Bishop as Pawn by William X. Kienzle Page A

self-revelation. But they showed no emotion. “He wanted to close St. Gabriel’s,” Williams pursued. “If it’s as active and relevant as you say, why would he want to do that?”
    Bell hesitated. Reluctant to give any further explanations, he would hesitate now before each reply. He would try to do no more than confirm some of the more innocuous information they’d already gathered.
    “What you’ve got to understand,” Bell explained, “is what Bishop Diego meant to the Hispanics of this archdiocese. All the people knew of him was that he was one of them. He grew up in a barrio in Texas. To the people, he was almost another Messiah.”
    “And that made you jealous?”
    “Jealous? Hell, no! Sight unseen, I hoped for the same thing. If we in the southwest corner of Detroit need anything, it’s a friend in high places.” He shook his head. “No, we welcomed Diego with open arms.
    “Then some of us came to know what he had in mind. Becoming a bishop—even an auxiliary—was nothing more than a launching pad as far as he was concerned. He was going to be every rich white Catholic’s token Hispanic. He couldn’t have cared less for our people. Only … only they didn’t know. When he came for a visitation or a confirmation or anything like that, he was the hail bishop well met. He had ‘loose change’—rumor has it quite a bundle—to pass out like an out-of-season Santa Claus.
    “Well, I was the one who was willing to blow the whistle on him.”
    Williams and Quirt recalled the pictures on the walls of the late bishop’s office. Diego and Bob Mylod; Diego and Maynard Cobb; Diego and Tom Litka; Diego and J. P. McCarthy; Diego and lots more … but only the rich, famous or well positioned. Neither officer doubted Bell’s theory on Diego’s master plan for himself. But …
    “But …” Williams said, “he was a bishop. And you’re a priest. You were going to blow the whistle on him?”
    Bell nodded. “I think so. Whatever else happens, my people trust me. I’ve been with them in the trenches for … for a long while. It would be a close call, I guess. But I think—I’m sure—they would believe me over him. And that’s beside one major factor …” A pause.” I’ve got the truth on my side.”
    “So,” Williams said, “that’s the way it was up till yesterday. You with your threat to expose him. And he with his threat to close you down.”
    Bell half smiled. “It’s almost a pun, but we had each other in a Mexican standoff.”
    “And that,” Quirt broke his long silence, “as Sergeant Williams just said, was the way it was till yesterday. But today’s another day. And the Mexican standoff is over. I take it nobody else is trying or threatening to close your church.”
    “I … I haven’t thought of it in exactly those terms,” Bell said. “I was sorry that a man was murdered. Especially one I know pretty well. And I was shocked that it was a bishop. But … I suppose you’re right. That threat is just about over.”
    “Convenient.” It was almost sotto voce. Then in a normal tone, Quirt said: “Tell us about your yesterday. What did you do?”
    “What did I do?” Apprehensive, defensive. “What I ordinarily do on Sundays: said Mass.”
    “That was the morning. And then?”
    “I had several meetings yesterday afternoon. Briefly with some of the parish council members. A longer meeting with the worship commission. They’re pushing for more Masses in Spanish. It’s a ticklish situation. We’ve got—”
    “About when did you get done with those meetings?” Quirt asked.
    “I don’t know … about 4:00 in the afternoon, I guess.”
    “And then?”
    “I was tired. But I wanted to go to that meeting at the Cathedral. So I had a drink or two, just to unwind.”
    “And when did you leave to go to the meeting?”
    “I don’t know. The meeting—well, the dinner began at 6:00. So I must’ve left at about 5:30.” It was not particularly warm on the porch, yet Bell was