Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [32]
“Don’t worry, lad, I don’t have any more lectures today. I’ve never yet turned up to class under the influence, and I don’t plan to start now. So how’s your case coming?”
“We’ve got a suspect, but I don’t think he’s the man.”
Lee told Nelson about Father Michael and his relationship with the dead girl. Nelson listened intently, his eyes narrowed.
“He clammed up as soon as his lawyer arrived?”
“Yeah. His lawyer kept saying it was the girl’s word against his, and that we had no crime to charge him with.”
Nelson sighed. “He’s right, of course. You may be right that this priest isn’t the killer, but you should keep an eye on him.”
“We are.”
“Good. Now, how about one more round?”
“No, thanks,” Lee replied, feeling uncomfortable. “I can’t drink quite as much as I used to.”
“Keep such admissions to yourself, or they’ll have you thrown out of this place!” Nelson said loudly enough that the bartender could hear.
He clearly did not want to discuss his drinking, and the force of his personality was like a wall between them. Lee was partly relieved. He had no desire to turn the tables on their tenuous father-son relationship. He was pretty certain his friend’s drinking had accelerated since his wife’s death, but the thought of confronting Nelson about it was daunting. He vowed to keep an eye on his friend, but babysitting Nelson’s drinking would have to take a backseat to finding the man who was stalking and strangling young women.
He looked at the happy, relaxed faces all around him: the young Latino couple in the corner, the pair of students at the other end of the bar, the young mother with her son at the video game machine. He felt an irrational sense of responsibility to protect them all from a killer who—Lee was certain—would not stop until he was caught.
Chapter Thirteen
Lee’s visit to Nelson’s lecture and to Armstrong’s had done little to dispel the unsettling feeling he had had ever since morning. He couldn’t shake the twisting sensation in his stomach. As he was heading for the kitchen to make tea, the phone rang. He picked up the portable receiver and continued into the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Lee, it’s Chuck.”
“Hi. What’s up?” He pulled a blue enameled canister of tea from the top shelf and put the kettle on. Nothing a good cup of tea can’t fix, his mother liked to say. Yeah, right, Mom.
“It’s about our Jane Doe.”
Chuck Morton had never been good at disguising his feelings. Lee decided to try to spare him the difficult task of breaking the news.
“No one believes me, right?” he said, plucking a tea bag from the canister. It was Lifeboat Tea, a good strong blend he discovered at Cardullo’s on his last trip to Boston.
“I believe you, but the brass isn’t buying your theory about Jane Doe Number Five. The detectives in Queens are determined to hold on to the file—they say it’s their case.”
“She’s this guy’s work, too—I know it!”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Lee looked out the window at the people lined up waiting to get into McSorley’s. He never went in there at night—afternoons were the best time, when the sun flooded in through the dusty windows, dancing across the sawdust-strewn floors and gleaming off the row of antique brass beer taps.
“You know how some of them feel about profilers,” Chuck said. “They’re not buying the idea that we’ve got a serial offender on our hands.” His voice was apologetic.
“Well, they’ll find out sooner or later they’re wrong—when another girl dies.”
Down on the street, a couple was having an argument. The girl leaned against the building, arms crossed, while her boyfriend ranted and paced in front of her, throwing his arms around. Lee couldn’t hear what he was saying, but judging from the sulky expression on the girl’s face, it wasn’t welcome. The boyfriend was bulky and blond, built like a bull terrier; she was lanky and dark-haired, with one of those Irish faces—sharp dark eyes and a pert, upturned nose. Her expression was defiant; she looked like she could handle him.
“You don’t think it’s the priest, do you?” Chuck said.
“No—and