It took Gilbert a long time to fall asleep that night. His mind was working the case, of course, but it was also stuck on the most recent dead end. He couldn’t help but think that Eagan had been trying to tell them something. Something they had failed to grasp. Had it cost the man his life? Had they cost Eagan his life?
As for the case, they now had a new prime suspect who, if it was even possible, seemed even less likely than Eagan to have committed the crimes. Having checked his e-mail before laying down for the night, Gilbert knew that Singleton’s crew had found the crowbar in Boyle’s apartment. There was little doubt that it was the murder weapon.
So, that was it? Boyle was the killer?
It would mean that around 7pm on Friday night three weeks past, Boyle had abducted Paula Kelly as she left a high school football game, took her to an equipment outbuilding not far from where more than 300 students, their parents and teachers were watching the last minutes of the game and brutally murdered her. He then left without being seen.
Somehow, his neighbor had stumbled across the truth and worked it into his own neurosis. He hadn’t been capable of accepting the truth consciously, she he buried it deep. It emerged in the form of sleep-writing the victim’s name in the dark basement in the middle of the night on a piece of parchment stuck into what appeared to be a very old book bearing an inscription on its leather cover so interesting that it attracted two Catholic priests from half a country away to investigate.
Gilbert shook his head and shut his eyes tightly for anything that would make any of this make sense. He continued to work down through his analysis.
Then, Boyle had wandered down the hall and killed Eagan, set a fire to alert the authorities and then waited in his apartment, covered in the victim’s blood until the authorities arrived, at which time he began asserting his innocence and claimed to remember nothing.
No prosecutor was going to touch this case. Even if Boyle’s DNA was all over Eagan’s apartment it just didn’t add up. Now, if Boyle’s DNA was a match for that found in the school’s shed, that might make a difference.
Gilbert expected Parme to lead the way into a full investigation of Boyle’s life. If they could find some other incriminating evidence it might help create a case that looked like it held water. He resolved to be early for breakfast in the morning and finally fell asleep.
When Gilbert walked into the cafe the next morning a steaming cup of coffee was waiting for him in the booth. Parme’s side of the booth was empty. He checked his watch.
“You’re not that early,” Pat said from behind the counter. “You want eggs?”
As Gilbert approached the booth he noticed that Pat was still wearing the wrong name tag. He wanted to ask her about it, but he more pressing matters. “You haven’t heard from my partner, have you?” he asked.
“I have,” she smiled. “Sit down, I’ll get Manuel to start you some eggs.”
Gilbert looked back to the door and then through the plate glass window to the street and the stone and steel police station beyond it. He tried to see if Parme’s car was in the lot. He hadn’t event thought to look for it after he had parked and then walked across the street to the diner.
“He told me to tell you to wait for him here,” Pat said. “Now, do you want those eggs?”
Parme had never missed breakfast. It was the cornerstone of his new detective training program. Something was wrong. He turned back to Pat.
“Keep the coffee warm for me, will you? I’m going to run over and check on him.”
Pat opened her mouth to say something but Gilbert was already moving toward the door. He stopped in his tracks when Father Miller walked through it.
So, that was it? Boyle was the killer?
It would mean that around 7pm on Friday night three weeks past, Boyle had abducted Paula Kelly as she left a high school football game, took her to an equipment outbuilding not far from where more than 300 students, their parents and teachers were watching the last minutes of the game and brutally murdered her. He then left without being seen.
Somehow, his neighbor had stumbled across the truth and worked it into his own neurosis. He hadn’t been capable of accepting the truth consciously, she he buried it deep. It emerged in the form of sleep-writing the victim’s name in the dark basement in the middle of the night on a piece of parchment stuck into what appeared to be a very old book bearing an inscription on its leather cover so interesting that it attracted two Catholic priests from half a country away to investigate.
Gilbert shook his head and shut his eyes tightly for anything that would make any of this make sense. He continued to work down through his analysis.
Then, Boyle had wandered down the hall and killed Eagan, set a fire to alert the authorities and then waited in his apartment, covered in the victim’s blood until the authorities arrived, at which time he began asserting his innocence and claimed to remember nothing.
No prosecutor was going to touch this case. Even if Boyle’s DNA was all over Eagan’s apartment it just didn’t add up. Now, if Boyle’s DNA was a match for that found in the school’s shed, that might make a difference.
Gilbert expected Parme to lead the way into a full investigation of Boyle’s life. If they could find some other incriminating evidence it might help create a case that looked like it held water. He resolved to be early for breakfast in the morning and finally fell asleep.
--
When Gilbert walked into the cafe the next morning a steaming cup of coffee was waiting for him in the booth. Parme’s side of the booth was empty. He checked his watch.
“You’re not that early,” Pat said from behind the counter. “You want eggs?”
As Gilbert approached the booth he noticed that Pat was still wearing the wrong name tag. He wanted to ask her about it, but he more pressing matters. “You haven’t heard from my partner, have you?” he asked.
“I have,” she smiled. “Sit down, I’ll get Manuel to start you some eggs.”
Gilbert looked back to the door and then through the plate glass window to the street and the stone and steel police station beyond it. He tried to see if Parme’s car was in the lot. He hadn’t event thought to look for it after he had parked and then walked across the street to the diner.
“He told me to tell you to wait for him here,” Pat said. “Now, do you want those eggs?”
Parme had never missed breakfast. It was the cornerstone of his new detective training program. Something was wrong. He turned back to Pat.
“Keep the coffee warm for me, will you? I’m going to run over and check on him.”
Pat opened her mouth to say something but Gilbert was already moving toward the door. He stopped in his tracks when Father Miller walked through it.
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