Bishop as Pawn by William X. Kienzle Page B

beginning to perspire.
    “Not necessarily,” Quirt said.
    “Not …?”
    “You were late. Late for the dinner.”
    Bell seemed to be searching his memory. “Are you sure I was late? I don’t remember being late. How can you be sure?”
    “That’s what all the other priests we talked to say. They say you arrived twenty minutes to half an hour late. You were the last one to arrive.”
    Bell’s brow furrowed. He appeared to be trying to connect two remembered incidents separated by a vacant space. There were the meetings yesterday afternoon. He remembered them in some detail. Then there was that super tired feeling that had been recurring more frequently of late. He could remember pouring himself a drink—a martini. Was there another one? Three? That component had gone hazy.
    Then there was the dinner with all the priests gathered. The food gradually sopping up the alcohol. Things got clearer then. Toward the end of the evening everything was crystal clear. Except … he had talked too much. Expressed his contempt for, fear of, and anger with Diego far more openly than he ought.
    But the middle part. It was gone. And that was scary. Especially now with two detectives who demanded chapter and verse for everything he had done yesterday.
    And slowly emerging from this daze was the importance of remembering what seemed utterly lost to memory.
    He was in trouble. That he knew.
    “So, Father Bell,” Quirt said, “there’s some time missing from what you told us you did yesterday. How about it?”
    “I … I can’t recall right now. But … I … I think I should call a lawyer.”
    “You can if you want, Father,” Quirt said, “but, by the time he gets here, we will be long gone.”
    “Wait: There’s one thing I want to get straight: Are you accusing me of murder? Are you accusing me, a priest, of actually killing a bishop?”
    Quirt and Williams stood and slipped into their coats. “No, we’re not doing that,” Quirt said. “We’re just gathering information. But it is interesting, isn’t it? Bishop Diego allegedly is upset—maybe threatened—by your intention to, as you say, blow the whistle on him. In retaliation, he threatens not only to have you moved from your parish, but to close the whole place down.
    “Then, the bishop is murdered sometime between 4:00 and 6:00 yesterday afternoon … a time when you are unable—you say—to remember where you were or what you did.
    “However, the upshot of all this is that your problem is solved: The bishop can’t do anything to you now.”
    The two detectives, fully garbed now for the outdoors, made no move to leave.
    “If I was you, Father Bell,” Quirt said, “I’d try real, real hard to remember what went on during that time of your mental lapse. And I would hope—maybe pray—that somebody was with you and can testify that you didn’t even see Bishop Diego yesterday. Yes, sir, I certainly would do that.”
    A serious Williams and a smiling Quirt departed.
    Once in the car and headed back to Beaubien, Quirt rubbed his hands together in near glee. “It’s moving along like clockwork. We should have this on a platter by tonight … tomorrow at the outside.” He turned toward Williams. “Just one thing: The part I don’t see as real. That plant, St. What’s-its-name …”
    “St. Gabriel.”
    “Yeah, St. Gabriel. It seems to be going full speed. I mean, that school building isn’t going to seed like so many institutions in this city. And, say that Bell has all these programs going … seems to me that the threat to close it down was pretty thin. How would Diego have handled all those kids, all those programs?”
    Williams, driving east on Vernor, had just come to the complex that was Holy Redeemer. “This is how.” As they cruised slowly, Williams pointed out first the gymnasium, then the auditorium, followed by the elongated rectory embracing the corner of Vernor and Junction.
    He turned south where, after the rectory, the huge church stood.