The Cold Room (17 page)

I’d known all this going in, of course. Still, I listened patiently while the priest recounted the various excuses offered by Father Towle. Then I asked a pair of questions.

‘If what Jesus Fornes told Father Towle wasn’t a confession, why did Father Towle wait twelve years to come forward? Why did he leave Montalvo and Rivera to rot in prison?’

‘Those are good questions, detective, ones I’ve asked myself.’

‘And what was your answer?’

‘That the questions are irrelevant to this conversation. You see, there’s a major difference here. Your victim’s confession took place in a confessional. As such, it was formal from the beginning. Every word she spoke falls under the seal.’

‘You’re right about the difference, Father, but there’s another difference, too, and one major similarity. The other difference, of course, is that Jesus Fornes was a killer and Jane Doe was a victim.’

‘And the similarity?’

‘Fornes was dead when Father Towle came forward. Jane Doe is dead even as we speak. Wherever they were headed, to heaven or hell or oblivion, they’re already there. Nothing Father Towle told the court, and nothing you tell me, can harm either of them.’

Father Stan’s mouth opened, but I cut off his response. ‘And by the way, Father, just in case you’re worried 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

W
hen 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.’

Linde settled back in his chair. ‘I tell my partners I’m from Minnesota because they always ask where I’m from anyway. It’s the accent, ya know. And the Ole and Lena jokes. I’m an expert on Ole and Lena jokes. I collect ’em.’

I took a moment to consider this, having no idea what he was talking about, and no patience, either. ‘What’s an OLE-ee?’ I finally asked.

‘The Prairie Home Companion? On National Public Radio?’

I shrugged.

‘See, that’s the problem with New Yorkers. That’s why people don’t like ’em. They think the world begins and ends on their little island.’

The statement was too obviously true to merit a response and I abruptly shifted gears, gesturing to the case file, which was open on his desk. ‘That’s my case,’ I told him. ‘You wanna come along for the ride, fine. But you don’t get to drive. If that’s not okay with you, tell me now.’

He leaned back in his chair, the blood rushing into his cheeks, his mouth curling down at the corners. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I just got here. Stealing your case is the last thing I want to do.’ He closed the file and pushed it toward me. ‘But this Aslan Khalid, he’s probably in the wind, if ya get my drift.’

‘Wanna bet?’

‘Bet what?’

‘How about two cows and a corn field?’

He stared at me through a pair of cornflower blue eyes for a moment, then blinked twice before bursting into laughter. ‘That’s a good one,’ he declared between guffaws. ‘That’s one on me.’

I rose without further explanation and led Hansen through the squad room, down the stairs and out the front door. I made a show of it, nodding hello to every cop we passed, especially those cops who loathed Harry Corbin. Linde was several inches taller than me and a good fifty pounds heavier. Together, we amounted to five hundred pounds of cop, enough bulk to capture the attention of a desk lieutenant named Torres who’d been on the job long enough to remember the Knapp Commission.

‘Christ,’ he said as we passed. ‘I think I climbed the fuckin’ bean stalk.’

Behind me, I heard Linde chuckle.

I stopped at Domestic Solutions first, to check for newly-delivered mail. There was none, which didn’t surprise me. Then I drove to the Post Office on Meserole Avenue where I cornered the manager, a petite woman named Alfaro. Linde was standing just to my left, his eager, country-boy grin firmly in place.

Alfaro didn’t fight me when I asked if a change-of-address card had been filed for 532 Eagle Street. ‘Give me a minute,’ she said, ‘and I’ll check it out.’

The minute stretched into five, during which time Linde asked, politely, if he might tell me a joke. I refused the offer, not out of resentment, but because I wanted to see if he could be provoked. He wasn’t.

When Alfaro returned, she was shaking hear head. ‘Sorry,’ she told us, ‘no one’s been in to have the mail forwarded. Mail to that address is still being delivered.’

Linde waited until we were back on the street, then asked, ‘What do you make of that, Harry?’

‘You’re asking why we didn’t find mail at Domestic Solutions?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Mobility.’

‘You wanna explain? Or you just wanna bust my chops?’

I smiled. The priest had blown me off, despite my brilliantly constructed interview, and time was marching on. I was pissed, not least because I’d yet to formulate a Plan B, and I was taking it out on Hansen.

‘My best guess, Aslan conducts Domestic Solutions’ business on a cell phone and his workers are paid directly by their employers. Maybe there’s a bank account somewhere, a place to deposit the checks, but it’s more likely that the checks are cashed and the money handed over to Aslan. That would allow him to pick up on a minute’s notice without leaving a paper trail, and without jeopardizing his business interests. Which is exactly what he did.’

‘But why kill Barsakov? Why not just send him away? That would eliminate any connection between Aslan and your vic.’

‘Maybe he asked Barsakov to flee and Barsakov refused. Maybe there’s a reason why Barsakov can’t return to Russia. Maybe Aslan punished Barsakov for not getting the victim in the water, despite Clyde Kelly’s appearance. I don’t know how close you read the file, but Kelly didn’t call nine-one-one for several hours, so Barsakov had plenty of time to finish the job. Instead, he panicked and left the victim where she was. Two weeks later, as a direct result, I show up and drag Barsakov away on a trumped-up charge. Aslan couldn’t have been real happy about that. He had to figure, if Barsakov panicked once, he’d panic again.’

I went on to tell Linde what I knew about Domestic Solutions and its employees and their children, repeating much of what Dominick Capra told me.