Chameleon fk-13 Page 17

  “‘But you know the funny thing? Even after Hessler pulled the knife, Carson wanted him. I mean there was four of us holdin’ Arnie back and even after Hessler showed us the knife, I had to work as hard to hold Arnie back as when we pulled him off. You know how sometimes there’s a fight and you pull the guys apart and hold ’em? And they’re really not puttin’ up no fight to get back in it; all you gotta do is just keep your hands on the guy so the other guys get the idea the guy really wants to get back in the fight? Well, that ain’t the way it was with Arnie: He really wanted to tear Hessler apart. Even when the SOB was holdin’ a knife. Could you believe that?’”

  As she triumphandy wound up her vivid recital, it was impossible to know whether the last question was hers or had been voiced by her witness.

  “So the other guy had the weapon,” Tully said.

  “Our guy’s report corroborates that,” Moore affirmed.

  “Well,” Tully said, “the main thing for our purposes is that Carson seems to have the killer instinct. Your source sounds convinced that Carson would have gone all the way, given the chance.”

  “Oh, yeah, Zoo. No doubt diere. Although he did seem to thing it was somewhat out of character-in that Carson had mouthed off lots of times in the past, but this was the first time, in my guy’s experience anyway, that Carson had actually become physical, violent, and even deadly.”

  “God, I wish we knew if Carson owned a gun! But … okay for now. Real good work, Angie. How about the Stapleton character?”

  She withdrew a much smaller packet of notes and readout sheets from her bag. She held the packet aloft as if performing a show-and-tell.

  “Not nearly as much with Stapleton as I found on Carson,” she said. “All I found in the Free Press library was a few items. There was a story dated June 1974 noting that quite a few priests were quitting the priesthood at roughly the same time. Stapleton was among them. But the story didn’t highlight him. The lead was given to a priest who was head of the justice and peace department of the Detroit Church. Stapleton was just mentioned as one of the others who was leaving.”

  Head. The word caught Tully’s attention. Another head of another department. Could that have any bearing on the present investigation? “Angie, what was the name of that guy-the head of the Church department?”

  She had to page backward to find the item. “Burke … Father Pat Burke.”

  “Anything on him?”

  “I don’t think so. I knew him back then. Matter of fact when I was a kid in parochial school, he was the assistant pastor in the parish. I had a crush on him.”

  “Where is he now? Do you know?”

  “Not really. After he quit the priesthood, he moved out of state. Arizona, I think. As far as I know, he’s still there.”

  “Check it out, will you?”

  “Sure, Zoo.”

  “Now, let’s get back to Stapleton.”

  “Well, with Fred Stapleton, the only prior notice I could find before that story about all those priests leaving was the one we talked about earlier-when he was shoved down the church steps by Arnold Carson. That, by the way, is a real coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Uh-huh. And I don’t like coincidences, They smack of blind luck and we deal in facts. Whether we find anything or not, we’d better check on whether there’s any connection there.”

  “Connection?” Moore asked.

  “Where does Stapleton fit in? As far as the Church is concerned.”

  “You mean …?” She didn’t finish her thought.

  “Well, liberal, conservative? Left wing or right?”

  “Oh, Stapleton is a liberal.”

  “And Carson is a conservative.”

  “Off the globe.”

  “Ah,” Tully observed, “that would explain the pushing incident.”

  “Yes. Stapleton and Carson were always on opposite sides of just about everything.”

  “Just about,” Tully observed.

  “What are you getting at, Zoo?”

  “They’ve got some common ground now.”

  “Common ground?”

  They’ve both been listed as being opposed to practices and laws of the Church.”

  “Oh, yeah, Zoo. But the things that Carson can’t stand just couldn’t be the same problems Stapleton has.”

  “Maybe not. But suppose they agree to bury the hatchet for the duration so they can get the Church’s attention. Suppose that’s the purpose of this crime spree. Suppose they find they have the same goal for different reasons. We can’t overlook the possibility … or any possibility, for that matter. This is growing into one slippery case.” Tully might have added that it was the sort of case that he most appreciated. One that called on every skill he possessed. “But, go on, Angie. What else about Stapleton? Besides the pushing incident and the resignation report?”

  “Well, there were quite a few items either featuring him or mentioning him.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s a psychologist. Kind of prominent, at least locally. Every so often you see him on one or another local TV news program. You know how the news anchors get into pop psychology and they get local authorities for ‘expert’ commentary. Well, Dr. Stapleton is there pretty regularly giving his opinion. He’s also quoted on radio and in newspapers along the same line, His picture’s been on TV and in the papers pretty often.”

  “Ever give expert testimony in court?”

  “Well, yeah, a few times.”

  “In homicide cases?”

  “Once in a while. Although, evidently, not in any of your cases. I think most people in the metropolitan area would be fairly familiar with Stapleton. In fact, from the number of times their pictures have been in the media, I’d guess that Carson and Stapleton are equally recognizable to a lot of people.” She stopped, almost embarrassed. She did not want to make her point too plainly. But it was evident that while Carson and Stapleton would qualify as local celebrities-at least in the sense of being easily identifiable-Tully had paid no attention to them.

  It was one more indication of the measure of dedication Tully gave to his work. To a significant extent, as far as he was concerned if a news item had no relevance to his work it was not news. Some might call such an attitude tunnel vision. Others, dedication. Whatever one called it, Tully was near totally absorbed in his work. His former wife had discovered this truth early in their marriage and thought she could fight this intangible enemy. She spent a few years of her life in this doomed struggle. Tully’s present-day companion recognized and understood his priorities early on and was able to handle being a very strong but definite second in his life.

  Anyone who had eavesdropped on this present conversation would have come to the same inevitable conclusion Angie Moore had reached: Alonzo Tully did not pay much attention to the passing parade. It was almost as if he did not want extraneous information crowding out the things he needed to know to do his job as well as or better than any comparable officer.

  Tully’s unexpected grasp of the effects of Vatican II on current Church affairs was a case in point. From some source, presently unknown to Sergeant Moore, he had been briefed on the council and its impact on Catholicism. Still, there was no indication that Tully had mastered more than he needed to know to further the investigation of this case.

  At any rate, Tully clearly did not seem embarrassed, defensive, or even concerned that a couple of otherwise famous faces were foreign to him. “Stapleton: rich?” he asked.

  “Comfortable. I talked to a few people who knew him well-therapists, priests, ex-priests. Stapleton does a lot of charity work, mostly at old Trinity parish in Corktown. He’s married, got one daughter who’s going to school at that music academy up north-Interlochen. That must cost a bundle.

  “Oh, and one more thing: He belongs to CORPUS.”

  “What the hell is that?” Tully was growing irritated at the continuing confusions he found in Catholicism.

  “It’s an organization for ex-priests who want to be able t
o function clerically again. They meet, put out a publication, lobby bishops, even the Pope.”

  “Mostly talk?”

  “I guess so. But Stapleton’s been very active in the group.”

  “So? It seems.harmless enough. If all they want to do is get their preacher’s license back, what’s the problem? I don’t see why he’s on Bash’s shit list.” He seemed puzzled. “He was even mentioned by some of the other department heads.”

  Moore didn’t reply immediately. Finally, she said, “Well, I can’t speak for the others ’cause I didn’t interview them-but I’d be willing to bet they agree. My man, Father Bash, doesn’t consider either Carson or Stapleton as physical threats. Of course he undoubtedly didn’t know about Carson’s all-out fight yesterday at the post office. So I think he could be mistaken about Carson.

  “Anyway, I think Bash sees Carson and Stapleton as … well … just troublemakers. And if you saw things through … what? — institutional eyes-that’s all they’d be. As you know”-although she didn’t know how he knew-“that Vatican council stirred up lots of controversy. I get the impression the institutional Church desperately wants everything to calm down. And people like Carson and Stapleton won’t let that happen.

  “That’s my impression. People like Bash would like to see Carson and Stapleton just go away-or at least shut up. But neither one of them seems to want to do that. So they are seen as people opposed to Church rules and regulations. And from that point of view, they are.

  “Of course Bash sees them as personal enemies. But I don’t think it would take anybody long to become a personal enemy of Father Bash.”

  They both laughed.

  Quickly returning to seriousness, Tully said, “Let’s keep as tight a rein on Carson as possible. I don’t see Stapleton as a violent type. And I wish to God that we could keep that nun in a jar.”

  “Sister Joan? You think somebody’s still after her?”

  “It would tie things up neatly, wouldn’t it? She’s still the first base that nobody’s touched yet.”

  “There’s no way we can keep her under surveillance. She’s determined to continue doing her job. And her job drags her over the Whole metropolitan area.”

  “Uh-huh.” Damn! It could almost drive a man prayer.

  18

  “Where’s father Benz?”

  Cardinal Mark Boyle finished chewing the morsel of lamb before answering. “There is a gathering of his priest friends at the seminary this evening. I gave him the night off.”

  “Good.” Archbishop Lawrence Foley was pleased to be able to spend the evening alone with his friend. Benz, secretary to the Cardinal, was a nice enough young man, but he was from a different era, two or more removed from these two old bishops. Without the young man, who, courtesy demanded, should be included in the conversation, the older men were free to retreat as far as they liked into history. And they would.

  Foley lived in a condominium on Detroit’s far east side, He could have lived virtually anywhere he wished, but he wanted to reside in the city, though not in an area inhospitable to strolling the streets, and not in a rectory. He had reached an age where he would deal with people and the clergy in particular only when he wished. Not when they wanted him. Retirement, he thought, should have some privileges.

  But this night-for he would stay over till morning-he would spend with his old friend Mark Boyle.

  Boyle, at sixty-nine, was slightly more than five years Foley’s junior. They had met some forty years before in Rome when both were students. Both had been ordained-Foley for the diocese of Miami and Boyle for the diocese of Cleveland. As brilliant seminarians, both had been selected by their respective bishops to attend graduate studies in Rome. Foley majored in canon law, Boyle in theology.

  Even as young men, they had enough in common to become friends. They were English-speaking United States citizens, at the peak of their youth; roommates, expected to achieve much by their appointment to graduate study-and they were strangers together in a foreign land.

  Building on that, they formed an abiding friendship that had grown stronger and deepened over the years. Each was of Irish descent, as were so many American bishops. They both had become auxiliary bishops, Foley in his native Miami, Boyle in his native Cleveland. Foley had risen to the rank of archbishop when he was named ordinary of Cincinnati. Boyle was named archbishop of Pittsburgh, then archbishop of Detroit, then named a Cardinal by Pope Paul VI.

  The two vacationed regularly together, usually in Florida, where Foley had so many friends and contacts. They golfed together, neither well, both mostly for exercise. They could spend evenings together chatting knowledgeably about many things or in companionable silence.

  The piece de resistance having been finished, Mrs. Provenzano, Boyle’s housekeeper, removed the dishes and served coffee and sherbet.

  “Delicious lamb,” Foley said to Mrs. Provenzano, who smiled and, thank God, was still able to blush at a compliment.

  “She was a genuine find,” Boyle said after the housekeeper had left them. “She has only two rules by which to live: no beef and no chicken.”

  Foley chuckled. “The martyrdom of today’s bishop, stuffed to death with rubbery chicken and leathery beef cooked by the ladies of the Rosary Altar Society on the occasion of parish confirmations.”

  Boyle smiled. “Of course they are well-meaning people, but they surely need an injection of imagination. The beef is usually sliced thin enough that one can get by without having to consume very much. But whichever doctor it was who pronounced chicken a healthy food never tried the parochial mass-produced variety.”

  Foley began toying with a spoon.

  “Still miss cigarettes?” Boyle asked.

  Foley studied the Cardinal, “Now what would make you say a thing like that?”

  “Something to do with your hands. Toying with a utensil instead of handling a cigarette.”

  “Doesn’t happen much anymore. But after a good dinner and with coffee …” Foley shrugged.

  “Still?”

  “There was a time, Mark, me lad, that I could not envision being on the telephone, getting through the daily mail, a hundred other daily tasks such as getting up in the morning or going to bed at night, without a cigarette. It’s down to this, after a good dinner. That’s not so bad, is it now? Nice bit of deduction though.”

  “It just occurred to me. You used to say that you thought much of your reason for smoking was to have something to occupy restless hands.”

  “True as far as it goes, but a bit of a simplification. There’s the nicotine, an addictive drug. But speaking of deduction, has anything new come up in the police investigation?”

  “Into the death of Larry Hoffer? Not that I’m aware of.”

  “What do you think? Isolated instances? Coincidence? Or is there a connection between the murders of that poor woman and Hoffer?”

  Boyle finished the sherbet and carefully wiped his lips. “I feel very strongly that they are related. And that’s why I’m concerned about Sister Joan’s welfare. I believe that whoever killed Larry also killed Helen Donovan thinking she was her sister. And the guilty party is still at large, probably looking for an opportunity to attack Sister Joan.”

  “It’s hard to hide, particularly in this day and age.”

  “I’ve talked to her about going away. A vacation, study, virtually anything to get her away from here, somewhere where she could be safer.”

  “She won’t go?”

  Boyle shook his head. “She’s politely refused every offer. I get the impression she feels some sort of debt to her sister. She is certain the killer was looking for her and that her sister was in the wrong, place at the wrong time. With Sister it is the whole thing. That her sister was dressed in Joan’s habit. There’s a sense of desecration in a religious being attacked. In many ways, Joan feels that in death if not in life she is her sister’s keeper.”

  Foley was tempted to fiddle with something, anything: spoon, knife, whatever. But having had his sub
conscious raised, he deliberately interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on the tabletop. “But, why?” he asked. “What possibly could be the connection between Larry Hoffer and Sister Joan-given the assumption that she was the real intended victim?”

  “I’ve thought about that a great deal. Almost obsessively.” Boyle sipped his coffee. It was excellent; Mrs. Provenzano had experimented with the blend until she was satisfied. “I keep returning to the recent staff meeting-the last time they were together. Sister Joan as one who had escaped the grave, and Larry Hoffer at his final meeting-though none of us knew it at the time. I’ve even seen it in a dream. I can hear the angry voices, most of them directed at Larry. And I wonder: Could anyone at the meeting … a staff member … could any one of them …? But then I dismiss the questions as impossible speculation. Besides, such questions are better asked-and answered-by the police.”

  “They need help!” Foley’s tone was forceful, urgent.

  “Help? The police? From whom?”

  “Us!”

  Boyle looked startled. “You’re not serious.”

  Foley was very serious. “These are officials of the archdiocese of Detroit. If there were only one victim-Larry Hoffer-we might suppose his enemy could have been … anyone. It’s not hard to suppose that he’s made enemies during his long career. He was, after all, a financier, and money is a common enough motivation for enmity, hatred, violence … murder.

  “But that is true only if Hoffer were the only victim. It does not in any way address the selection of Sister Joan as a designated victim by the same killer. Whoever is doing this is doing it for some religious reason. Oh, I know to the police that might sound like a contradiction in terms. But we could list hundreds of examples through history when people were murdered for reasons connected to religion.”