'Is that what you're nervous about?'
She paused for fifteen seconds. 'That, of course. But I'm also terrified of becoming a target. A target of the killer.'
'Is there something we can do right now-I've got two detectives here with me-something to make you feel safe?'
'I told the man who answered the hotline that I wanted to speak to a lawyer.'
'Yes, and I'm a lawyer.'
'Obviously. But you can't be
'I have no reason to betray your confidence, Miss-?'
'Not now, maybe. But I know the system, Ms. Cooper. I know I'm putting myself in the eye of the storm. I know you'll have to use me at some point in the court proceedings. I need some legal guidance about privilege.'
I rolled my eyes at Mike and Mercer. My caller was intelligent, but she was clearly conflicted about talking with me and I couldn't make a judgment about her credibility.
'If you need to talk to a legal adviser before you tell us what you know, then I would urge you to do that as quickly as possible. But if your personal safety is your concern as well, I just want you to understand the need for speed. That's help we can give you.'
Again, silence.
'If you're assuming that Kiernan Dylan is still in custody because the photograph you saw-the one that you called the hotline about- showed him being taken away by police, I just want you to know that he was released by the court.' I hesitated before I told her what I hoped would be the tipping point to put herself in our care. 'We have no idea where Dylan is today, but he's not been seen anywhere in the city.'
'I don't give a damn where he is, Ms. Cooper.'
I took my pen and drew a large X through the caller's phone number. This was turning out to be a waste of my time.
'Well, you have my office number, and of course the hotline that you first called, if there's something you want to get back to us about. Thank you-'
'Would your detectives come to my house, Ms. Cooper? I live in New Jersey, in Harrison. It's not far from Newark.'
'For what reason, ma'am? Come to your house to protect you, is that what you mean? I'm sure we could arrange for the local police to do that if it's necessary.'
'I mean that I can't talk at my office. I've brought some of the records home with me, but I couldn't take everything. You need to see them, to understand that this should never have happened.'
I tried to remain patient but the woman's flat affect and her ability to draw me back in when I thought the conversation had ended were annoying me.
'I don't know what records you're talking about, and I don't know where you work. When you think you can help us, I trust you'll call again. Now I've got to hang up and-'
'I work at the Department of Corrections, in New Jersey. In Kearny, at the Northern Regional Unit. Do you know what that is?'
The woman had my complete attention now. 'I do. Yes, I do. It's the maximum security psychiatric center, isn't it? Where the sexual predators are held. Won't you tell me, please, what this has to do with Kiernan Dylan?'
I knew that Dylan had no criminal record. What could possibly connect him to one of the most violent collection of criminals in the country? 'Nothing at all, Ms. Cooper. I told you that.'
'But you called the police because of the photograph in today's newspapers, didn't you?'
'I called because the man-see the black man standing on the far right, over the detective's shoulder? He's Troy Rasheed, a prisoner here for more than twenty years. He was released from this facility six weeks ago, despite my testimony at his hearing,' the woman said, clearing her throat before she spoke again. 'I don't know what he's doing in that photograph, but you want to talk to that guy. My name is Nelly Kallin. I supervise the unit at Kearny.'
I stared at the face in the photograph. The man Kallin was talking about was standing on the top step as the three of us walked out of Ruffles. We paid him no attention, and left him behind to deal with the crowd when we took the Dylan kid away. He was tall and powerfully built, with a shaved head and tattoos up and down his well- muscled arms.
'Mr. Rasheed was working at that bar,' I said. 'He's a bouncer.'
'He's a convicted predator, Ms. Cooper. He raped women-three that he got caught for and dozens more the prosecution couldn't prove, back in the days before DNA. Rasheed tortured them all, too,' Kallin said. 'It's what he's good at. It's what he likes to do.
THIRTY-SEVEN
You can't work in a licensed bar if you're a convicted felon,' I said, as Mike turned the corner onto the street where Nelly Kallin lived. The ride from my office, through the Holland Tunnel and down the Jersey Turnpike, had taken less than forty minutes.
'Yeah, Coop. And jail rehabilitates perverts. What kind of fairy land are you living in? Mercer, you see any numbers?'
Neat-looking yellow brick houses stood side by side, separated from each other by narrow garages and rows of hedges, some clipped and others overgrown.
'Should be the third one on the right.'
While Mike drove, Mercer and I had worked our phones, alerting Peterson and Spindlis about the call, getting a team poised to move if Kallin's information was legitimate.
'I mean that it's illegal to hire a felon to work in a place that serves booze.'
'I know, I know. You think creeps like the Dylans care about that? And don't bother saying that if I hadn't insisted on shutting the bar down Saturday night, you'd be able to get the names of all the employees,' Mike said, turning off the engine.
I called the listed number for Ruffles during the drive, but no one answered the phone. I left an urgent message at Frank Shea's office and hoped that he would get back to me sooner rather than later.
'We don't know if this guy gave a phony name when he applied for the job,' Mercer said, trying-as always-to make peace between Mike and me. 'Don't know if the Dylans did a proper record check on him. Don't know if he was being paid off the books. You want to hire a bouncer for a rowdy bar, wouldn't you think you're pretty much looking for a thug? Stay cool, Alex. We'll find him.'
As the three of us started up the flagstone path, the front door of the house opened. 'You're in the right place. I'm Nelly Kallin.' She was in her midsixties, I guessed, short and heavyset, with frizzy gray hair that was cropped just below her ears. She was wearing a lightweight pants suit with a shapeless jacket that was meant to mask the extra weight around her solid middle.
'Thank you for calling,' I said. 'We're racing against the clock with this case, hoping we can identify the killer and stop him before he hits again. Any help you can give us will be critical.'
Kallin ushered us through the living room into a well-furbished kitchen with a large table on which she had spread out the files she had taken home from her office.
'Why don't you sit down?' she said, pulling out one of the chairs for herself. 'I'll give you whatever I can.'
She had the newspaper clipping in the middle of the table and turned it around so that Mercer and Mike, sitting opposite her, could look at it again. Then she opened a manila folder and removed a handful of photographs.
'Here's Troy Rasheed,' Kallin said. 'This was his release picture, taken in early July.'
I leaned in to look at the 8 ? 10 color photo of Rasheed dressed in his orange prison jumpsuit and compared it
