Carleson repeated the exhortation twice more, in more or less the same words. At the end, he was actually perspiring. He had poured so much of himself into willing Demers into eternity that he was nearly exhausted.
After he had been silent for several minutes, Ann Bradley entered the room. Evidently, she had been waiting in the corridor for Carleson to finish.
She stood next to the bed across from Carleson. She grasped Demers’s wrist and held it several seconds. She placed his arm gently on the bed. She placed her fingers on the patient’s neck, feeling for the carotid artery. She looked at Carleson and shook her head.
“He’s gone?” Carleson was willing at this point to believe in magic.
“No,” Bradley said. “Sorry. He’s still very much with us. But” — she smiled-” nice try.” She left the room.
Carleson remained seated, close to Demers. This doesn’t make much sense, he thought. There should be some provision for cases like this. Demers had concluded his life long ago. There was no doubt whatsoever in Carleson’s mind that Demers had communicated. He had pleaded for help in dying. So, this was no vegetable lying on this bed. There was a soul in prison, longing to be free.
With nothing much better coming to mind, Carleson decided to recite the rosary aloud. Maybe that familiar prayer would strike a chord in the old man’s memory.
Carleson took his beads, signed himself with the cross, and, fingering the crucifix, prayed aloud the Apostles’ Creed.
All the while, he thought of Demers’s request for help to die. It would be so easy. So easy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The networks and national news media giveth. And the networks and national media taketh away. Bradley Kleimer was not-definitely not-disposed to bless either party. And that, he thought, goes double for the local gang.
In interviews with reporters from the News and Free Press and all four local TV newscast stations, followed closely by sessions with stringers from national and international news services, Kleimer could see the writing on the wall.
As was their practice, today’s media had already tried the case. Unlike most of their previous excursions into the predicted verdict, this time they had acquitted the accused.
Kleimer soon got the impression he would be persecuting-not to be confused with prosecuting-an amalgam of Mother Teresa, Jimmy Carter, and Jeanne d’Arc.
And the deeper the media dug, the worse it got.
In their probe of Carleson’s background they were not turning up the mud Kleimer was hoping Quirt was finding; instead, what was emerging was the portrait of a selfless, sacrificing, dedicated missionary, who served the poorest of the poor with quiet, unassuming distinction. Also emerging ever more markedly was the strong image of a bishop who was the antithesis of the talented missionary whom he had forced into a sort of involuntary servitude.
This, for Kleimer, was not a happy turn of events. He remained unshaken in his belief that Carleson had murdered Diego. But something had to happen. Something had to turn this media-triggered momentum around.
The phone rang. Kleimer had long since lost his eagerness to answer it. But it could scarcely get much worse. And one never knew.…
It was Quirt. This could go either way.
“Geez, Brad,” Quirt said with emphasis, “have you been listening to the radio or catching the TV news?”
“Most of it,” Kleimer said glumly.
“Makes you wonder, don’t it?”
“What? You too? Don’t tell me you’re second-guessing us!”
“Oh, no. No, we got the right guy. But I think the media want us to give Carleson a medal instead of life in Jacktown.”
“Yeah, well, fortunately the media aren’t going to be in the jury box.”
“That’s true. But it makes you think, don’t it? Hey, Brad, is it possible for the prosecution to ask for a change of venue?”
“No-that’s just for the defense. Besides, where would we go? This is getting national-hell, international! — coverage.” With little hope, Kleimer asked, “Any of your guys come up with anything?”
“Nothin’ you could bottle. Williams thinks he’s on to something, but it’s pretty vague. Nothin’ to get your hopes up for.”
“Is he there with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Put him on.”
“It’s not much more than a hunch.”
“Put him on!”
“Okay, okay. Just a second.”
No one had to caution Kleimer to rein in a rampant exuberance. His single comfort, and it wasn’t much, was that things couldn’t get much worse.
There was a click on the line. “Williams?”
“Yeah. Listen, this is just a feeling-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kleimer interrupted. “Quirt’s already given me the disclaimer. Whatcha got?”
“Well, I was checking Carleson’s past assignments with Maryknoll headquarters in New York. Most of what I got was the same stuff they’ve got on radio and TV. It’ll be in the papers in more detail later today and tomorrow. But there’s one thing I’m pretty sure they haven’t got.”
“What’s that?” Kleimer tensed and leaned over his desk. The pen he’d been toying with he now poised over a legal pad.
“It was a routine question,” Williams said. “This priest …” Kleimer assumed Williams was checking his notes. “This priest-a Father Weber-was giving me a list of Father Carleson’s assignments-missions, I think they call them. Like I said, it was routine. He was giving me names of places-mostly Central and South America-and dates, and if anything outstanding happened because Father Carleson was there … you know, like chapels or housing units built, or wells being dug-stuff like that-”
“Yeah, yeah. So?”
“Well, he got to one place-Father Weber, I mean-it’s called … uh, Sandego. It’s in Nicaragua-close to Honduras-and, well, anyway, when he came to that point, this Father Weber hesitated. It wasn’t a long pause. But I got the impression that he was surprised by something to do with that assignment. I think he came across something, and he was trying to decide whether to tell me. And then he decided not to.”
That was it. Williams apparently was finished. “That’s it?”
“I said it wasn’t much.”
“What did you make of it?”
“It could’ve been anything. A word that was smudged and Weber was trying to make it out. Maybe his glasses got dirty. Maybe he got tired of reading through all these dates and places.”
“Did you press him on it?”
“Yeah. I did. I thought he spent too much time brushing it off as ‘nothing.’”
“Your gut feeling?”
“Without any real good reason, I got the idea that Father Weber was covering, uh, I don’t know what. Something that, for whatever reason, Maryknoll wants kept quiet. Father Weber-and I’m just guessing-well, I think he knew what was in the record. But then when he was reading me all the assignment stuff, he almost went too far. He stopped himself at the last minute.
“But I gotta tell you: All this is just one king-size guess … nothing more.”
Kleimer was no longer taking notes. He was tapping his pen on the desk pad. After a minute, he spoke. “Go there!”
“You want me to go to Ossining?”
“That’s it. I want you to read that record for yourself. Who knows; it could be the break we need. But we’ll never know with you here and that record in New York. See if you can tap a contingency fund. If not, I’ll see if I can free up some travel expenses here. Hell, if worse comes to worse, I’ll pay for it! Just go!”
Kleimer broke the connection and sat lost in thought.
What could it be? Something Maryknoll is trying to hide? Something Carleson did that nobody’s proud of? Molesting children? That sort of thing had become more common recently, it seemed. Maybe knocked up a local virgin?
Get serious, Kleimer admonished himself. Carleson may have reached the end of his rope and offed a bishop. But, be reaclass="underline" He’s not the venal type.