didn’t exist.
Jordan thought that possibly Mrs. Gorman had gotten the name wrong. He called on her two more times. The calls had the effect of making the woman more sure of her statement.
The theory that had gnawed at Peter Nicholas before Jennings entered the case now nagged him again. He did not attempt to discuss his theory with another priest. Two priests had sorely disappointed him within a matter of days. The thought of another rejection by his church worried him nearly as much as a new fear that began to creep up on him. One evening Jordan gave voice to his fear.
“We been on this goddamn paper chase almost a month. Assuming our blond boy is out there somewhere. Unless he strikes again, we’ll never find him.”
“We still have a few sources to check.”
“Hendriks won’t sit still for us much longer. When he takes a look at the money you’re laying out he’s liable to bust you for larceny.” Jordan chuckled and added, “You been working so hard on this you forgot to go to church.”
Late that same night Nicholas cleared his desk. He took a fresh pad of paper and a pencil. He wrote the name Bernard Phillips and beneath it wrote the few facts he knew.
Male Caucasian, very pale, possibly albino.
Shoulder-length blond hair.
Thin.
Approximate age: 17-24.
Wears sandals & loose-fitting white shirts (smocks?) (robes?).
Possible resident Washington Heights.
He dropped his pencil and pushed away the pad. He felt sick and defeated.
Another detective in the squad room approached and asked him how things were going.
“I’ll tell you exactly how things are going, Daley. I haven’t slept in weeks and I don’t remember my last meal. I got a kangaroo jumping in my stomach and a flamenco dancer doing Bolero in my head. I’ve worked a month to come full circle to where I started. I’m thinking of giving up this lousy job and joining a monastery where I can take a vow of silence and not have to answer people who ask how’s it going?”
“Sorry I asked, Nicholas.”
Detective Daley transferred his weight from his feet to Nicholas’s desk. He was a big man who sagged all over. His suits never fit. When he spoke the flesh that hung below his jaw shook like Jello. He picked up Nicholas’s pad and took too long to read the few lines written on it.
He said, “Even in New York there aren’t a hell of a lot of robe-wearing blond albinos.”
“I’ve recently met four. The wrong four.”
Daley had something on his mind. Nicholas was too tired to ask what.
“In Brooklyn. Ten years back. Had a case I never been able to forget. I was still in uniform. Walking patrol and the first one on the scene. Suicide pact. A guy slashed his wrists and his wife turned on the gas. First time I’d ever seen anything like it.”
“Nobody ever forgets their first blood scene, Daley,” Nicholas said with disinterest. “Mine was a traffic accident.”
“The woman’s name was Phillips. Judith Phillips. She had an eleven-year-old kid. Eleven or twelve. Blond hair. It was the kid who found the bodies and pulled me in off the street.”
A stir of excitement went through Nicholas. “Remember the kid’s name?”
Daley nodded. He tapped Nicholas’s pad, and said, “That’s it.”
“Remember the exact address? What happened to the kid?”
He remembered the approximate address.
“The kid was a weird little fucker. Calm. No tears. It got pretty hectic there, an’ all of a sudden I noticed the kid had disappeared. I figured one of the neighbors took him in. But nobody ever saw him again. Maybe Juvenile has some old reports.”
“Juvenile never heard of Bernard Phillips. What did the note say?”
A troubled expression crossed Daley’s wide face.
“Who said anything about a note?”
“Suicide pact, you said. Was there a note?”
There was a pause before Daley nodded.
“What did it say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You’re lying, Daley. It said something you’ve never forgotten. Maybe scared you a
Jordan thought that possibly Mrs. Gorman had gotten the name wrong. He called on her two more times. The calls had the effect of making the woman more sure of her statement.
The theory that had gnawed at Peter Nicholas before Jennings entered the case now nagged him again. He did not attempt to discuss his theory with another priest. Two priests had sorely disappointed him within a matter of days. The thought of another rejection by his church worried him nearly as much as a new fear that began to creep up on him. One evening Jordan gave voice to his fear.
“We been on this goddamn paper chase almost a month. Assuming our blond boy is out there somewhere. Unless he strikes again, we’ll never find him.”
“We still have a few sources to check.”
“Hendriks won’t sit still for us much longer. When he takes a look at the money you’re laying out he’s liable to bust you for larceny.” Jordan chuckled and added, “You been working so hard on this you forgot to go to church.”
Late that same night Nicholas cleared his desk. He took a fresh pad of paper and a pencil. He wrote the name Bernard Phillips and beneath it wrote the few facts he knew.
Male Caucasian, very pale, possibly albino.
Shoulder-length blond hair.
Thin.
Approximate age: 17-24.
Wears sandals & loose-fitting white shirts (smocks?) (robes?).
Possible resident Washington Heights.
He dropped his pencil and pushed away the pad. He felt sick and defeated.
Another detective in the squad room approached and asked him how things were going.
“I’ll tell you exactly how things are going, Daley. I haven’t slept in weeks and I don’t remember my last meal. I got a kangaroo jumping in my stomach and a flamenco dancer doing Bolero in my head. I’ve worked a month to come full circle to where I started. I’m thinking of giving up this lousy job and joining a monastery where I can take a vow of silence and not have to answer people who ask how’s it going?”
“Sorry I asked, Nicholas.”
Detective Daley transferred his weight from his feet to Nicholas’s desk. He was a big man who sagged all over. His suits never fit. When he spoke the flesh that hung below his jaw shook like Jello. He picked up Nicholas’s pad and took too long to read the few lines written on it.
He said, “Even in New York there aren’t a hell of a lot of robe-wearing blond albinos.”
“I’ve recently met four. The wrong four.”
Daley had something on his mind. Nicholas was too tired to ask what.
“In Brooklyn. Ten years back. Had a case I never been able to forget. I was still in uniform. Walking patrol and the first one on the scene. Suicide pact. A guy slashed his wrists and his wife turned on the gas. First time I’d ever seen anything like it.”
“Nobody ever forgets their first blood scene, Daley,” Nicholas said with disinterest. “Mine was a traffic accident.”
“The woman’s name was Phillips. Judith Phillips. She had an eleven-year-old kid. Eleven or twelve. Blond hair. It was the kid who found the bodies and pulled me in off the street.”
A stir of excitement went through Nicholas. “Remember the kid’s name?”
Daley nodded. He tapped Nicholas’s pad, and said, “That’s it.”
“Remember the exact address? What happened to the kid?”
He remembered the approximate address.
“The kid was a weird little fucker. Calm. No tears. It got pretty hectic there, an’ all of a sudden I noticed the kid had disappeared. I figured one of the neighbors took him in. But nobody ever saw him again. Maybe Juvenile has some old reports.”
“Juvenile never heard of Bernard Phillips. What did the note say?”
A troubled expression crossed Daley’s wide face.
“Who said anything about a note?”
“Suicide pact, you said. Was there a note?”
There was a pause before Daley nodded.
“What did it say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You’re lying, Daley. It said something you’ve never forgotten. Maybe scared you a
Similar Books
