Nicaragua. What comes to mind? The Contras. Civil war. Thugs in uniform. Villages destroyed. What would a guy who didn’t give much of a damn for rules and regulations do in a situation like that? Certainly not sit on his hands. He’d do … something. Maybe something violent. Something that would lead a jury to believe he was no stranger to violence?
Kleimer turned off his daydream machine. Such speculation could inject a little hope into a largely hopeless situation. But, face it: The odds were heavy that Williams would find nothing more than that the Maryknoll priest has emphysema and that when he read as far as Sandego, he just needed to take a breath real bad.
Kleimer wasn’t sorry he was sending Williams on this fishing expedition. But he knew there was no way he could count on miracles.
No, he was going to have to work like hell, starting right now. He decided to check the fax machine and see what Quirt’s people had turned up on Carleson. Kleimer needed to get inside that guy’s skin and find out what made him tick.
“Have you seen this afternoon’s Detroit News?” Phil Mangiapane asked.
“Yeah, I did,” Angie Moore replied.
Zoo Tully, focusing on reports, paid only peripheral attention to their conversation.
“I didn’t get past the front page,” Mangiapane said, “but-wow! — I think they’re gonna canonize Father Carleson.”
“You should see the rest of their coverage. They’ve got stuff on a whole bunch of cases that depend on circumstantial evidence, interviews with lawyers, and reactions from just about all the Hispanic spokespeople. I can’t remember when I’ve read about a less likely killer.”
“Things don’t look good for our side.”
“Scratch ‘our side,’ and make it, ‘Things don’t look good for Quirt and Kleimer.’”
Tully put down the reports and gave full attention to his sergeants. His squad, like the other six, could boast of outstandingly competent officers. Experience had taught Tully that Moore and Mangiapane were his most dependable. And with this investigation going in many directions, dependable officers were a prime necessity. This was especially true since the case of Bishop Diego’s murder had been closed. A suspect had been arrested, arraigned, and was now free on bail. Thus, this ongoing inquiry had to be handled with extreme delicacy.
The squad was expected to move on to the next in the neverending caseload of homicides. So most of their investigation into the Diego case now would have to be carried out on their own time.
This was no problem for Tully personally. Normally he would be hard-pressed to distinguish between his time and company time. It was a measure of the respect in which he was held by his squad members that they would follow his lead in this sort of situation.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Tully said. The three were alone in the squadroom. “There’s Michael Shell. One of the oldest motives around: alienation of his wife’s affections. Opportunity?”
Moore shook her head. “Donnelly checked out that bar he said he was in Sunday afternoon … the Lazy Dolphin. The bartender remembers Shell. Donnelly showed the guy several head shots. He picked Shell out of the pack right away.”
“What made him so sure?”
“The length of time Shell spent at the bar. The barkeep remembered that Shell got there early to midafternoon and stayed until early evening. He remembers because Shell had been drinking pretty heavily, and he considered cutting him off. But then he talked to Shell and Shell voluntarily switched to a couple of soft drinks. Then he left. But by the time he left, it was a couple of hours at least after the time of Diego’s murder.”
“Okay,” Tully said, “that’s a dead end. How about his wife … Maria?”
“That’s still a live one,” Mangiapane said. “Patterson’s been following that up. The opportunity was there: She hasn’t got anybody who can account for her time that afternoon, or that evening. The motive wasn’t all that strong, but it’s getting healthier. Patterson’s been talking mostly with friends of Mrs. Shell-including some that aren’t all that friendly.”
“Oh?”
“I got a hunch Moore’s gonna kill me for this …” Mangiapane smiled. “… but Patterson spent some time in the beauty shop where Mrs. Shell goes-like regularly. And while Patterson sat there, the girls talked. Their candid opinion seems to be that there was one hell of a lot more going on between Maria and the bishop than what the lady told us. They-her ‘friends’-seem to think it’s not all that impossible she coulda done it.”
“Girl talk?” Moore was sarcastic. “How would she know Diego was at Ste. Anne’s rectory that Sunday afternoon?”
“One of her friends was at that Grosse Pointe party,” Mangiapane replied. “Patterson heard the lady say she called Maria and told her about the fracas with hubby. She could’ve guessed easy enough that Diego didn’t have another party up his sleeve. Plus he’d probably be too shook up to do anything more than hole up after he almost got beat up. She had nothing to lose going there. When she got there, she found him in the office alone. One word led to another and-bingo! — she creamed him.”
“Interesting,” Tully commented. “See if Patterson can find if any of those talkative ladies maybe actually heard Mrs. Shell express some threat. It would help.
“What about that priest … the one Quirt and Williams interrogated?”
“Father Bell?” Moore said. “Same as he was when Quirt abandoned that theory and latched on to Carleson. Plenty of motive and plenty of opportunity.”
Tully sighed. He hated to ask any more of his squad than they already had volunteered. But this was a bona fide lead.
Moore seemed to read Tully’s mind. “I’ll take Father Bell,” she said. “I’ve already got a list of his closest friends-clergy and parishioners. Let’s see if they’ve got anything interesting-or implicating-to say.”
Appreciation was evident in Tully’s manner. “Thanks, Angie. Now-and I think this is the last thing-what do we hear from the street?”
Neither Moore nor Mangiapane spoke for several seconds.
“We were just talking about that before you came in, Zoo,” Moore said slowly.
“Yeah,” Mangiapane agreed. “It’s spooky. We’ve tapped just about every source we’ve got and … nobody’ll open up. I talked to a few people who clammed whenever it looked like we were getting close to anything.”
“Same with me, Zoo, and with just about all our guys. Which leads to several theories … none of ‘em with much water. Maybe nobody actually knows. Maybe some vagrant wandered in, saw the cash supply, and decided to help himself. Maybe the guy who did it has so much clout nobody’ll rat on him. And maybe … maybe it just doesn’t involve anybody from the street. Maybe Carleson or Bell or Maria Shell did it.
“Whatever. The bottom line is we’ve got nothing from the street.”
Tully thought for a moment, then, with deliberation, said, “I’ve got one large marker out. Maybe this is the time to call it in.” He glanced briefly at his two sergeants. “You guys follow these leads we talked about. If there’s anything on the street, I think I’ll know before today’s over.”
With that, Tully bundled up against a very cold January and hit the bricks.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tully would walk the short blocks from Police Headquarters to the Millender Center, on Jefferson across from the Renaissance Center. The Millender was a combination business and residence structure-and posh. RenCen partially blocked what otherwise would have been an impressive view of the river.
As he leaned into the strong wind coming off the water, Tully pondered what he was about to do.
It had been a great many years since he had talked at any length with Tony Wayne. Not since the death of Tony’s only son some … could it be that long?… twenty-five years ago.
Tully, then on the force only a couple of years, had been one of a battery of uniformed officers responding to a shooting. It was not Tully’s first exposure to a murder scene. But it was his first experience with a massacre.