Soul Murder
‘Would you describe any of your activities as controversial?’
‘Not to right-thinking people, no.’
‘You don’t, for instance, fund mosques?’
‘No. Nor churches, nor synagogues; not alone. Every program we fund, either wholly or in part, must involve at least two of the three Abrahamic religions.’
‘Can you think of anything the foundation does which would make someone want to kill one of its directors?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Anything about the directors themselves?’
‘Quite the opposite. They’re all people of the highest integrity. That’s why they were invited to join. We picked nine; three each from each of the three faiths.’
‘We’d like to give protection to you all. To the seven, er, remaining.’
‘I have my own protection, thank you, so you can save a little manpower there.’
‘With respect, sir, they’re not the police.’
‘No, they’re not. They’re ex-Delta Force. They’re a lot more skilled than the police, no offense; and they’re certainly better paid.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure the other six will appreciate it, however. Is that your strongest lead?’
‘At the moment, yes.’
Not just their strongest lead, Patrese thought, but pretty much their only one.
It would take a couple of days to trace and eliminate all the people in the photos found in Kohler’s bureau, even with the extra manpower they’d been allocated – a fivefold increase in officers, from twelve to sixty.
In the meantime, those officers had already received several hundred calls, all of which they’d have to follow up. Most would be irrelevant. Some, inevitably, were from wives trying to get rid of their husbands by accusing them of the murders.
Patrese had already recognized one voice as that of a woman who had in the past tried to pin ten separate murders on her husband. He’d given her a phone number.
‘This your cellphone?’ she’d asked.
‘No. It’s a divorce lawyer.’
The cops had studied CCTV footage of the road outside the cathedral, traced cars through their number plates, and interviewed their owners. No one had seen a thing.
A homeless man who’d been bedding down opposite the cathedral offered to tell the police what he knew in exchange for twenty bucks. One sniff of his breath had convinced them that the testimony of a man too drunk to remember what day it was would hardly stand up in court, even if by some miracle it did lead them to the killer.
They’d checked the list of the cathedral’s workers, regular attendees, friends and supporters against that of Redwine’s patients, and interviewed all those who appeared on both. No dice.
They’d discovered that Redwine and Kohler had been members of the same country club in Fox Chapel. They were interviewing the club’s management, staff and members; several hundred in all. One former employee, whom the club had dismissed the previous year for embezzlement, had already come briefly under suspicion – he’d written threatening letters to the club after being fired – until the police had discovered that he was already in custody, for mail fraud.
Given the desecration of the crucifixes and icons, they were also checking every Muslim recently convicted of any crime, no matter how small. Allen Chance had impressed on them the importance of subtlety here. They had to pick their way through minefields of political correctness and racial discrimination, and avoid turning a murder investigation into a civil rights issue.
What that meant in terms of Mustafa Bayoumi was anybody’s guess.
Wednesday, November 3rd. 9:11 a.m.
The first forty-eight hours after Kohler’s murder were already up. Patrese and Beradino both knew that no joy now meant ever-diminishing returns later.
‘Forensics have found a strand of hair in Saint Paul,’ Beradino said. ‘Near Kohler’s body, but unburnt. They reckon Asian origin. Probably Pakistan. Heavily treated, so almost certainly female. And cut neatly; not fallen out naturally, not yanked forcefully.’
‘A Pakistani woman who’d just been for a haircut?’
‘Could be. They’re checking hairdressers now. There are no Pakistani women on the cathedral’s staff roster, we know that. No Asians at all, actually.’
‘Which means nothing. The cathedral’s a public place. People come in and out the whole time. That hair could have come from anyone, anytime. You could clean that floor for days, weeks, and miss something like that. Or you could sweep it up and then deposit it back there again some time later without knowing. Perhaps it got tangled in the broom fibers and then dropped free again.’
‘Exactly. It’s the longest of long shots.’
‘And the kids in the photos?’
‘Sacred Heart have identified most of them, and given contact details for everyone they have in their database. Uniforms are working their way through those people as we speak. About two-thirds still live in Pittsburgh, so they’re being given priority.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing, so far. All of them have alibis. Most hadn’t seen Kohler in many moons. No discernible motives, that anyone can tell.’
‘What are they like now?’
‘What are who like?’
‘The people. The ones in the photos.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Are they, you know, fucked up in some way? Junkies, depressives, suicides?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Looking for a motive for whoever killed Kohler, that’s why. Happily married guy with kids ain’t gonna wake up one morning and decide to off the bishop, is he?’
‘I guess not. Far as I know, they’re a pretty standard cross-section. Check the files, if you want. They’re in the system.’
Patrese logged on, and soon found that Beradino was right; they were a pretty standard cross-section.
More than half were married, about a fifth were divorced, some of them shockingly young. A few gays, a handful with drug problems, or at least problems bad enough to have shown up on their records. There’d be a lot more beneath the surface, Patrese was sure of that; a lot of things that those people wouldn’t or couldn’t tell the cops. And why should they? Cops were cops, not social workers.
Patrese recognized more names than he’d thought he would. It was like some sort of surreal, virtual school reunion; people whom he’d frozen in his mind at some stage in their teens suddenly reincarnated on the screen in front of him as adults with jobs, and lives, and problems, years and heartbreaks and triumphs and catastrophes away from how he’d remembered them.
‘How you’ve grown!’ he recalled friends of his parents saying when he’d been a kid; and of course he’d grown, he’d always thought. It would have been a whole heap weirder if he hadn’t. So too with these people. Of course they’d changed.
Later that afternoon, Patrese went back in front of the media, and tossed them tasty but fundamentally unfilling morsels.
Yes, they were following up multiple leads. Yes, they were aware the first forty-eight hours had elapsed. Yes, they understood the city’s shock and outrage.
No, he wouldn’t give operational details. No, he wouldn’t commit himself to any predictions. No, he didn’t want to send a message directly to the killer.
He didn’t say what he really thought: that, two murders in – and if Mustafa Bayoumi’s alibi held when they finally managed to interview him – what they needed more than anything else was a third.
A third would give them more evidence. A third might persuade Chance to call in the Bureau. A third was what they feared and wanted in equal measures.
Thursday, November 4th. 9:20 a.m.
Of all Pittsburgh’s buildings, the Allegheny County Courthouse was Patrese’s favorite. It boasted the quintessential architecture of crime and punishment. Massive slabs of Massachusetts granite ran down long sides punctuated with brooding arches and flanked by half-towers, as though the edifice had been lifted wholesale from city gates in ancient Rome.
Richardson, the architect, regarded this building as his greatest work. He’d plundered from across Europe for it: detailing from Salamanca Cathedral for the front tower, still majestically authoritative despite the upstart skyscrapers which now dwarfed it on all sides; Notre-Dame’s cornice; the hollow rectangle massing from Rome’s Palazzo Farnese; and from Venice the rear campanile and the Bridge of Sighs, through which prisoners had been transported from jail to court and back again.
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