"Meaningful, my ass!" Moira shouts in an outburst rare for a psychiatrist trained to listen patiently and never to comment. "You'll be locking yourself away from the rest of the world! You'll be ...”
"It isn't ...”
"... marching backward into the twelfth century I"' "It isn't like that anymore!”
Kate then goes on to explain, to four sets of ears growing increasingly more deaf, that she was given informational books about the order ... "Which the sisters call the OSCM, by the way ...”
as if it's IBM or TWA, a refreshingly modern way of thinking about themselves that forever dispels for Kate any notions of nuns wearing hair shirts. For the past year now ... "Is that how long this has been going on?" Vincent yells. she's spent time with the order's Vocation Director, and she's been visiting with the order's Spiritual Director, taking psychological tests, addressing her finances, meeting as well with the Formation Director.
"A goddamn cult!" her father shouts. to set up a system for herself, finally creating an individual program best suited to her talents and her needs.
"I'm going to be a nurse," she says. "It's how I can best help people.
It's how I can best serve God. I know I'll be sacrificing a home of my own, a family. I know I'll be sacrificing comfort and independence.
But as Christ's bride ...”
"I can't believe this I" Vincent says. in union with Christ, she will also be sacrificing herself for the redemption of souls. Like Christ, she will live her life in poverty, simplicity, purity, and chastity.
And she will forever offer, as only a spouse can, love and solace to His Sacred Heart.
She tells her parents, and her brother, and Anna Hawley that she'll be leaving for the mother house as soon as certain documents have been signed ... "You're signing away your life," her mother says. "This is totally stupid," Vincent says.
"But it's what I'm going to do," Kate says.
"No, you're not!" her father shouts.
"Yes, I am," she says calmly. "It's my life," she says. "Not yours.”
To which, of course, there is no answer.
Anna Hawley paused.
"There was nothing anyone could do to stop her," she said.
""So she left," Carella said.
"Yes. She left. At the end of May.”
Again, Anna hesitated.
"I suppose Vincent might have forgiven her sooner or later. But then, of course, her parents were killed.”
At his desk across the room, Meyer said into the telephone, "Just hang on to it, sir, we'll be right there. Thanks a lot.”
"Killed?" Carella said.
"How?" Brown said.
"Bert, let's go," Meyer said.
"A car crash," Anna said. "On the Fourth of July, last year. Kate's father was driving. They'd been drinking too much.”
"Steve, we're off. Piece of jewelry just surfaced.”
"Where's the shop?" Kling asked, and followed him out of the squad room "Vincent could never forgive her after that," Anna said.
"Why's that?”
"He blamed her for the accident. It was only after if. ate became a nun that they began drinking heavily, you see.”
"That's Vincent's reasoning, huh?" Brown said.
"Yes, and he's right," Anna said. "If she'd stayed home, they'd still be alive.”
"Uh-huh.”
"It was her fault.”
"Uh-huh.”
"Which is why he wouldn't come up here to claim the body, right?”
Carella said.
"That doesn't mean he killed her," Anna said.
Brown was thinking some people should learn when to keep their big mouths shut.
"Sent you instead, right?" he said. "To tell us all this?”
"No, I had to be in the city, anyway?”
“You come in every Wednesday?”
"I come in whenever I'm done.”
“Done?”
"With the galleys.”
"When's the last time you were in, Miss Hawley?”
“Last Friday," she said.
It was very hot here in this small shop cluttered with the flotsam and jetsam of countless lives foundering on bad times. Meyer and Kling were wearing lightweight sports jackets on this steamy Wednesday at one P.M." but not because they wished to appear elegantly dressed. The jackets were there to hide the shoulder holster each was wearing, lest the populace of this fair city panicked in the streets. The owner of the shop was wearing a white short-sleeved sports shirt open at the throat. A jeweler's loupe hung on a black silk cord around his neck.
He introduced himself as Manny Schwartz. The name on his license was Emanuel Schwartz. The license, in a black frame, was hanging on the wall behind him, together with an accordion, a saxophone, a trombone, several trumpets, a tambourine, and a ukulele. Meyer wondered if an entire orchestra had come in here to hock its instruments.
Schwartz took a ring from the case, and handed it across the counter.
"This is what she brought in," he said. "It's Islamic. Ninth to eleventh century A.D. Origin is probably Greater Syria.”
The square signet was engraved with the drawing of a goat or possibly some other animal with long ears, it was hard to tell. This was surrounded by engraved petals or leaves, again it was difficult to tell exactly which. The tapering shank was engraved on both sides with a pair of snakes, or perhaps crocodiles, flanking a long-tailed bird. A pair of engraved fish swam upward from the very bottom of the shank toward the signet. Meyer wished he knew what the talismanic markings meant. It was a sort of cheerful ring. It made him wonder why there was so much strife in the Middle East.
"What the caliphs did," Schwartz said, "they brought in artisans trained in the Greek and Roman traditions, had them adapt their work to the needs of Arab patrons. This ring was probably commissioned by an upper-class member of society. It was an expensive ring, even back then. Today, it's worth around twelve grand.”
"What'd you pay for it?”
"Three thousand. Little did I know it was stolen. Now I can shove it up my ass, right?”
He was referring to the odd legal distinction between a "bona fide purchaser for value" and "a person in knowing possession of stolen goods." Schwartz had read the list of stolen goods the Eight Seven had circulated, and he now knew that the Syrian ring was hot property. He could have ignored this, gone on to sell the ring at a profit, pretended he'd never seen the list. But if that ring ever got traced back to him, he was looking at a D-felony and a max of two-and-a-third to seven in the slammer. He'd called the police instead, who would now undoubtedly seize the ring as evidence. Some you win, some you lose.
"Did she give you a name?" Meyer asked. "Yes. But it probably wasn't her real name.”
“What name did she give you?”
""Nlarllyn lviono.
"What makes you think that wasn't her real name?" Meyer asked.
"Marilyn Monroe?”
"We once arrested a guy named Ernest Hemingway, he wasn't Ernest Hemingway.”
"Who was he?”
"He was Ernest Hemingway. What I mean is, he wasn't the Ernest Hemingway, he was just someone who happened to be named Ernest Hemingway.”
"Who's that?" Schwartz asked. "Ernest Hemingway.”
"I'll bet we look in the phone book right this minute," Meyer said, "we'll find a dozen Marilyn Monroes.”
"Which wasn't her real name, either," Schwartz said. "What was her real name?" Kling asked. "The girl who brought the ring in?”
“No. Marilyn Monroe.”
“I don't know.”
"So what'd this woman look like?" Meyer asked. It bothered him now that he couldn't remember what Marilyn Monroe's real name was. Kling had a habit of bringing up annoying little questions that could bug a man all day long..
"She was maybe thirty, thirty-five years old," Schwartz said.
"Five-four, weighed a hundred and ten, brown hair, brown eyes, nice trim figure. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt ... well, this rotten weather. Sandals. Blue sandals.”