"I think it does. It proves you know you did wrong and you-"
"It doesn't matter, because regardless of how guilty I feel, you haven't the right to pass judgment on me. You're sitting there with your little list of commandments, but you've never been anywhere that made a list seem pointless, anywhere that circumstances forced you to act in a way you loathed."
Chase was amazed to realize that he was crying. He had not cried in a long time.
"You're rationalizing," Judge began, trying to regain control of the conversation. "You're a despicable, murdering-"
Chase said, "You've not exactly followed that commandment yourself You killed Michael Karnes."
"There was a difference," Judge said. Some of the hoarseness had returned to his voice.
"Oh?"
"Yes," Judge said defensively. "I studied his situation carefully, collected evidence against him, and only then passed judgment. You didn't do any of that, Chase. You killed perfect strangers, and you very likely murdered innocents who had no black marks on their souls."
Chase hung up.
When the phone rang at four different times during the following hour, he was able to ignore it completely. His anger remained sharp, the strongest emotion that he had experienced in long months of near catatonia.
He drank three more glasses of whiskey before be began to feel mellow again. The tremors in his hands gradually subsided.
At ten o'clock he dialed the number of police headquarters and asked for Detective Wallace, who at that moment was out.
He tried again at ten-forty. This time Wallace was in and willing to speak to him.
"Nothing's going as well as we hoped," Wallace said. "This guy doesn't seem to have been printed. At least, he's not among the most obvious profile group of felons. We still might find him in another group — military files or something."
"What about the ring?"
"Turns out to be a cheap accessory that sells at under fifteen bucks retail in about every store in the state. Impossible to keep track of where and when and to whom a particular ring might have been sold."
Chase committed himself reluctantly. "Then I have something for you," he said. In a few short sentences, he told the detective about Judge's calls.
Wallace was angry, though he made an effort not to shout. "Why in the hell didn't you let us know about this before?"
"I thought, with the prints, you'd be sure to get him."
"prints hardly ever make a difference in a situation like this," Wallace said. There was still a bite in his voice, though it was softer now. He had evidently remembered that his informant was a war hero.
"Besides," Chase said, "the killer realized the chance of the line being tapped. He's been calling from pay phones and keeping the calls under five minutes."
"Just the same, I'd like to hear him. I'll be over with a man in fifteen minutes."
"Just one man?"
Wallace said, "We'll try not to upset your routine too much."
Chase almost laughed at that.
From his third-floor window, Chase watched for the police. He met them at the front door to avoid Mrs. Fielding's involvement.
Wallace introduced the plainclothes officer who came with him: James Tuppinger. Tuppinger was six inches taller than Wallace — and not drab-looking. He wore his blond hair in such a short crew cut that he appeared almost bald from a distance. His eyes were blue and moved from one object to another with the swift, penetrating glance of an accountant itemizing an inventory. He carried a large suitcase.
Mrs. Fielding watched from the living room, where she pretended to be engrossed in a television program, but she did not come out to see what was happening. Chase got the two men upstairs before she could learn who they were.
"Cozy little place you have," Wallace said.
"It's enough for me," Chase said.
Tuppinger's gaze flicked about, catching the unmade bed, the dirty whiskey glasses on the counter, and the half-empty bottle of liquor. He did not say anything. He took his suitcase full of tools to the phone, put it down, and began examining the lead-in wires that came through the wall near the base of the single window.
While Tuppinger worked, Wallace questioned Chase. "What did he sound like on the phone?"
"Hard to say."
"Old? Young?"
"In between."
"Accent?"
"No."
"Speech impediment?"
"No. Just hoarse — apparently from the struggle we had."
Wallace said, "Can you remember what he said, each time he called?"
"Approximately."
"Tell me." He slumped down in the only easy chair in the room and crossed his legs. He looked as if he had fallen asleep, though he was alert.
Chase told Wallace everything that he could remember about the strange conversations with Judge. The detective had a few questions that stirred a few additional details from Chase's memory.
"He sounds like a religious psychotic," Wallace said. "All this stuff about fornication and sin and passing judgments."
"Maybe. But I wouldn't look for him at tent meetings. I think it's more of a moral excuse to kill than a genuine belief "
"Maybe," Wallace said. "Then again, we get his sort every once in a while."
Jim Tuppinger finished his work. He outlined the workings of his listening and recording equipment and further explained the trace equipment that the telephone company would use to seek Judge when he called.
"Well," Wallace said, "tonight, for once, I intend to go home when my shift ends." Just the thought of eight hours' sleep made his lids droop over his weary, bloodshot eyes.
"One thing," Chase said.
"Yeah?"
"If this leads to something — do you have to tell the press about my part in it?"
"Why?" Wallace asked.
"It's just that I'm tired of being a celebrity, of having people bother me at all hours of the day and night."
"It has to come out in the trial, if we nab him," Wallace said.
"But not before?"
"I guess not."
"I'd appreciate it," Chase said. "In any case, I'll have to appear at the trial, won't I?"
"Probably."
"If the press didn't have to know until then, it would cut down on the news coverage by half."
"You really are modest, aren't you?" Wallace asked. Before Chase could respond to that, the detective smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and left.
"Would you like a drink?" Chase asked Tuppinger.
"Not on duty."
"Mind if I-?"
"No. Go ahead."
Chase noticed that Tuppinger watched him with interest as he got new ice cubes and poured a large dose of whiskey. It wasn't as large as usual. He supposed he'd have to restrain his thirst with the cop around.
When Chase sat on the bed, Tuppinger said, "I read all about your exploits over there."
"Oh?"
"Really something," Tuppinger said.
"Not really."
"Oh, yes, really," Tuppinger insisted. He was sitting in the easy chair, which he had moved close to his equipment. "It had to be hard over there, worse than anybody at home could ever know."
Chase nodded.
"I'd imagine the medals don't mean much. I mean, considering everything you had to go through to earn them, they must seem kind of insignificant."
Chase looked up from his drink, surprised at the insight. "You're right. They don't mean anything."
Tuppinger said, "And it must be hard to come back from a place like that and settle into a normal life. Memories couldn't fade that quickly."
Chase started to respond, then saw Tuppinger glance meaningfully at the glass of whiskey in his hand. He closed his mouth, bit off his response. Then, hating Tuppinger as badly as he hated Judge, he lifted the drink and took a large swallow.
He said, "I'll have another, I think. Sure you don't want one?"
"Positive," Tuppinger said.