Worthy took the elevator from the lab up to his office, feeling pleased with the start to the case. Perhaps obstinacy as much as loyalty to his own methods had made him rebel at Sherrod’s convenient robbery theory, but the clues of the vestment and the missing book seemed to justify his more careful approach.
The one nagging problem was Henderson. Outright opposition would be easier to work around than the confusing signals he got from his partner. But true to his word, Henderson had left the records of the three suspects from Suffolk in his mail slot. On an attached memo, Henderson had added his plan to conduct second interviews of the three, starting the next day.
Worthy found it telling that the times of the interviews weren’t listed. So we’re both loners, he thought. That probably isn’t a good sign.
His thoughts were interrupted by a piece of paper taped to his door. Approaching, he saw it was a newspaper clipping, a piece from the morning Detroit Free Press, with the words “hot shit” scribbled across it in ink. He tore the article off the door and brought it to his desk.
DETROIT’S TOP COP CHASES PRIEST’S KILLER
A change in team in the Father Spiro George murder investigation has occurred after only two weeks.
A police memo obtained by this reporter has confirmed that Lt. Christopher Worthy, noted for his brilliant work on past “cold cases,” has been assigned to lead the case following a teaching stint at the police academy. He replaces Lieutenant Phillip Sherrod, who has been transferred to another case.
Worthy yanked at his tie. He looked at the byline of the column, “Around Town,” and found the reporter’s name: Kenna McCarty. How the hell had a society writer gotten ahold of an internal departmental memo?
Worthy thought back to his lunch with Henderson. Was this the reason he’d made that crack about his photo not being next to Worthy’s in the paper? But if Worthy had any question about who’d scribbled across the article, it was answered by Sherrod barging into his office.
Worthy, not bothering to get up, turned the article over. “Ah, Phil.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sherrod spat out as he walked toward the desk, his finger pointing like a gun. “You think I’m just going to forget what you did to me yesterday?”
Worthy leaned back in his chair. “Exactly what is it you think I did?”
Sherrod’s eyes narrowed as he took another step forward. “You bent me over and did me like a Texas sheep, and you did it in front of my new captain. Where the hell you get off pulling that shit?”
Worthy rose and looked over the desk at Sherrod. “And I’ll ask you a question. Where do you get off talking to me like you’re my captain?”
Sherrod looked up at the taller Worthy. “I’m talking about basic, fucking respect.”
“Oh, really,” Worthy said. “I asked a few questions about your approach, an approach which no one has abandoned.” He lifted the Suffolk folder off his desk. “Henderson is interviewing those guys tomorrow. If you took my comments personally—”
“Wake the fuck up.” Sherrod’s face was beet red as spit flew out with his words. “Remember Milander and Autrey? Do you think they’ll get their promotions now, after you grabbed their glory? You’re a fucking parasite, Worthy, and everybody around here knows it. Not taking your comments personally, my fucking ass. Read the goddamn paper this morning!”
“Get out of here,” Worthy ordered, jabbing his index finger at the door.
“First, you listen,” he said, wagging his own finger in Worthy’s face. “I watched you stand up there like Lindbergh flying fucking solo and take that commendation. You didn’t even have the courtesy to mention Milander and Autrey, as if they’d done nothing on the case before they handed it to you. No, you just stood there with their cojones in your back pocket.” Sherrod grabbed at his own crotch and wagged it toward Worthy.
Worthy could feel the heat suffusing his face as the anger boiled up. “I’m not going to ask you again. Get out of here,” Worthy said, stepping around his desk.
A knock on the door was followed by the lab tech. “Here they are. Oh, sorry.”
“No problem. The lieutenant was just leaving.”
Sherrod stood in the open doorway and delivered his last shot down the echoing hallway. “Don’t you ever forget whose case you’re finishing. It’s mine! Don’t even try to cut my balls off. I won’t go down like the others.”
The lab tech’s eyebrows arched upward as he turned back toward Worthy. “Nice guy,” he whispered. “Is he always like that?”
“That, young man, is Lieutenant Phil Sherrod, one of our colleagues in this fine precinct.”
“I’ll remember that,” the tech said, wide-eyed, as he dropped a folder on the desk before turning and departing.
Alone in his office, Worthy stood by his window and watched the cars streaming past on the freeway. Always a question of “balls,” cutting them off, keeping score. Forget the victims and their families. Save face, the first rule of detection. It’s a wonder we catch anyone, he thought.
Exhausted, Worthy returned to his desk and opened the folder left by the lab tech. Taking an eight-by-ten photo and enlarging it in one inch squares led to a lot of photos. Worthy sorted them into three piles—one of the priest’s face, another of the desktop and book, and a third for the rest of the photo. At the back of the folder, he found a note from the new lab tech. “A speculation on the subject’s mouth,” the note read. “In my judgment, the subject is either forming the ‘w’ or the long ‘o’ sound. Happens to be one of my specialties. Alex. P.S. I was in one of your classes at the academy.”
No wonder he’s still eager, Worthy thought. I’ll give you six months. Then we’ll see how willing you are to stick your neck out.
Worthy picked up the phone and called Father Fortis. “Nick, do you have a minute?”
“Why not, my friend. This parish priest business is going to drive me insane. I mean, who gets anything done?”
“I can call back if you’d like.”
“No, no, forgive my frustration. How can I help?”
“I’m looking at the photo enlargements of the victim right now.”
“That was quick. I thought it might take a few days.”
“It seems computers have taken over here.”
“Don’t talk to me about computers, my friend. Did you find out about the book?”
“I’m not sure. The angle of that first shot is pretty poor. I can tell that the book is open, but that’s about it.”
“Nothing about the words?”
“No. So that means we won’t know much until we find it. But Nick, here’s an easier question. One of our new lab techs said he thinks Father Spiro is saying something that begins with a ‘w’ or a long ‘o.’ I’m guessing, ‘what the hell.’ ”
“No, I wouldn’t think so, Christopher.”
“You mean because he’s a priest?”
Father Fortis laughed loudly. “I can tell that you’ve never visited a seminary. No, I’m just thinking that Father Spiro was Greek-born. Surprise any immigrant, and he’ll probably use his first tongue.”
Worthy exhaled. “Of course. I forgot about that. Okay, let’s skip that for a moment. I did find something else on the other side of the desk—another book.”
“Really? Is it in Greek?”
“No. It was lying to the side, and it’s in all three of the photos.”
“Which means that Father Spiro wasn’t trying to hide it,” Father Fortis said.
“Very good, Watson. Now, explain this. It’s titled Remaining Jewish in America. Interesting, huh?”
Father Fortis didn’t answer for a moment. “I was just checking here. No, it’s not on the desk now, but I’ll ask Mrs. Hazelton.”
“Any idea why he’d have such a book?” Worthy asked.
“I have no idea. Hang on a minute. Here’s Mrs. Hazelton.”
Worthy gazed down at the enlargements of the priest’s mouth while he waited. “So you were reading about Judaism,” he whispered, “and you hid another book from us. How about a little help, old man?”
“Christopher? Were you talking to me?”
“No, no, Nick. What did she say?”
“It’s good news,” Father Fortis announced. “She knows the book. In fact, yes, here it is. Thank you so much, Mrs. Hazelton.”
“What’s it look like, Nick?”
“It’s a hardcover. Ah, this is probably what you want to know. On the first page there’s something handwritten. It says, ‘From one Orthodox to another. Your friend, S. Milkin.’ ”
“That could be a help,” Worthy said, as he wrote down the name. “Nick, does it look well-used?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. It looks like somebody has read it, if that’s what you mean.”
“Exactly.” Worthy thought for a moment. “Try this, Nick. Hold the book up and let it fall on your desk.”
“Really? Okay.”
Worthy heard a thud as the book hit the desk. “Did it open to a page?”
“Yes, Page 123. Let’s see. It’s part of a chapter on ethics. The page has a list of righteous deeds for every Jew to do in daily life.”
“Okay,” Worthy said. “Now do the same thing again and tell me what you find.”
He heard Nick’s heavy breathing and then the thud of the book hitting the desk again. “It opened to Page 175, on kosher laws.”
“Huh. Okay, a third time, Nick.”
Again, the sound of the book hitting the desk before Father Fortis spoke. “It’s back in the chapter on ethics, about two pages from the first time. Wait a minute. Yes, there’s some pencil underlining as well.”
“Really,” Worthy licked his lips. “Read it to me.”
“It says, ‘He who stands by and lets evil happen to another, it is as if he committed the evil himself.’ Hmm, wouldn’t we like to know why he underlined that?”
Worthy scribbled the phrase down on the folder. “Maybe there’s a way to find that out, Nick. Thanks.”
Worthy hung up and studied his notes. “S. Milkin.” He pulled down a city phone book and found four S. Milkins, with one, Sol A. Milkin, having two numbers—one on Conrad Street and one at Congregation Beth Israel. He turned back to the yellow pages under “Churches” before realizing his mistake. He flipped back to “Synagogues” and found Congregation Beth Israel’s listing.
A secretary answered and said that yes, Rabbi Milkin was on staff there, though he was retired and served only part-time.
“Could you tell me if Congregation Beth Israel is an Orthodox synagogue?” he asked.
“We certainly are,” the woman said proudly. “Would you like to know the times of our services?”
“No thank you,” Worthy said. “I’d like to know when I could talk with Rabbi Milkin.”
“Try him at home. That would be my suggestion.”
Worthy called the other number, and after the fourth ring heard the scratchy voice of an old man. “Rabbi Milkin. How may I serve you?”
“Yes sir, this is Lieutenant Christopher Worthy of the Detroit Police Department. I understand you were a friend of Father Spiro George.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end before the rabbi spoke. “Who did you say you were?”
Worthy explained again.
“How did you get this number?”
Worthy explained about finding the book with his name on the inside cover.
“Ah, yes, my poor friend Spiro. Such a tragedy. Perhaps I should have expected one day someone to call me.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because I know who killed him.”