Muller turned a page. He crossed his right leg over his left, making an easier reading desk of his knee.
“He would see society as a collection of marks to be conned. He would have contempt for the morals, conventions, and rituals of society, which he would see as hollow theater. By age fifteen he would have done four of the following ten: One, run away from home; two, stolen repeatedly; three, lied repeatedly; four, set fires; five—” Muller broke off and looked over at Cardozo. “Can you believe I do this for a living?”
“What is that book?”
“The
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
, published by the American Psychiatric Society. Essentially, it attempts to categorize a lot of random, raw anecdotal data.”
“Is it accurate?”
“Well, as Lewis Carroll remarked, a stopped clock is accurate twice a day. I’d say the manual beats a stopped clock—I’ve known days when it was accurate four times. Of course, anything this general is bound to hit a few bull’s-eyes.”
“How well does that description fit Martin Barth?”
Dr. Muller slammed the book shut. “As well as a good off-the-rack suit. Needs one or two minor alterations. But it’s a nice, workable general fit.”
“What about the murder Barth’s serving time for? Does it resemble the girl in the basket?”
“I hate talking on an empty stomach. Let’s have a drink.”
Dr. Muller took Cardozo to a neighborhood pub called Delilah’s. “I have my one martini here every day at 6
P.M.
They always save the same booth for me.”
The place was crowded and noisy, layered with cigarette smoke and smelling thickly of grilled hamburger fat. The hostess led them to Dr. Muller’s booth. She sent a waitress over with a martini for Muller, a diet Pepsi for Cardozo.
Muller stared into his drink. “How much do you know about Barth’s history?”
“I read the file. He was running his own brokerage business against company rules. One of his clients, a secretary in the accounting department, threatened to expose him. He went to her apartment and struck her with a cast-iron skillet till she was dead.”
“Barth had sex with her before killing her.” Muller took his first sip. He seemed to be feeling his way into the drink. “Afterward, he shaved her and had sex with her again.”
“That wasn’t in the file.”
“The paraphilia didn’t diminish culpability. And it didn’t change the motive for the crime. He was covering his tracks.”
“What’s paraphilia?”
“Psychobabble for sexual perversion. In Barth’s case, attraction toward juveniles. He’d probably been able to mask it until he killed the secretary. Once he had a female body in his power he couldn’t resist the urge to infantilize the corpse and abuse it further. The experience blew the manhole cover off his repressions and he killed another young woman while he was on bail awaiting trial. His response on the Stanford-Binet showed marked sadistic pedophile inclinations.”
“I take it Stanford-Binet is some kind of Rorschach?”
“Same principle, but they’re photos, not inkblots. The patient makes up a story to supply the context. They’re a simple projective test and a good fast way of finding out what sort of fantasies are bubbling in the unconscious.” Muller took a mouthful of honey-roasted peanuts. “Barth’s fantasies are quite bizarre. Disturbingly bizarre.”
Muller sat sipping, tapping his finger in rhythm to an old Sarah Vaughan tune playing on the jukebox. Cardozo had a sense of something held back.
“Do those fantasies bother you?”
“Frankly, the amount of detail worries me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think they’re just fantasies. I get the feeling they could be memories. He may have killed other children.”
“Has he confessed to other homicides?”
Muller shook his head. “No—not yet.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“I
T’S THE SAME SIZE,
” Lou Stein’s voice on the phone said. “The same type as the ring found in the dead girl’s nipple—of course, it’s in much better shape; it’s been safely indoors all this time.”
“Made by the same jeweler?” Cardozo said.
“That I didn’t say, and I didn’t use the word jeweler. These rings are not one-of-a-kind or two-of-a-kind custom items—they come in from Taiwan by the hundred-gross. But the Barth ring does have trace blood on it—and it’s the girl’s blood type, not Barth’s. I’d say it could easily be the ring from the other nipple.”
“You tested the other stuff in the knapsack?”
“The incense and the candle are compatible with trace evidence on the clothing and torso.”
“What the hell good is compatible? Do they match?”
“The traces are microscopic—there’s no way of pulling an exact match. These are mass-produced items—the incense comes in from India by the ton.”
“Okay, but we have the exact candle that Barth claims he used.”
“The candle is meat by-product from Argentina, like one out of every three candles sold in U.S. supermarkets. There’s nothing unique about the dye, there’s no scent, there’s no way of knowing if this is exactly the same candle. But there’s nothing to say it isn’t.”
“Is that candle fifteen months old? It’s in awfully good condition.”
“Candles are relatively stable animal product—they don’t wilt like flowers, they don’t go bad like beef. Use and exposure is how they age. He used it once and put it away.”
“Is that burn on the wick fifteen months old? It looks like he lit it last night.”
“Under the circumstances, there’s no reason it couldn’t be fifteen months old. Or older. I seem to be telling you something you’d rather not hear.”
“No, Lou, I appreciate it. Thanks for getting back to me so fast.” Cardozo hung up the phone. He stared out the window. An idea had been growing in his brain. His life would be a lot easier if the idea would just roll over and die, but even Lou’s lab results hadn’t killed it.
“What’s the verdict?” Ellie Siegel stood watching him from the doorway, her eyes clear and dark above high cheekbones. Somewhere in the squad room behind her a phone was ringing, but nobody was in any hurry to answer it. “Lou says it matches?”
Cardozo nodded. “Damn it, Ellie. Something feels off. The stuff in Barth’s knapsack looks too new.”
“Appearances aren’t always the whole story. That’s why we have labs.”
“Barth says he rented the van from an outfit that used fraudulent out-of-state licenses to avoid ticketing and towing.” Cardozo scooted back his chair. He rose. “But St. Andrew’s owned a van of exactly the same description. And a guy in a clerical collar was leaving bouquets on the grave
after
Barth was in prison.”
For a moment there was an appraising look in Ellie’s eyes, almost a smile. “You’re still dying for it to be Father Montgomery, aren’t you?”
Cardozo looked over, surprised. “That’s crazy.”
“I agree.”
When Cardozo returned to the precinct after lunch, he found a visitor waiting in his office. She was dark-skinned and slender and she was blond. At least the three-foot curly acrylic thing on her head was blond.
“Looking for me?” He closed the door behind him.
She slowly turned her eyes toward him. They were the inquisitive eyes of a small forest creature. “I heard a rumor down in the meat market. You’re looking for
me
.”
She rose, rippling with muscular curves, and he realized she was not a true female. She had dressed unisex—jeans that puddled around her jogging shoes and an oversize nylon jacket. She held out a hand. The gesture was ladylike in the dated way of a 1940s movie. He saw that she was holding his business card.
“You
are
Vincent Cardozo?”
“That’s right. Who are you?”
“The name on my birth certificate is Lii Kaiiawaniwauii—there’s no point spelling it for you, it’s Hawaiian, like me.” She saw him notice her ivory cameo ring. “Like it?” She showed him the peacock engraved on it. “I found it in a flea market. It’s my good luck charm.” She dropped fluidly back into the chair. “To keep things simple, I go by the
nom de street
of Jonquil—just like the fragrant yellow flower. Do you by any chance like fragrant yellow flowers?”
“I do. You know, you don’t look at all like your photo.”
“Which photo?”
“The ones Father Montgomery took.” Cardozo opened his desk drawer and handed Jonquil the three photographs.
“Well, if it isn’t guess who. But honey, that was then. I change my look three, four times a year. Have to keep the thrill fresh. What you’re seeing is a new and even more thrilling me.”
“Who gave you the rose you’re wearing in those shots?”
“What makes you think it was a gift?”
“I’m asking.”
“As a matter of fact, an admirer did give it to me. I have many admirers and many of them give me gifts. I’m not going to name names…unless”—Jonquil opened her purse and popped a cigarette into a holder and angled it toward Cardozo—“unless you tell my parole officer that I’ve been a good little girl. Is that a deal?”
He lit her cigarette. “What kind of dates did you have with Father Joe?”
She blew out a thin jet of smoke. “I date several gentlemen of the clergy—Episcopalian, Catholic, Jewish, Muslim. They tend to be very needy puppies.”
“In what way?”
After a puckered silence, she seemed to decide that she could risk saying more. “A lot are working their way out of the s/m closet. They like to tie me up.”
“Tie you up with what?”
“You’re truly hungering for the sickening details, aren’t you? They use whatever’s handy. Ratty old leather belts will do.”
“Leather belts around your feet?”
“And my hands too.” She was flicking Cardozo with her glance. “Never forget the hands.”
“And did Father Joe ever tie you up?”
“He wouldn’t be the first Father who did, but could we save the specifics until my parole officer has gotten a glowing report from you?”
“Anything you like.”
“No, honey.” She touched his hand. Her touch was gentle, almost passive, without being in the least soft. Cardozo detected sinew in that wrist. “Anything
you
like.”
“Would I be insulting you if I asked—”
“Please, insult me. I love it and I have a feeling you’re good at it.”
“Did you meet Father Joe through the St. Andrew’s prostitute outreach program?”
“The dreaded P-word.” She smiled. “No, darling, you would not be insulting me, and no, we did not, because St. Andrew’s didn’t have a prostitute outreach program when we met. As a matter of fact, it was I who gave Father Joe the idea for that program.”
“Then how did you and Father Joe meet?”
“Through the
prisoners
outreach.”
He stared at her. “Father Joe has an outreach program to prisoners?”
“Bet your ass.”
“Which prison?”
“Dannemora. My old alma mater. That was my male period.”
“I appreciate your giving me this time,” Cardozo said. “I hope I’m not putting you to too much trouble.”
Eloise Barth led him into the living room. It seemed to him that something had changed. The children’s toys had been put away. There was less furniture than when he’d last seen the room: the piano was gone.
“It’s no trouble—I want to see people.” She walked just a little slowly, just a little bent over, like a very young old woman. “I want to talk about Martin—I want to understand.”
She sat in an armchair, letting him take the sofa. A stillness flowed through the apartment.
“Your children are away?” Cardozo said.
“They’re with their grandmother in Virginia.” She exuded a melancholy stoicism. “They’ll stay with her till things settle down.”
“How are they doing?”
“They’re just fine, thank you.”
He thought of the years she and her husband had been together, all the energy and hope they had put into their family and home. He felt enormously sad for her.
“What is it you want to discuss with me?” she said.
“Father Joe Montgomery’s name has surfaced in connection with your husband.”
“Father Joe saved him.” It was a flat statement of fact.
“Saved him how?”
She passed a hand across her face, pushing back a strand of hair. Her hair was dark but he could see that it had begun to turn a little at the temples.
“Martin was never especially religious. It took the shock of seeing the inside of a prison for him to realize he needed to get right with God. Luckily, Father Joe and the Barabbas Society were there.”
“What’s the Barabbas Society?”
“Priests and ministers and concerned lay people. Their political goal is to achieve racial justice in prison sentencing. Their pastoral goal is to help the wounded souls of the men and women in our prisons. To purge the hatred and the fear that drove them to crime in the first place.”
“And how did Father Montgomery go about achieving this with your husband?”
Eloise Barth’s wide brown eyes came around to rest on Cardozo. They had a bleary look, as if she hadn’t slept in a long time. “Father Joe listened to Martin, encouraged him to tell what was in his heart, told him God loved him no matter what. That meant a lot to Martin. You see, all his life, he never felt that anyone really…” She broke off.
Cardozo let her take the time she needed. “If this is too painful a subject, please forgive me. And you may not know the answer. But did Father Joe suggest to your husband that he confess to the murder of the runaway girl?”
Eloise Barth exhaled, releasing tension. “I know he helped Martin come to that decision. I know he supported that decision.”
“But would you say Father Montgomery persuaded your husband to confess?”
She looked surprised. “He didn’t pressure him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Is there any chance that Father Montgomery put the idea in your husband’s head?”
“What idea?”
“Confessing to the killing.”
She drew in a long breath. “Father Joe created a space where Martin felt safe admitting his guilt and discussing it.”
“But do you know for a fact that your husband
was
guilty?”
“What are you saying? A jury found him guilty.”
“Of the first crime. But not the second. Did he actually kill that girl?”