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“It’s ‘Richard,’ said the tall man in clerical collar and black cassock buttoned from neck to ankles. The material was stretched to the breaking point at his ample midsection. “Richard,” the tall man repeated, “like the former Montreal hockey player, Maurice ‘the Rocket’ Richard.”
    “Yeah, Richard.” Tully pronounced the name correctly: Reesharrd. “There’s a statue or a park somewhere … near Belle Isle?”
    The priest nodded. “And here in Ste. Anne’s parish where Father served as a pastor almost two hundred years ago. In fact,” he continued, “Father Richard is buried right here in this church.”
    Quirt whipped out his pen and notepad. “And you are …?”
    “McCauley. Father David McCauley. I’m one of the priests assigned to this parish. I’m also” —a tone of modest pride crept into his voice—“a bit of a local historian.
    “Maybe, since the bishop died here, and I suppose much of your investigation will be conducted here, maybe you’d like to hear a little bit about Ste. Anne’s?”
    “Okay,” Tully said, on the off chance that this history lesson might lead to a better understanding of the murder.
    “It all began,” said Father McCauley, “on July 24, 1701. Twenty-five canoes docked at what would become the city of Detroit. At that time it was just a wilderness,” he explained. “In the original landing party were Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, fifty artisans, fifty soldiers, and two priests. These few men began immediately to build Fort Detroit.
    “One of the first log structures was a chapel dedicated to their patroness in the wilderness, Ste. Anne, mother of Mary the Mother of Jesus.” He smiled. “It is the second oldest parish in the United States, after St. Augustine, in Florida.
    “Eventually, the church of Ste. Anne became Detroit’s first cathedral, anchoring the newly created Diocese of Michigan and the Northwest, which included Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, along with part of Wisconsin.”
    Father McCauley was warming to his subject. Quirt looked fidgety. Tully looked patient.
    “By far the most important pastor in the history of Ste. Anne was Father Gabriel Richard. He belonged to the Society of St. Sulpice, which was dedicated to the education of seminarians—future priests,” he explained. His listeners nodded. “In Fort Pontchartrain du Detroit there were no seminarians to teach, but Father Richard made up for that by bringing the first printing press to the area. He published the area’s first newspaper and printed books. He opened schools and helped create what is now the University of Michigan. He was the first priest elected to the United States Congress. He formed a nursing corps to care for the sick during the Asiatic cholera epidemic in 1832.” Father McCauley smiled again, this time sadly. “He became the disease’s final victim.
    “The present church,” he continued after a moment, “is the eighth dedicated to Ste. Anne. In each of its seven reincarnations, it has never moved far from the spot it originally occupied just inside the fort.”
    Quirt was definitely fidgeting. Tully continued to be attentive.
    “In the beginning, Ste. Anne’s served a basically French congregation. Over the years, it has seen many ethnic groups come and go. Today it serves a multi-ethnic, bilingual neighborhood. It is part shrine, part historical treasure, and part geographical parish. Inside the chapel, which is” —McCauley gestured in the direction of the church building—“inside the church, there’s an impressive .sarcophagus .containing the remains of Gabriel Richard in his original coffin. And the altar in the chapel is the same one used by Father Richard.
    “Since 1886, the parish has been administered by the Basilians, an order of priests dedicated to teaching. Today the parish is staffed by a number of our order. All of us speak Spanish as well as English,” he said.
    “And all of us,” he added after a moment, “are dedicated