"I don't think Christ's virtue is what makes him so opaque," Lee remarked. "It's his certainty. But even virtuous people are full of doubts and uncertainty. That's what we relate to about Satan: he's in pain, his soul is in torment. Christ is just so damn serene! Who can identify with that?"
"Not me, my lad, not me," Nelson answered with a wave to the bartender. "Another for me, my good man. You'll have to catch up," he added, seeing Lee's half-full glass.
Lee was concerned over the pace of his friend's drinking. Nelson evidently picked up on this, because he laid a hand on Lee's arm.
"Don't worry, lad, I don't have any more lectures today. I've never yet turned up to class under the influence, and I don't plan to start now. So how's your case coming?"
"We've got a suspect, but I don't think he's the man."
Lee told Nelson about Father Michael and his relationship with the dead girl. Nelson listened intently, his eyes narrowed.
"He clammed up as soon as his lawyer arrived?"
"Yeah. His lawyer kept saying it was the girl's word against his, and that we had no crime to charge him with."
Nelson sighed. "He's right, of course. You may be right that this priest isn't the killer, but you should keep an eye on him."
"We are."
"Good. Now, how about one more round?"
"No, thanks," Lee replied, feeling uncomfortable. "I can't drink quite as much as I used to."
"Keep such admissions to yourself, or they'll have you thrown out of this place!" Nelson said loudly enough that the bartender could hear.
He clearly did not want to discuss his drinking, and the force of his personality was like a wall between them. Lee was partly relieved. He had no desire to turn the tables on their tenuous father-son relationship. He was pretty certain his friend's drinking had accelerated since his wife's death, but the thought of confronting Nelson about it was daunting. He vowed to keep an eye on his friend, but babysitting Nelson's drinking would have to take a backseat to finding the man who was stalking and strangling young women.
He looked at the happy, relaxed faces all around him: the young Latino couple in the corner, the pair of students at the other end of the bar, the young mother with her son at the video game machine. He felt an irrational sense of responsibility to protect them all from a killer who-Lee was certain-would not stop until he was caught.
Chapter Thirteen
Lee's visit to Nelson's lecture and to Armstrong's had done little to dispel the unsettling feeling he had had ever since morning. He couldn't shake the twisting sensation in his stomach. As he was heading for the kitchen to make tea, the phone rang. He picked up the portable receiver and continued into the kitchen.
"Hello?"
"Lee, it's Chuck."
"Hi. What's up?" He pulled a blue enameled canister of tea from the top shelf and put the kettle on. Nothing a good cup of tea can't fix, his mother liked to say. Yeah, right, Mom.
"It's about our Jane Doe."
Chuck Morton had never been good at disguising his feelings. Lee decided to try to spare him the difficult task of breaking the news.
"No one believes me, right?" he said, plucking a tea bag from the canister. It was Lifeboat Tea, a good strong blend he discovered at Cardullo's on his last trip to Boston.
"I believe you, but the brass isn't buying your theory about Jane Doe Number Five. The detectives in Queens are determined to hold on to the file-they say it's their case."
"She's this guy's work, too-I know it!"
There was an uncomfortable pause. Lee looked out the window at the people lined up waiting to get into McSorley's. He never went in there at night-afternoons were the best time, when the sun flooded in through the dusty windows, dancing across the sawdust-strewn floors and gleaming off the row of antique brass beer taps.
"You know how some of them feel about profilers," Chuck said. "They're not buying the idea that we've got a serial offender on our hands." His voice was apologetic.
"Well, they'll find out sooner or later they're wrong-when another girl dies."
Down on the street, a couple was having an argument. The girl leaned against the building, arms crossed, while her boyfriend ranted and paced in front of her, throwing his arms around. Lee couldn't hear what he was saying, but judging from the sulky expression on the girl's face, it wasn't welcome. The boyfriend was bulky and blond, built like a bull terrier; she was lanky and dark-haired, with one of those Irish faces-sharp dark eyes and a pert, upturned nose. Her expression was defiant; she looked like she could handle him.
"You don't think it's the priest, do you?" Chuck said.
"No-and even if I did, you have to let him go unless you're going to charge him with something."
"Oh, hell, Lee, I wish there was something I could do."
The kettle screamed its shrill crescendo, and Lee pulled it from the gas flame.
"Look, it's not your fault," he said. "I hope I'm wrong-I really do."
"Well, maybe we've got enough to go on with this one up in the Bronx."
"We'll see," he said, pouring the steaming water into a blue and white tin mug. "A killer's progression tells us important things about him. The second killing was already more organized than the first." He didn't say what else he was thinking: And more violent.
"We've been interviewing anyone who works at the church, but so far no one's given us anything. If it isn't the priest, do you think this guy could be a member of the congregation?"
"I don't think so. If we had enough manpower, though, it might be worth tracking down people to interview."
He added milk and sugar to his tea and checked back in on the couple in the street. The girl was still leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. There was no sign of the boyfriend.
"For the time being we're trying to rule out some local sex offenders," Chuck said. "Butts and I are interviewing some possible suspects this afternoon-want to sit in?"
"Sure. What time?"
"In about an hour."
"I'll be there."
The interrogation room was tiny and stuffy. Chuck had brought in a man named Jerry Walker. Walker was on the maintenance staff at Fordham, and had a record of two arrests and one conviction-both for sexual offenses against young girls. As they waited for Detective Butts to arrive, Lee leafed through Walker's file. He had been convicted eight years ago of statutory rape, and had served five years of his ten-year sentence, with time off for good behavior. He was paroled three years ago. So far he appeared to have kept his nose clean, though with these guys you never knew. How on earth he'd managed to get a job doing maintenance at a college, Lee couldn't imagine.
The door was flung open, and Butts entered, sweating and out of breath.
"Sorry," he said, sounding more irritated than apologetic. "Damn fire on the A train." He loosened his tie and took a drink of water from the cooler in the corner.
Walker smiled and leaned back in his chair as though he was enjoying himself. He was a cocky, macho type Lee was familiar with. He always wondered if these guys were for real-their behavior was full of cliches layered on top of cliches.
But Jerry Walker did not include self-awareness in his arsenal of personality quirks. He sat across from them at the interrogation table, legs spread wide, the insolent set of his shoulders expressing his disdain for the whole process. A pack of Camels was tucked into the sleeve of his T-shirt-another cliche, Lee thought. He was dressed like a biker from the fifties: white T-shirt, blue jeans, heavy black boots, slicked-back hair.
His pumped-up arms were crossed, the tattoos on his biceps bulging-a curvy mermaid on the left arm, "I Love Jenny" in Gothic lettering on the right. Lee wondered who Jenny was, and if she knew that she had been memorialized in ink on the muscular flesh of Jerry Walker's right arm.