In the Wrong Hands, стр. 29
She hollered across the white line with a thumbs-up.
“Congratulations on whatever it was!”
Philip answered.
“Oh! Thank you very much, ma’am! It has been a good day at that!”
There was another longer honk from behind them. The light had turned green. The woman waved goodbye as she and her husband drove past and into the intersection. Barely able to see through his tears, Philip spit out another guffaw and turned right.
Gotta love Bill Clinton. No one used the term “sexual relations” before him. When Philip told the priest he was lusting after his fictitious sister, he was hoping for “fornication” or “carnal knowledge of,” but the priest exceeded all expectations by replying with “sexual relations”. Philip suspected the priest heard him say “yessss” under his breath when it happened. He almost flat-out lost it after confessing about the (also fictitious) boner in the pool but managed to get himself back in check by beating his head against the wall. He was sure the priest heard that, but it didn’t seem to matter. Neither misstep invoked a comment, so Philip figured he was clear to launch into the masturbation portion of his story. Once he felt he had the priest off balance, he threw him the bone about the hotel parking lot and left. It was brilliant. The only thing more brilliant was his escape.
He didn’t quite execute Plan C, but he now knew it was possible. He checked his watch. As usual, he was running late.
10. Lunch
Gomez drove. Lynch chewed over his notes. Leo’s idea was scribbled in at the end:
Father L. will email blitz his congregation for pics taken at Sat’s Mass – mentioned someone named Constance???
Why not? Couldn’t hurt.
They’d heard from ballistics. No match was found locally, but they were still waiting to hear from a few nearby jurisdictions. In the meantime, Lynch decided to roll the dice and check the system for Matthew Modine. Also, no match…big surprise.
It was a bit after three o’clock. As long as they were in a holding pattern, the detectives decided to get lunch.
“Now, in contrast to koala bears, pigeons…”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, Ernie.”
“And I’m not sure I completely understand this.”
“Then don’t talk about it.”
“There’s something about a pigeon’s eyes. The frame rate or whatever it’s called. It’s like ten or twenty times faster than in humans, so they see shit in slow motion. That’s why pigeons wait until the last second to jump out of the way when they see a car coming.”
Silence followed. Gomez had, once again, stopped a few yards short of his point. Lynch let all the air out of his lungs with a sigh.
“And?”
“That’s the shit man. That’s how you live.”
Lynch had no idea where to even start with a response, so he returned to the task at hand.
“Julie told me Steaks n’ Stuff has a new sandwich.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Barn Yard.”
“What’s it got on it?”
“A bunch of crap and a fried egg.”
Done.
All twelve seats in the Steaks n’ Stuff deli were occupied, so they got their sandwiches to go. The bag weighed close to three pounds and gave off an aroma that was as glorious as it was disgusting.
For Lynch and Gomez, eating lunch in a parked car traditionally led to playing a game they called “What If?” It was, more or less, an exercise in creativity, which was much needed when a case hit a dead end. In the absence of a dead end, they used it just to pass the time. It also put the brain to work, which appealed to Lynch and his irrational fear of Alzheimer’s.
The premise was semi-simple. Step out of the realm of possibility as to not be confined by it. In other words, they would look for motive, means, and opportunity among those who couldn’t have committed the crime.
The first round always started the same. Lynch went first.
“What if you did it?”
Gomez had to play along, or the game wouldn’t work.
“What’s my motive?”
Lynch went for the first commonality between Gomez and Bishop Ryan that came to mind.
“You’re Catholic. Right?”
“Yes, I’m Catholic, dumb-ass.”
“Maybe you blame Ryan for the diddling.”
“I don’t blame Ryan for the diddling. He wasn’t one of the diddlers.”
“But he’s part of the diocese.”
“A diocese that he helped to clean up.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re still angry, and he’s the only member close enough for you to get your hands on.”
“I can buy that, but you know I have an alibi.”
Again, the rules were contrived but needed to be followed.
“Okay, I guess you’re off the hook.”
“What if you did it?”
“What’s my motive?”
“Maybe you hate Catholics.”
“Why would I hate Catholics?”
“Any number of reasons.”
“Too broad. Narrow it.”
“Fine. Maybe you just hate the Diocese. Maybe you think they got off easy, and it’s Ryan’s fault.”
Lynch thought for a moment.
“I can see that. How did I get Samuel’s Jacket, then?”
“Samuel gave it to you.”
“There’s no evidence that I knew him.”
“You found it, then.”
“Where?”
“In the trash.”
“Why would he throw it away?”
“He got fed up with the gang and bolted.”
“So why was I digging around in the trash?”
“You’re homeless.”
“Homeless with a 9-millimeter?”
“You’re a garbage man.”
“A garbage man with a 9-millimeter that has it for the diocese?”
“Sure.”
“Except you know I’m a cop.”
“Right. Not you then.”
It was Lynch’s turn again. The game had only one rule: They had to stay within the confines of the case. In other words, they couldn’t try to pin anything on Mickey Mouse.
“What if Father Pascucci did it?”
“What’s his motive?”
“Same as ours; he’s got it in for the Philly Diocese for some reason, and Ryan was handy.”
“Gonna need a reason.”
“How about an intense feeling of betrayal?”
“Okay, but we’ve got the same problem with the trench coat though. Gift? Trash? Neither is likely.”
Lynch put his sandwich down.
“Why did