29.

Danny Wardell was the one to talk to. Not just because he was the only one Kirsten knew who was personally involved in the investigation, but because she already had his confidence.

She called the Chicago Police Department, asked for the Office of News Affairs, and was transferred.

“Internal Affairs.” A male voice.

“No,” she said. “News Affairs.”

“I’ll transfer you.” She waited through silence and then a couple of rings, until a woman’s voice said, “News Affairs.”

“I need to reach Sergeant Daniel Wardell,” she said. “He was just—”

“Where is he assigned, ma’am?” the woman said.

“He’s a criminal investigator with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Office. He was just at a press—”

“This is the Chicago Police Department, ma’am.”

“I know that. But he just took part in a televised press conference, and I’m sure it originated there at Headquarters.”

“Ma’am, I—”

“It’s about the killings of those priests, and Wardell was at the press conference and I need to speak with him. He … he’s expecting my call. It’s about the murders.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to transfer you. Hold on.”

She was transferred twice more and by the time she got to someone who knew what she was talking about, she learned that Wardell had left just minutes ago and was presumably driving back to Rockford. “Can you reach him in his car?” she asked. “Or give me his cell phone number?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, ma’am.” They were long on politeness and short on what she needed. “I suggest you try his home office in Rockford.”

“I don’t suppose you have that number handy,” she said.

“Actually, I do.”

She took down the number, called Rockford, went through several transfers, and finally got someone who said Wardell would be at a meeting in downtown Chicago until about two. He said he would call Wardell and ask him to call her. She gave her cell phone number and hung up, as out of breath by that time as though the obstacle course she’d just run had been a physical one.

*   *   *

An hour later Kirsten was back on the road. She figured Wardell wouldn’t want to hang around downtown to meet with her and then have to drive home in rush hour, so if he called she wanted to be somewhere on his route to Rockford. Meanwhile, with her free hand she paged though her notebook for the number of the cell phone she had given Michael. She’d made him promise to carry it with him and keep it turned on.

It rang several times, and she imagined him fumbling the phone out of his pocket, then trying to find the right button. Finally, he said, “Hello?” Very loudly.

“I can hear you,” she said. “You don’t have to shout.”

“Is that you, Kirsten?” A little softer.

“Yes. Just talk normally. It’ll pick up your voice.”

“Okay.”

“That’s better,” she said. “It sounds like you’re in a car.”

“Yes, on the way to Vernon Hills. There’s a shopping mall there. I might buy a shirt. But it’s mainly … you know … sort of an outing.”

“Are you driving? By yourself?”

“I’m driving, but I have three guys with me. Bob Carrera, Bri—”

“Is Aloysius Truczik one of them?”

“Al? Oh no. He’s—”

“Please, Michael,” she said, “I’d rather the others don’t know what I’m asking.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Where do you think Truczik is right now? And tell me in a way that the people with you won’t know what it’s about, okay?”

“Why, what is it? Is something—”

“Michael! Just tell me.”

“Sorry. Well…” He paused, apparently trying to figure out how to answer, and then said, “Not me, I don’t play golf very often. Um … there’s a course right here on the seminary grounds that’s leased to a company that runs it as a public course. We priests get a discount, and they’ve finally added a bar and a rest—”

“You mean Truczik’s playing golf there now,” she said.

“Right.”

So he’d be out in the open and around other people. “Until when?” she asked.

“That’s why I don’t play. If you go out after lunch, you don’t finish until almost six o’clock. Of course, you’re not stuck in a boring mall someplace looking for—”

“Almost six, I got it,” she said. “What about you? When will you be back to Villa St. George?”

“Depends. We’re trying to agree on a movie. But by about six, anyway. Is that okay? Should I be doing any—”

“No, no. Really, there’s no problem. I’m just trying to figure things out, is all.” She tried to sound lighthearted. “You guys have a good time.”

“Thanks, although that’s just about impossible. But I … I do what I can to help.”

“Gotta run. You remember how to end a call with that thing?”

“Yes … I think so.” And he was gone.

*   *   *

Michael hated malls, hated shopping, seldom went to movie theaters. She knew his “I do what I can” meant he was trying to help some of the others keep their spirits up.

As far as most people were concerned, these men were beyond redemption. But Michael was trying to help them. Was that only because he was one of them? And what about her? She was trying to help them, too. Because Michael was one of them and she had to help Michael. She was glad what he did wasn’t as bad as what some of the others had done. Still, though, it was bad.

Was it bad enough to merit being tied down and having his skin and parts of his body sliced away? And Al Truczik? Is that what Al Truczik deserved?

There was at least one person out there who certainly thought so.