James Patterson: Step On A Crack

First, the Emergency Service Unit guys returned to the cathedral and repeated exactly what they had done to stabilize the crime scene. They even checked for booby traps and hazmats again.

NYPD detectives, along with the Crime Scene Unit- CSU, not CSI -did another thorough search for evidence like latent prints and fibers. Everything was swabbed down a second time for DNA. A check was made to see if any religious relics had been defiled-anything that might provide a psychological or behavioral clue.

Everything that could be checked was examined a second time.

Bloodstains.

Hair, fibers, and threads.

Loose glass-from windows, bottles, eyeglasses.

Firearms.

Tool marks, evidence of flammable liquids.

Controlled substances found anywhere, but especially in the archbishops’ crypt, where the hijackers hid out before the attack.

Two patrolmen were stationed at St. Patrick’s solely to act as messengers to get any evidence to the labs as quickly as possible.

And after three more exhausting days, the end result-not a clue about Jack and his team.

I FELT TOO COOPED UP sitting in the squad room, so I decided to go for a ride one morning. I smiled, looking out at the chaotic hustle and bustle of loud vehicles and even louder pedestrians surging around St. Patrick’s when I pulled up on Fifth Avenue in front of it. Our city had survived riots, blackouts, 9/11, Mayor Dinkins, and now this, I thought as I headed up the cathedral steps.

The church was closed to the public for repairs. The uniformed Midtown North cops stationed at the door stepped aside when I showed them my tin.

I walked up the center aisle and genuflected before sitting in the front pew.

I sat looking out on the solemn, austere, empty church. You’d think I’d be sick of churches by this point, but for some reason, I felt comforted just being there in the candle-scented darkness. I felt oddly consoled.

My high school graduation from Regis had taken place here. I smirked, remembering how wretched at Greek and Latin I’d been. One thing, though, perhaps the only thing I’d picked up from the Jesuit priests who taught us was their stress on the importance of reason . Time and again, they preached the necessity of using our God-given rationality in order to cut through to the essence of things. I guess it was the reason I chose philosophy as my major when I went on to Manhattan College, a small, very fine school in the Bronx. And the ultimate reason I had become a detective. The need to get at the truth .

I stared up at the main altar, thinking about the case.

We knew the when, where, what, why , and how . The only thing left was the who .

Who would have done it? Who was capable of the brilliance, and the brutality? Men with a lot of will, for one thing, I decided; and men not afraid to use extreme violence as a means to a selfish end.

They had killed five people during the siege. An ESU officer and FBI agent had been shot in the tunnel firefight. A priest had been shot in the side of the head “by accident,” according to Jack. John Rooney had been executed at point-blank range. Interviews with the hostages who had witnessed it confirmed that.

Finally, I thought about the mayor. Why had they stabbed Andrew Thurman to death ? The cigarette burns over his arms meant that he’d also been tortured. These men were nothing if not efficient. Why change their killing method for the mayor? It would seem that shooting a man, however unpalatable, was better than stabbing him, right? Why get personal with the mayor?

I laid my hands against the polished wood in front of me as I squeezed the rail hard.

There was a reason. I just didn’t know what it was.

Yet.

I stopped by the row of votive candles at the Lady Chapel before I left. I lit one for each of the souls that had perished here, and an extra one for my wife. The dollar bills made a shuffling sound in the silence as they dropped into the offering box. Angel wings , I thought, stifling a tear. I hunched onto the velvet kneeler, closed my eyes against my clenched fists.

Dear Maeve , I prayed. I love you. I miss you terribly .

I was still waiting to hear from Lonnie about the prints, and when I returned to my desk he still hadn’t called. I poured myself a coffee and stared out my window at East Harlem as I waited.

In an empty lot right across from the precinct, kids had set some already discarded Christmas trees on fire, their charred trunks like a pile of black bones.

There was still a lot of investigating left to do. We knew the makes of the guns left behind by the kidnappers, and maybe that would turn into something. We’d found shells and spent cartridges. And half a dozen guns that shot rubber bullets. That was an interesting twist for me. They’d thought to bring crowd-control weapons. We still needed to figure out exactly how they had stored oxygen tanks in the river. Not that it really mattered.

I was hip-deep in hostage interview reports when the phone on my desk rang two hours later.

“Sorry, Mike,” Lonnie told me with disappointment. “Nothing doing. No hits on the prints. The dead guy doesn’t have a criminal record.”

As I laid the phone back into its cradle, looking at the tiny black holes in the earpiece, I thought I caught Jack’s cocky laugh.

THE PHONE WAS RINGING on my desk when I came in the next morning.

I heard a familiar voice when I picked up, and certainly not one I was expecting.

“This is Cathy Calvin from the Times . May I speak to Detective Bennett?”

I debated between telling the hatchet-wielding scribe, No hablo inglés , or just hanging up.

“It concerns the hijacking,” she said.

“This is Bennett. I’m really tired of playing games, Calvin,” I finally answered gruffly. “Especially with you.”

“Mike,” the reporter said brightly. “Please let me apologize for that piece I did. You know how crazy it was. My editor was breathing fire down my neck and… What am I saying? No excuses. I screwed up, and I’m sorry, and I owe you one. I do. Make that ten , okay? I heard about the loss of your wife. My sincerest condolences to you and your children.”

I paused, wondering if the Times reporter was just playing up to me. She certainly sounded sincere, but I was wary, and I ought to be. She’d made me and the department look like fools. But then again, having a Times reporter owe me a favor could certainly come in handy.

“Accept my apology, Mike,” Calvin tried again. “I feel like a jerk.”

“Well, at least you’re self-aware,” I said.

“I knew we were going to be friends eventually,” Calvin said quickly. “The reason I called was I’m doing interviews with the celebrity victims. Well, I should say, failing miserably because I can’t get past most of their lawyers and agents. But I did speak to the civil rights activist, Reverend Solstice, and do you know what he told me?”

The race-baiting quasipolitician Solstice was famous for basically one thing, I knew. Hating cops.

“I’m holding my breath,” I said.

“He said he thinks the hijackers were cops,” Calvin went on. “I just wanted to call and let you hear. Also to tell you that I refuse to print such bullshit. Okay? See, I’m not all bad.”

“Okay,” I said. “I appreciate the call.”

After I hung up, I leaned back in my chair, thinking about Solstice’s accusations. Though he was known to court controversy, the man was savvy enough to realize he needed something-however outrageous-to back it up and get some attention. So what did Solstice know? Was it anything important? Was he involved somehow?