about revealing her sin, I already know she was pregnant.’
I crossed my legs and let my eyes wander to the portrait on the wall opposite my chair. The Madonna was looking at the infant Jesus, her head twisted down and to the right, the angle so unnatural I knew she couldn’t assume it unless her neck was broken. Still, the line that ran from the hem of her robe, over her son, then around the semi-circle of her hood was compelling. To create her alive would have been to ruin it.
‘Tell me what you want.’ Father Stan finally said.
‘I want to know where she worked and who she worked for.’ I spoke without taking my eyes off the painting. ‘I want to know who made her pregnant. As I said, I’m not interested in her sins.’
‘That distinction is meaningless in the context of the confessional.’
‘Why, Father? Why should where she worked be kept a secret?’
‘Penitents come to the confessional expecting secrecy. They have to trust us.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, if that’s your problem, let me put your mind at rest. Nothing you tell me will ever be repeated in public. First, because the Criminal Procedure Law forbids a priest revealing information obtained in the course of a confession. And second, because what you were told in the confessional is classic hearsay. It cannot be used in a trial.’
‘Then how did Father Towle testify?’
‘Father Towle testified at a hearing where the rules are a lot less strict.’ I finally turned to look into his eyes. ‘Listen to what I’m telling you, Father, because I mean it from the bottom of my heart. All I want you to do is give me a push in the right direction. I’ll take it from there and your name will never come up.’
By then, Father Stan was sitting with his arms folded across his chest, his legs crossed at the knees. He was telling me that his mind was closed, but I still had cards to play.
‘What I’m gonna do now,’ I continued, deliberately breaking eye contact, ‘is run through a scenario I’ve created in my own mind. The sequence appears logical on the surface, but I could be way off. That’s where you can help me.’
‘I’ve already told you that I can’t comment.’
‘I’m not asking you to comment. In fact, what I’m going to assume, unless you correct me, is that I’ve got it right. You don’t have to say a word.’
Again, putting a stop to the conversation was the priest’s best move. I’d made my argument and he’d responded, so long, see ya later. But he merely sat there, his eyes jittery with indecision.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘let’s start with the pregnancy. I’m not thinking rape here, because there’d be nothing to confess if she was raped. I’m thinking that a young girl in a strange country, a girl whose opportunities were few and far between, made a big mistake in the name of love. I’m thinking she became pregnant with an inconvenient child, that she was pressured to have an abortion, by her employers and by Aslan Khalid. I’m thinking that she was confused, that she sought counseling from the only counselor available. That would be you, Father.’
When the priest failed to challenge any of my assertions, I again turned to stare into his eyes. ‘Did you tell her that abortion is murder? Did you tell her to resist? To fight for the life of her child? Did you bring about the very conditions that led to her death?’
Father Manicki stared back at me for a moment, then he shook his head as though trying to rid his ears of my words. ‘You deceived me,’ he declared. ‘You led me to believe that she was tortured.’
‘According to the medical examiner, she was locked in a refrigerator for an extended period of time right before she was killed. That sounds like torture to me.’
‘The cold.?.?.’ The priest’s jaw snapped shut and his eyes lit up with anger. ‘Let’s ignore the fact that you’ve been manipulating me ever since you walked into the room. Let’s ignore your bullying attitude. The simple truth is that the seal is absolute. If I could have helped you, I already would have.’
I ignored the outburst. ‘Father, do you remember the man with the narrow eyes? He accompanied the women from time to time?’ I hesitated long enough for the priest to nod. ‘Well, his name is Konstantine Barsakov and he was murdered. I know because I’m the one who found his body. The women were gone by then. Aslan, too. That’s why I was so certain that Aslan would kill again. He already had.’
Father Manicki rose to his feet, not to throw me out, but only because he could no longer contain the tension. I rose with him, until we were standing only a few feet apart. The advantage, here, was all mine. I was a head taller than the priest and he was forced to look up at me.
‘If you violate the seal of the confessional,’ I said, ‘that would be a mortal sin, right?’ When the priest nodded, I continued on, my tone calm and reasonable. ‘See, that’s what I don’t understand. From what I can tell, all mortal sins are equally mortal. So why are you making such a fuss about this one? Why don’t you just commit the damn sin, accept the guilt, do your penance and seek absolution? Unless, of course, you’re merely protecting the institution.’
Father Stan’s mouth dropped open. Without doubt, as a priest who ministered to the poor, he’d fought the hierarchy all his life. ‘Get out of here,’ he said.
‘Sure, but first tell me this. Tell me which mortal sin is the most mortal? To provide a detective with a few facts revealed to you in a murder victim’s confession? Or not to provide those facts, knowing that Aslan Khalid will kill again? Bear in mind, Jane Doe is dead, now and forever. Those other women, they’re still breathing. And they most likely want to keep it that way.’
I stood there, wearing the most inscrutable expression in my repertoire while I watched Father Manicki, his face red, his hands curled into fists. For a moment, I thought he’d break, but then he abruptly sat and took a series of quick breaths.
‘I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you.’
I turned away, not to leave, but to cover my disappointment. If the priest chose not to help, the only link to Jane’s killer was Aslan Khalid.
‘Would it be a sin,’ I asked, my tone considerably more gentle, ‘for you to tell me her name? Just that, Father, just her name?’
The priest shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘Impossible?’ I rose to my feet and dropped a business card on the desk. ‘The alternative to blind obedience is right in front of your eyes. It won’t disappear when I walk out of this room. How could it when what you’re looking at is your own conscience?’
Father Manicki waited until my hand was on the doorknob before he spoke. ‘Mynka,’ he finally said, his voice little more than a whisper, though he pronounced each syllable distinctly. ‘Her given name is Mynka. I don’t know her family name.’
I turned to look at the priest, hoping this damaging admission would lead to a flood. No such luck. Father Stan’s mouth was tight, his jaw locked down, and I had the impression that he’d cut a deal with his good angel. He would give me this much, I would leave, then he’d feel better about himself. And perhaps he would, right up until I returned on the following day, and the day after that, until he realized I might return one day bearing another set of crime scene photos, these of a victim he might have saved.
TWENTY
When I finally got to my cubicle at the Nine-Two, I found Detective Hansen Linde, my new partner, sitting at the front desk. I squeezed by him to get to my own desk at the rear, not even glancing in his direction until I was seated and facing him. Under other circumstances, I would have introduced myself and offered my hand. Instead, I looked him over carefully while he returned the compliment.
Linde was a big man. His face was all forehead, cheekbones and jaw, his narrow smile a tight line, his neck thicker than his skull, his knuckles the size of walnuts. Yet for all his rugged appearance, his skin was almost porcelain white and his stomach curled gently outward to form a little pouch above his belt.
‘Hansen Linde,’ he finally said, leaning forward to extend one of those hands. ‘I’m from Minnesota, ya know.’
As I took Linde’s hand, I imagined Sarney chuckling away. Though Linde made no effort to impress me with the power of his grip, his physical strength was obvious enough.
‘Harry Corbin,’ I said, ‘from Manhattan.’
