"Pretty much standard position," he said.
Aiden agreed.
Hawkes nodded and said, "Your shooter is about six feet four inches tall. Given the angle of the entry on both victims, I got a dummies and put a gun in its hand. Then I found dummies the same height as the two victims."
"And," said Aiden, "given the angle of entry, if the shooter was standing, he had to be tall."
"Six-four is close," said Hawkes. "Got any suspects that tall?"
"Indeed we do," said Aiden.
"Coffee?" asked Hawkes.
"No time," said Aiden. "Later maybe."
"I've got to get Glick's body to the widow today," said Hawkes. "If I don't, there'll be a protest in front of the mayor's office before the day is over."
Aiden headed back to the lab and the computer, but there were some things the Internet probably couldn't tell her. She would have to make some calls.
Mac sat at his desk. He had calls to make too.
He had reluctantly returned Rufus to the dog unit.
Now he sat in front of the screen of his computer, where he had read Danny's e-mail about Kyle Shelton's web site and blog. Mac was looking for what he could find on Shelton's blog. There had been no entry the day before.
It was too early to call the college, but he tried anyway and got through the recorded message to a human being in student housing. Her name was Tara Abbott. She sounded sprightly and asked Mac a few questions to verify who he was. She took his phone number and said she would call him back instantly. She did. She wanted to confirm that he was a police officer.
"How long do you keep housing records?" he asked.
"Forever," she said. "We've got them on disks now, going back to the founding of the college in 1934."
"Can you find a student named Kyle Shelton?" Mac asked. "Probably there about five years ago?"
"I can and will," she said.
Joshua looked dead to Flack, but there the man lay in bed, hands and feet bandaged, blood drained from his face. He was covered by a sheet and blanket, an IV pole and bag next to him.
"Can you hear me?" asked Flack.
No answer.
"Can you hear me?" he repeated, leaning closer to Joshua, whose thin breath touched Flack's face.
Flack was about to give up when Joshua's eyes fluttered and opened in a squint as if blinded by the light, but the light was dim and the window shade was down. A brownish muted light filtered through the shade.
Joshua blinked, looked around without moving his head and his eyes found the detective.
"Water," Joshua gasped.
Flack got the slightly dusty glass from the table. A straw protruded from the water. Joshua took a long sip and gagged. Flack put the water back on the table.
"You want a lawyer?" asked Flack.
"No. I want to die, wanted to die," rasped Joshua. "Only now, I'm afraid."
"Of who?"
"Of what. Of dying. Last night in that cell I lost my faith," said Joshua with a cough. "Is what I did in the newspapers? On the radio?"
"It will be," said Flack.
Joshua sighed.
"I've lost my faith, my congregation, what little reputation I had. Everyone will find out about my drinking. 'Messianic Jewish leader crucifies two Jews, caught while he was about to do the same to a Catholic priest. Attempts to crucify himself in prison.' That's a summary, not a headline."
"Did you kill those men?" Flack asked.
"No. I thought the priest had done it," Joshua said. "The phone call…"
His voice trailed off.
"Hispanic accent?" asked Flack, remembering the drawing by Sak Pyon of an Hispanic man.
Joshua tried to nod, but the movement caused pain that was clearly, instantly frozen on his face.
"More water?" asked Flack.
"No," said Joshua.
Flack said nothing as he sat looking at the man, who was breathing hard from the effort of talking.
Flack would not say it. His job wasn't to go on hunches and intuition, but to come up with evidence, find suspects. He thought Joshua was innocent of murder. He may have been guilty of many other things, but not these murders. Prejudice had crept in. Flack didn't like it.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Flack took it out, flipped it open.
"Yes?" said Flack.
"Is he going to pull through?" asked Stella.
"Looks that way," said Flack, looking at Joshua, whose eyes were again closed. "Says he didn't do the murders."
"Probably didn't," said Stella. "Step into the hall."
Flack assumed Stella had something private to say, something she did not want Joshua to hear Flack's response to. He moved to the door and stepped out. Stella stood there, closing her phone and putting it in her pocket.
Stella had spent the last two hours with Melvoy in a room on the floor below Joshua's. Melvoy was going to live, but there was a price to pay. His voice would forever be a rasp and his mouth would be almost painfully dry. He would have to carry a bottle of water everywhere he went. With Alzheimer's taking over his mind, he would almost certainly forget to drink the water.
"What am I being charged with?" Melvoy had whispered when he saw Stella. Talking hurt, whispering didn't, but he knew it was hard for Stella to hear him.
The list wasn't long. Attempted murder. Breaking and entering. Threatening the life of a police officer.
But Stella decided she wasn't going to press charges. Melvoy would walk out of the hospital a hero who had helped the police track down a murderer and prevent another killing.
"No more talk for now," Stella said, seeing the pain in his eyes.
"One thing," he whispered.
"Yes?"
"Why are you spending this time with me?"
"I like you," she said.
"Mutual," he managed with a smile.
Stella smiled back.
"Got to go," she said.
He nodded.
She had the number of Joshua's room. When she was outside of Joshua's room minutes later, she heard a familiar voice beyond the door, which was when she had called Flack.
Both Aiden and Danny had spent the better part of two morning hours making calls. Both eventually succeeded, but they weren't sure what their success meant.
Aiden made a call and arranged to meet Stella and Flack at a deli near the lab. Aiden gathered her information and headed for the door.
Danny went to Mac's office, file under his arm. He knocked and walked in. Mac was hunched over photographs of Jacob Vorhees taken in the hospital. He held up one photo toward Danny and said, "What do you see?"
Danny took the photo. Mac saw that the tremor was gone. The boy was sitting up, arms out, covered with deep, red bug bites. He was sitting with his legs straight out, bottoms of his feet facing the camera.
Danny handed the photo back to Mac, who waited for an answer.
"Bottoms of the feet," said Danny.
Mac nodded his agreement.
"He said he walked more than a mile through woods and yards," said Danny. "There's not a scratch or bruise on his feet."
"He lied," said Mac.
"You know why?"
"Maybe."
The computer on his desk indicated that a message was coming in. The name and number of the caller appeared on the telephone's screen.
Mac nodded for Danny to join him behind the desk.
"Kyle Shelton's parents live in California," said Mac. "He had a sister who died when she was twelve. I called Shelton's parents and left a message asking them to call back."
Mac pushed a button and put the call on speakerphone.
"Is this Detective Taylor?" a woman asked.
"Yes, ma'am," said Mac. "Could you tell me the names of any friends your son might have in New York?"
"Why?" asked Shelton's mother on the phone with concern.
"We're looking for him," Mac had said. "He's missing. We don't believe anything has happened to him."
"Lord God I hope you're right," she said. "Haven't heard from him in months. You'll let us know when you find him?"
"Yes," Mac had said. "His friends?"