you to collect on all these IOUs you been handing me?”
“That’s the boy, George.”
They laughed and hung up.
Kleimer was only too aware of Quirt’s extensive limitations. He knew that Quirt had risen to his present position through a combination of luck, elbow grease, and, mostly, having excellent personnel on his squad.
It was not all that difficult to wring deals from Quirt by dangling rewards; his cravings were near insatiable. After that, it was important to ease George out of the nitty-gritty and get him to sic one or more of his excellent staff onto the investigation. This is what Kleimer had just accomplished. He was content.
The phone rang. One of these calls simply had to be a network.
Not this time. “This is Father Koesler. We met just a little while ago.…”
“Yeah, right. What’s on your mind, Father?”
“I haven’t been able to think of anything but your visit since you left.”
“Yeah, you were a lot of help. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Kleimer. I’m afraid that you have a wrong opinion of Father Carleson. He really is a very fine priest. From what he’s told me of his work in the missions, he’s a dedicated Christian. That he might take a human life is … well, it’s just beyond imagination.”
Kleimer was chuckling to himself. “Don’t worry, Father. That’ll be the argument of the defense attorney. The thing is, I’m not going to be a part of the defense. I’ll be prosecuting.”
“I understand that. But you seem to have the notion that Father Carleson is the type who would justify the means by the end. And I want to assure you that even if he might handle a marriage problem with more charity than a strict interpretation of law, that has nothing to do with his deep and abiding respect for life.”
Koesler could almost hear Kleimer’s head shake.
“Father,” Kleimer said, “you didn’t do anything. So stop feeling guilty. I got this idea all by myself just in talking to you about Carleson and my former wife. But you should remember that you are not going to convert me into a Carleson believer. Even if I wanted to-and I don’t-my job is to prosecute him. So, first chance I get, I’m gonna check out the books at Ste. Anne’s and the parish where Audrey was baptized. I don’t expect I’ll find any notation that would indicate that this wedding is recognized by the Church.
“But that’s okay, Father. If this works out the way I think it will, this’ll be one more indication that I’ve got the right guy. I’ll be prosecuting the right man.”
Kleimer could almost hear Koesler’s shrug. “There’s nothing I can say that will influence you or change your mind, is there?”
“No. Not really. But I insist I owe you one. How about coming up to my place some evening? You like classical music? I’ve got some recordings. You like any kind of music, I’ve got it. We could toss down a few … get to know one another better.”
The offer was not one of unalloyed generosity. Koesler had proven himself a useful resource person. He very well might serve as such again. Kleimer would like to have this priest in reserve for future use.
Koesler, for his part, would respond only to an offer he could not resist. Which, in Kleimer’s case, would be a summons to confer sacraments in extremis. And, since Kleimer was not Catholic, Koesler was not likely to take Kleimer up on his invitation.
But the priest did not wish to needlessly offend the attorney. “Thank you very much for your invitation. I’ve kind of fallen behind in my parish duties the last day or so.” That much was true. “How about I take a rain check?”
“You got it, Father. Any time.”
This day was beginning to redeem itself. Kleimer was retrieving his self-satisfaction with interest.
And there was still the national media to come.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Free at last.
Thanks to the good offices of Father Dave McCauley of Ste. Anne’s parish, Father Don Carleson had escaped the mob of newspeople who had pinned him down after his release on bail.
They had their job to do. Carleson was able to admit that. He understood it. But he didn’t have to like it.
It was nightmarish. First, there was the swarm of reporters who pressed in around him, firing questions; the print people scribbling notes that later they would organize into a story with, they hoped, a snappy lead; the radio news hounds thrusting microphones like voodoo rattles at his jaw.
The ones he minded most were the photographers and camera people. He found it most difficult to give any thought at all to what he was saying, as he tried to answer the questions shot at him from every side, while cameras clicked relentlessly in his face and the shoulder-balanced TV equipment loomed like hungry vultures, zoom lenses lunging in at him.
Fortunately, after some fifteen minutes of that steady, persistent interrogation, Carleson noticed McCauley in his car with the passenger door ajar. He calculated his angle of escape and bolted, pursued by the cameras and the yawp of shouted questions.
Fortunately, too, McCauley placed himself at Carleson’s disposal. Nothing was prescribed. Whatever Carleson wanted to do was fine with McCauley.
After a moment’s thought, Carleson opted for the freedom of movement his own car would afford. He had no clear idea of what he would do now. But his own car, with no passenger, would provide unencumbered mobility and opportunity for thought.
They drove to Ste. Anne’s, where Carleson showered and changed last night’s slept-in clothes. Then, before the media could catch up-for they, too, had decided to try Ste. Anne’s-he drove off. Aimlessly at first, he kept the car in motion, trying to decide what he might do to forget himself and his troubles.
He recalled a saying of his mother’s. She was fond of reminding him of the man who considered himself destitute because he had no shoes until he saw a man with no feet. Or, as his father expressed the same idea, if someone hits you on your toe with a hammer, you’ll forget every other misery you’ve got.
With a slight smile, he headed for what had become a home away from home-Receiving Hospital.
As usual, he left his car in the parking garage and went through the Emergency entrance.
Immediately, he sensed a difference. It was as if the familiar staff were shrinking from him-or was it merely his imagination at work? Certainly he was conscious that being charged with murder simply had to change the way people related to him.
Suddenly, from among those who seemed to be standing back, a man stepped forward briskly. It was Dr. Schmidt, a most capable young intern. “Yo, Father Carleson, read any good murder mysteries lately?”
It broke the ice. All the others, none of whom seriously thought this popular priest could have murdered anyone, gathered around Carleson, offering support.
Smiling and shaking hands, Carleson said, “I know this is a cliche, but you’ve really made my day.”
Camaraderie was so thick and spontaneous that it seemed as if it were a birthday celebration.