While Thinnes watched, Oster came up behind him and said, “Speed freak.”
“Or a manic.”
“You been hangin’ with the doc too much, talkin’ like ’im.”
Speaking of the “doc,” Thinnes thought, it was too bad Caleb was a witness in the case. They could have used his opinion of Serena. Then again, they might be getting too dependent on the doctor’s opinions. The idea pissed him off.
“The doc’s here,” Oster said.
Doctor Caleb was limping slightly but he was over the shakes he’d had when they sent him home yesterday—and he’d cleaned up nicely, traded his borrowed scrubs for a two-thousand-dollar suit and his Reeboks for Guccis. Even Thinnes was impressed. He’d make a terrific witness when they got to court.
They took him to the Area Three conference room they sometimes used for lineups. Sister Serena was there, flanked by a hooker and a female patrol officer who happened to fit the description. There was another hooker at the end of the line. The ladies of the night looked tired and bored, the cop looked mad enough to kill. All four women were wearing white choir robes that Ryan had commandeered from a nearby church. Serena was a dead cert to be ID’d. Though she was standing with her hands at her sides, she was calling attention to herself by muttering and tapping her thighs with the tips of her fingers.
Thinnes had his own theory about mental illness. Maybe some people were born with their wires crossed and some were damaged by their upbringing, but most of the “crazies” were just people who’d learned that acting goofy or violent got them what they wanted. They didn’t need shrinks or medication, they needed society to take away the payoff.
It took only a minute for Caleb to pick the woman out. Number two, the agitated blond, was the one who’d handed her lighter to the pyromaniac. Caleb looked the others over carefully to be sure, then said, “Number two.”
“Where have you seen her before?” Thinnes asked.
“She was one of the group trying to incinerate Officer Nolan.”
Thinnes went into the room and pointed to Serena. “Put Sister Serena in 230, and keep an eye on her, will you?” he asked.
The uniform officer who was acting as matron nodded. “Sure.”
Serena glared at Thinnes and said, “You sicko. Get my name outta your mouth!”
Thinnes ignored her, saying, “Thank you, ladies,” to the other three women. “You can go.”
Outside the room, he joined Oster and the doctor. As they watched the matron lead Serena away, Oster shook his head. “What’s with her, Doc?”
“I wouldn’t diagnose someone without a thorough workup, but based on what I see, I’d certainly consider schizophrenia.”
“While you’re here,” Thinnes said, “maybe you could take a look at a video we have and give us an opinion.”
“If it’s not too long.”
“Maybe twenty minutes?
After they’d screened Flyer’s video, they waited for Caleb to comment. When he didn’t, Thinnes asked, “What’s your take, Doctor?”
“Marx wasn’t far off when he called religion the opiate of the people, but I think what he failed to understand is that some people desperately need analgesics. Faith for them is laudanum—to paraphrase Thomas Blackburn—relieving the pain of being human under inhuman conditions.”
“Yeah.” Oster said. “Well, for this bunch, I personally think their religion’s more like PCP—makes ’em crazy an’ unable to feel any pain.” He switched off the VCR with an impatient gesture. “Why do they buy this shit?”
“People believe in God,” Caleb said, “because He’ll never fail them, never disappoint or betray them. True faith is resistant to challenge because nothing offered by critics can approach the comfort it affords. And God’s like the hero in a romance—much better than a human being with human imperfections. Even though you can’t get close enough to God to hold Him, by refusing—even theoretically—to examine His properties, you can keep Him perfect in your mind.
“Yeah,” Oster said. “Okay. I can see believing in God. But what about listening to this nutcase?”
“Human nature. When their childhood religions fail them, people look elsewhere. If you were looking for certainty, this man’s self-confidence could be irresistible.”
“But why this shit?”
“It always fills some need. If they feel powerless, it gives them at least illusory power and the strength of numbers. If they’re lonely, it gives them community and the feeling of being loved. If they’re fearful, it promises safety; if they fear death, eternal life. It gives some the superiority or the comfort of certainty…”
“But how can they be so sure? This stuff makes no sense!”
“Nothing’s held with quite the fervor of an unexamined belief. And some people find the mere existence of alternative viewpoints threatening. They project the threat outward. It’s also true that the more of himself a person invests in anything the less likely he is to examine it critically.”
“Somebody oughtta set ’em straight about what century it is.”
“True believers don’t listen and don’t need to debate. They may speak with the tongues of men and angels, but they don’t dispute. To them, belief is self-evident, and their opponents are simply mistaken.
“Yeah?” Oster said. “Well, in my book, its a perfect example of what’s the use.”
The interview room barely had space for the three of them. That was the point—in-your-face proximity. Thinnes sat facing the door at a right angle to Serena. She kept edging away until she almost fell off the bench; the tips of her fingers beat a syncopated rhythm against her thighs.
Oster sat down across from her and read her her rights. “Do you understand these rights?”
For a minute she looked everywhere but at him, then said, “It’s the contransfiguration of the dementable…” Her fingers never stopped moving.
“How ’bout a yes or no?”
“Yes or no.”
“Do you want a lawyer, wiseass?”
She glanced at Thinnes with her side vision and shuddered. “He’s too jargonated.”
Wondering if that was a reference to Oster’s insult, Thinnes said, “Miss Cecci, would you like to speak to a lawyer?”
“No use. What good would it do?” She crossed her forearms over her chest and stuck her hands in her armpits, clamping her fingers into stillness with her upper arms. She still didn’t look at either of them.
“What can you tell us about the policewoman who was murdered?” Thinnes asked.
“She was stoned.” She stared intently at the floor in front of her and talked with increasing rapidity. “Flint’s a stone—flintstone. The fire in the flint shows not until it’s struck.” As Oster’s jaw dropped, she started singing, “Everybody must get stoned.”
Thinnes recognized the line from a sixties song, but couldn’t place it. Was she as crazy as she seemed or was this an Oscar-winning setup for an insanity plea?
Serena continued, faster. “Stone breaks scissors. Scissors cuts paper. Fire burns paper.”
Oster scowled. “This is nuts!”
She shook her head without looking at him. “And he’s in danger of hell fire that calls his brother fool. Or his sister, foolish.” She looked at the ceiling and smiled, adding, “Fight fire with fire.”
“You seem to be pretty interested in fire,” Thinnes said. “Why is that?”
“Fire and water are good servants but bad masters. We had fire and we had water—that’s from the Bible. Or maybe it was James Taylor. That’s the hell of it. My brain went dead when Brother John died.”
“What does the expression, ‘Fire next time’ mean?” Thinnes asked.
She started singing, “God gave Noah the fiery sign, no more water, the fire next time.”
Thinnes said, “Miss Cecci, do you want to make a statement?”
“Higglety, pigglety, my black hen, she laid down for gentlemen, sometimes ninety, sometimes ten—would’ve for women, to if they’d had the right eq
uipment. Jim Jones was the Jones on his back. She was a hoarse whore. I was a whore of a different color. I was a whore for Jesus, only, we didn’t call him that then. I was Mary Magdalen. Then I died, and he went to heaven. That was in my salad days. Now I’m in my word-salad days.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Oster demanded.
“There appeared a chariot of fire and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven.”
That was from the Bible. Thinnes wondered who he could ask about the rest of the gibberish. He wished he’d asked Caleb to stay.
“And you’re going up by squad roll into Ravenswood,” Oster told her, “for a little head check.” He glared at Thinnes. “How ’bout it?”
“I think we better book her and get her a lawyer first.”
Serena gave another little grin without looking at either of them. “First what we’ll do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”
Eighteen
Later in the morning, Thinnes handed the photocopy to the Ford dealership sales manager and watched his expression change from mostly sunny to overcast.
“We’re trying to get some information about a vehicle you sold,” Thinnes said.
The man’s name was Frank Gale. He was middle aged, fat and balding—he could have been Oster’s cousin. “What did you want to know?”
“Who sold it, for openers.”
“That would be Ed Limardi.”
“He in today?”
“He’s no longer with us.” Gale sounded more cautious than regretful.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
Gale didn’t answer right away. In fact, he seemed ready to never answer.
“This is a murder investigation, Mr. Gale.”
“Maybe we’d better talk in my office.” He led Thinnes into one of the glass-walled cubicles car dealers call offices and offered him a seat across the desk. When they were both settled, he said. “I…er…wouldn’t want to be charged with slander.”
“Anything you tell me that doesn’t come out in court stays strictly between us.” It was a standard line. It was also SOP.
Gale nodded. “Limardi was fired.”
“Why?”
“Theft. Well…we found out he was giving terrific discounts to people to up his sales figures and then falsifying the paperwork to hide the bath the dealership was taking. That van was one of the ones he stiffed us on. And he was probably getting a five-finger commission from his customers on top of what he was getting over the table.”
“So why didn’t you prosecute?”
Gale shrugged. “It wasn’t up to me or I would’ve. The state’s attorney didn’t think we had a strong enough case. And the owners didn’t want any bad publicity.”
“How long was he here?”
“Five years.”
“You know where he went when he left?”
“No. And we didn’t get anyone checking his references. He probably knew better than to even mention us.”
“You got an address?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And how ’bout a list of the other sales he cheated you on?”
“I’ll get it.”
“And the name of the state’s attorney on the case.”
“Sure thing.”
Gale was gone five minutes. When he came back, he handed Thinnes a sheaf of photocopies, with Limardi’s personnel record on top. “You didn’t get this from me,” he said.
“No, it was that other guy—A. Nonymous. Thanks.”
They shook hands and Gale handed Thinnes his card. “Let me know if I can help you with anything else. Of if you ever want a good deal on a car.”
The lobby was busier than usual when Thinnes got finished briefing Evanger and the district commander, and there was an urgency bordering on ruthless about the way everyone was going about business. Thirty hours and counting since they’d found Banks and no arrests yet. Uniform and plainclothes cops were coming and going without the usual kidding or kibitzing; the few civilians seemed out of place. As Thinnes passed the District Nineteen desk, the sergeant told him, “Detective Swann asked me to tell you he’s got your car salesman upstairs.”
“Thanks.”
Upstairs, Swann had his butt parked on the corner of a desk near the coffeemaker, where he could keep an eye on the door and the interview room. Thinnes ambled over and helped himself to coffee. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t tell with this guy. He asked me what was it all about. Once. Then he clammed up.”
Thinnes took his coffee over near the interview room’s two-way window and studied Edward Limardi—natural dirty-blond hair, blue eyes, six feet, 190 pounds, thirty-five or forty. He was alternately pacing the small room and sitting. Fidgeting. He’d obviously seen plenty of TV cop shows, because every time he looked at the mirror, he scowled and looked at his watch. It was gold—a Rolex, Thinnes would’ve bet—and matched his wirerim glasses.
A cliché of police work held that guilty parties went to sleep while waiting to be questioned, but not all offenders were typical or that stupid. Still, Limardi didn’t look like a man who was worried as much as a rich asshole who was pissed.
Swann came up to the window, and Thinnes asked him, “What’ve we got on this guy?”
“DOB March 12, 1953. No record of any arrests. No outstanding wants or warrants. Valid Illinois license. No recent moving violations, not even a parking ticket.” Swann shrugged. “A regular citizen.”
“What did you tell him to get him to come in?”
“That we needed his help in clearing up a matter involving a vehicle.”
Thinnes finished his coffee and pitched the cup. Before entering the interview room, he asked Swann, “You want to watch, maybe take notes?”
“Okay.”
Thinnes went in and introduced himself to Limardi, offering his hand.
“The other detective said you needed help in an investigation,” Limardi said, “but he didn’t say of what.”
Thinnes took one of the Polaroids of the church van out of his pocket. Limardi looked at it and shrugged. “A Club Wagon. So?”
“Our investigation leads us to conclude it was used in the commission of a crime. And records indicate that you sold it to the group we think used it.”
“I sell a couple hundred vehicles a year, Detective. I haven’t sold a Ford since—I can’t remember when. I don’t see—”
“I think if you try, you can remember this Ford. The agency fired you for selling it below cost.”
Limardi was good at hiding his feelings, but that got him. His smile disappeared. “I’d be very happy to find out who told you that. My lawyer could use the business.”
“Lawyer?”
“He specializes in libel and slander.”
“To win a slander suit, you’d have to be able to prove it wasn’t true.”
Limardi blinked several times, the only indication Thinnes had scored a point.
“It’s not important,” Thinnes said. “I’m not interested in any deals you made, just who you sold the van to.”
“I’m surprised your informant didn’t tell you that, too, and save us both the time and bother.”
“Well?”
“The Reverend Lewis English. He was very persuasive.”
“You don’t strike me as a man who’d be persuaded by a religious type.”
Limardi shrugged. “Car sales are quite competitive. Your informant should have told you that. Sometimes, when you’re down for the month and running out of month…” He shrugged again. “So, maybe you salve your conscience by telling yourself it’s for a church, so it’s for a good cause.”
“You talk to the reverend lately, or any of his church members?”
“No. I never saw the reverend after he drove away in his new van. And I never met any of his congregation.”
“What can you tell me about the Conflagration Church?”
“Is that what he called it? I never heard of it.” He looked pointedly at his
Rolex. “I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind. Sorry I can’t be more help. But I’ve got a quota to fill…”
Nineteen
The modest bungalow was on Christina, in a neighborhood of similar houses. Many belonged to older people who couldn’t keep them up; when the old folks died or got senile enough to be carted off to nursing homes, their houses were sold to young families with no time or money for major rehab jobs.
A light rain was falling, but it was too warm for the raincoats Thinnes and Oster were wearing as they climbed the porch steps. Oster’s face and hair were damp; Thinnes couldn’t tell if it was from rain or sweat. No one answered the bell when he rang, so Oster rapped on the door.
Linda Koslowski opened it. She had thick auburn hair and angry brown eyes. She was five-five and probably weighed 120 pounds. She opened her door with “What the hell’s he done now?”
“Who?” Thinnes asked. They hadn’t published Wiley’s picture or given his name to the press.
The woman’s anger softened in confusion. “You’re not here about Terry?”
“Who’s Terry?” Oster demanded.
“Easy, Carl,” Thinnes said.
The woman said, “My ex, Terry Koslowski. I haven’t seen him in a month, ever since I threatened to call the cops the last time he was here. If you’re not looking for him?…”
“We’re looking for your brother.”
She waited. They outwaited her. “And?” She made a circle with her hand in an out-with-it gesture.
“And what?” Oster’s tone had gone from belligerent to irritated. “We thought you might know his whereabouts.”
“Their whereabouts,” she said with a laugh. “I got five brothers.”
“We’re looking for Brian.”
“I haven’t seen him since I can’t remember when.”
“Mind if we come in and talk about it?”
She shrugged and stepped back from the door. “Suit yourselves.” When she’d closed the door behind them, she waved in the general direction of an overstuffed sofa.
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