they’d flanked him, not saying anything, just there, solid and real.
Dane drove his rental car to the police station on Bryant Street, Savich and Sherlock following. Delion had wanted Savich to go downtown with them immediately, but Savich had just smiled, shaken his head. “Important things first,” he’d said, nothing more, and taken his wife’s hand in his and followed Dane to the cemetery.
When Dane walked into the homicide room nearly two hours later, he immediately saw Nick, seated in the chair beside Delion’s desk. He said her name and she turned. “You look like a prisoner of war with that bandage on your hair.”
“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks. No stitches necessary. The paramedics couldn’t stop talking about what had happened, and I think they lost it with the gauze.”
“All right, but you just try to relax, all right?”
She nodded.
“It still shakes me to my toes that I didn’t protect you better. If you hadn’t bowed your head at just that moment, the bullet would have hit you square on and you’d be dead. Jesus, I’m sorry, Nick.”
Nick realized this very well, in an abstract sort of way. It hadn’t really sunk in yet, which was probably a blessing. When it did, she’d probably shudder and shake herself to the nearest women’s room. She said, “I wish you wouldn’t try to take credit for this. Just stop beating yourself up, Dane. This wasn’t your fault. Do you think this means God doesn’t want me to die just yet?”
“You mean that it isn’t your time? Fate rules?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“I don’t have a clue. I’m just really glad he didn’t succeed.”
“I bowed my head because I was crying and I didn’t want you to see.”
He gulped, but didn’t say anything more.
“What you said about Father Michael Joseph, it was very moving, Dane. Did he really catch that touchdown pass? Really tore up his knee?”
He nodded, got a grip on himself. “Yes. You know, this thing about Fate or whatever-if you like, we could get drunk one night and discuss it.”
It was a slight smile, he saw it. It made him feel very good.
“Yeah,” she said, “I’d like that.”
Lieutenant Linda Purcell came up to them, looking resigned. “We found the bullet. That’s the good news. Unfortunately, it shattered against a concrete wall. No way to know if it was from the same gun that killed Father Michael Joseph. No matter. It’ll all come together anyway. Delion’s doing his thing. Just hang around and listen, don’t interrupt. We decided to let the guy think about the wages of sin and left him downstairs in the tank for a couple of hours. We just brought him up here. We don’t have any one-way mirrors here so keep back from the doorway so he doesn’t focus on you.”
Dane looked toward the guy who’d shot Nick. His head was down between his arms on the scarred table. He was sobbing, deep gulping sobs that sounded like he believed life as he knew it was over. And he was right, Dane thought, the bastard.
Nearly all of the inspectors hanging around in the homicide room were close enough to the interrogation room to hear. They all looked exactly the same, excited and on the edge. Dane imagined that if they were in an FBI field office, there would be no difference at all. Women agents, in particular, didn’t cut any slack to a murderer who broke down in tears. That had surprised Dane when he was new in the FBI, but over the years he’d changed the opinions he supposed he’d absorbed by osmosis all through childhood and adolescence.
Delion sat across from the sobbing man, not saying a word, just watching, arms crossed over his chest, his mustache drooping a bit. Patient, like he had all the time in the world. They watched him examine a thumbnail, heard a soft whistle under his breath, watched him trace a fingertip over a deep gash in the scarred wooden table between them.
They’d taken the guy’s long dark woolen coat, hat, and gloves, which left him in a gray sweatshirt and wrinkled black pants. Dane couldn’t tell if he was just like the man Nick had originally described. But he saw he was slight of build, looked to be in his forties, and had a full head of dark hair-just as she’d said. And she’d recognized him from across the church.
Finally, the guy raised his head and said between gulps, “You’ve been holding me for a long time, haven’t spoken to me, and now I’m up here in this crappy little room with cops standing outside the door watching. What do you want from me? Why did that big guy try to kill me? I’m gonna sue his ass off. His pants’ll fall right off him.”
Sherlock snickered.
Both Dane and Nick drew in their breaths. The guy’s face was really white, like he hadn’t seen the sun in far too long. Just as Nick had said.
Delion said, “We asked you before if you wanted a lawyer and you said you didn’t. You want a lawyer now, Mr.-? Hey, why don’t you tell us your name.”
The man tilted his head back, as if he were trying to look down his nose at Delion. He sniffed, swallowed, and wiped his hand across his running nose. “You already know my name. You took my wallet hours ago and then you just left me alone to rot.”
“Your name, sir?”
“My name’s Milton-Milt McGuffey. I don’t need no lawyer, I didn’t do nuthing. I want to leave.”
Delion reached over and took the guy’s forearm in his hand, shook it just a little bit. “Listen to me, Mr. McGuffey, that guy who hit you is a cop. He just wanted to keep you from running away from the scene of a crime. He was being efficient, just doing what he was supposed to do, you know? Trust me on this: You really don’t want to sue him or his ass. Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill Nick Jones at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral mass.”
“I didn’t try to kill no Nick Jones! Is that the broad who was bleeding all over the place? Hey, I was just standing there listening and then everything went wild and I heard her yelling. I just wanted to get out of there and so I pushed open that side door and ran. Then that big guy tried to kill me.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So then, tell me, Milton, why you were at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral. You a former priest or something?”
He wiped his nose again, rubbed his hand on his sweatshirt sleeve, and finally mumbled something under his breath.
“I didn’t hear you, Milton,” Delion said.
“I don’t like Milton. That’s what my ma called me just before she’d whack me aside the head. I said that I like funerals. So many people sitting there trying to act like they give a shit about the deceased.”
Savich touched Dane’s arm to keep him from going into the room. “Easy,” he said in his slow, deep voice, right against Dane’s ear. “Easy.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So you just wandered into Saint Bartholomew’s like you’d walk into a movie, any movie, didn’t matter what was playing?”
“That’s right. Only a funeral’s free. Wish there was some popcorn or something.”
“So you didn’t know the star of this particular show?”
Milt shook his head. His eyes were drying up fast now.
“Where do you live, Mr. McGuffey?”
“On Fell Street, right on the Panhandle.”
“Real close to Haight Ashbury?”
“That’s right.”
“How long have you lived there, Mr. McGuffey?”
“Ten years. I’m from Saint Paul, that’s where my family still is, the fools freeze every winter.”
“Hey, my ex-wife is from Saint Paul,” Delion said. “It’s a nice place. What do you do for a living?”
Milton McGuffey looked down at his hands, mumbled something. It was getting to be a habit.
“Didn’t hear you, Milt.”
“I’m disabled. I can’t work. I collect benefits, you know?”
“What part of you is disabled, Mr. McGuffey? I saw you run, saw you turn around, ready to fight. You were fast.”
“I was scared. That guy was really big. He was trying to kill me, I had no choice. It’s my heart. It’s weak. Yeah, I’ve decided I’m going to perform a public service-I’m gonna sue that cop; he’s dangerous to
