Robert Knightly - The cold room

Father Manicki looked down at his hands, as if he hoped to find the solution to his dilemma inscribed on his knuckles. He’d made a good-faith effort to be rid of me when he failed to identify Plain Jane the first time I approached him, a charade Sister Kassia had exposed when she called me on that Sunday morning. So where could he go now, this compassionate minister to the downtrodden? Could he throw me out on my ass, perhaps after a dressing down for my impudence? If our positions were reversed, that’s exactly what I would have done. I certainly wouldn’t have given him the opportunity to plant a wedge and pound away at it.

I took advantage of the silence to pull my briefcase from the floor, to fumble inside for a moment before removing the likeness of Plain Jane Doe I’d planted all over town. Very carefully, I laid the photo on a glass coffee table so that it faced the priest.

‘I must care about her,’ I said as I straightened up. ‘I wouldn’t have spent all those hours creating that photo on my computer if I didn’t care. Keep in mind, I had very little to start with.’

Father Stan raised his eyes to meet mine. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying, Father, that when I found her, she looked like this.’ The photo I then removed from the briefcase was a close-up of Plain Jane’s face taken a few moments after I’d rolled her onto her back. I laid it on the coffee table alongside the first shot, inviting a comparison. To his credit, Father Stan didn’t recoil, though his jaw tightened and his full lips squeezed into a thin line.

‘Creating a recognizable likeness wasn’t as hard it might appear.’ I used my index finger to illustrate as I went along. ‘This discharge from her nose and mouth? You can eliminate that in under an hour. Likewise for the crushed portion of her skull. And the main features of her face? Her overbite, her square jaw, her short nose? They’re pretty obvious. The only problem I really had was with her eyes. In this shot, all you can see is a white film, but when I got up close at the crime scene, I observed a pair of blue circles underneath. These circles, they were very faint and I couldn’t determine the exact shade of blue. That’s one reason I printed the final shot in black-and-white. It’s like her skin, which was tinged with green. Taking the green out was no problem. But was she originally pale? Was her complexion sallow? Did she have color in her cheeks? Once a victim’s in this condition, it’s impossible to know.’

I straightened up, drawing the priest’s eyes away from the photos and onto myself.

‘I thought,’ he said, ‘there were police artists who did this sort of thing.’

‘There are, but I was too impatient to wait for them to get their act together. That’s not really the point, anyway.’

Despite my generally bullying attitude, I had Father Stan’s full attention. ‘Then what is?’ he asked.

I again fumbled in my briefcase, making a show of the search, finally removing the original likeness I’d created on the computer. The shot was generic, with Plain Jane staring straight ahead, her face expressionless.

‘See, this is what I first came up with. I don’t think it took more than a few hours.’

‘I recognize her immediately. Anybody would.’

‘I knew that Father, but I still wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more than recognition. I wanted to find.?.?.’ I paused long enough to draw a breath and smile ruefully. ‘Would you believe it’s been more than two weeks and I don’t even know her name?’

Father Manicki tugged at his Roman collar, revealing a line of chafing beneath. ‘I understand how frustrated you must feel, detective, but I don’t see how I can help you.’

I ignored him. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that I must have cared for her. If not, I would have been satisfied with my first effort. Recognizable is what it’s all about, right? For a cop? But I kept going, hour after hour, turning her head this way and that, widening and narrowing her mouth and her eyes, lightening and darkening the color of her hair. There were times, I swear, when I thought I’d go crazy.’

‘If there’s something in this story that’s sinful, I haven’t heard it yet.’ Now that he’d gotten over his initial shock, Father Stan’s voice was much stronger.

‘Tell me something, Father. Have you ever hunted?’

The question brought him up short and his expression became wary. ‘When I was a young man, before I entered the seminary, I hunted deer.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘I was raised near Lake Champlain. Everybody hunted.’

‘Were you successful?’

‘I dropped an eight point buck in my second season.’

‘And how did you feel when you centered the crosshairs on the animal’s chest? When you held his life in your hands? Was it a cold day? Could you see his breath in the air? His chest moving as he breathed? The life in his eyes?’

‘More than anything, I was afraid that I’d miss.’

I nodded once, then let the silence build. Father Stan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, crossing and recrossing his legs. Finally, he said, ‘Do you hunt, detective?’

‘I do, Father. I hunt all the time. But not animals. I hunt human beings.’

There was a crucifix on the wall behind Father Stan’s chair, so perfectly centered above his head that it seemed to be growing out of his skull. The crucifix was little more than an assemblage of sticks that might have been snapped from the branches of the trees outside the church, but there was no resisting its power. The arms outstretched, the body slumped, the head turned slightly to the side, the chin resting on the chest. By that time, if I remembered right, Jesus had already descended into hell. As if crucifixion wasn’t enough.

‘Tell me, Father, can sin be a force for good?’

Father Stan weighed his reply carefully. He seemed in no hurry now. ‘God is omnipotent,’ he said with a smile. ‘He can do anything but create a rock so heavy that He can’t lift it. But I’d still like to hear about this sin. If it really is a sin.’

‘Most of the time,’ I replied, ‘my job is pretty mechanical. I get cases, everything from burglaries to murders, and I investigate. Sometimes I make an arrest, mostly I don’t, but I don’t get worked up either way.’ I raised my eyes, until I was looking directly into Father Stan’s. ‘But there are other days and other cases, like this particular case, when I’m as single-minded as a serial killer. I tell you, Father, I’ve thought about this for a long time, trying to figure out what’s going on, and the closest word in the English language for what I feel is lust. That’s why I asked you that question. Can sin be a force for good?’

This time Father Stan was ready for me. ‘Obsession,’ he declared, ‘is not a sin. From a purely psychological point of view, Mother Theresa was obsessed.’

‘What if you felt as though you’d sacrifice anything to achieve your goal? What if all concern for the victim, along with your duty to society, suddenly vanished? What if you were willing to sacrifice your livelihood? The only woman you’ve ever loved? What happens when it becomes entirely personal?’

‘Are you asking me for absolution?’

‘Can you be forgiven for a sin you know you’ll commit again?’

‘God doesn’t ask you to guarantee the future. He only asks you to try.’

‘Trying is not an option at the moment. Later, perhaps, after I do what I have to do.’

‘Then you can’t be absolved.’

‘That’s what I figured before I came here. But it’s okay. I accept the sin and whatever punishment follows. I can do that because I’m certain that the end I seek is good.’

‘Certain that the end justifies the means? Is that it?’