49

The crowd again parted reluctantly to let Harriett’s truck through. Page noticed that Medrano was still there, watching the crane set the final concrete barrier in place. The wall was high enough that nothing could be seen beyond it.

“Harriett, could you stop here for a second?” Page asked.

He got out and walked over to Medrano, whose red Highway Patrol patches were vivid on the upper part of his tan shirtsleeves.

“Be careful. That television reporter might be around here,” Medrano warned. “We’ll finish questioning you and Tori as soon as things calm down. The first part of the week, you and your wife can be on your way.”

“Good, that’ll work. It’s important for my wife to be in San Antonio by Tuesday morning. Meanwhile, I was wondering if you could give me some information.”

Medrano peered at him curiously. “About what?”

“The man who shot all those people Thursday night. You mentioned that the Austin police had spoken with his brother. That’s how you found out that the shooter’s wife had died.” Page couldn’t help thinking of Tori’s disease and the unendurable grief he would feel if he lost her.

“That’s correct,” Medrano said.

“I wonder if you have a phone number for the brother, or maybe you could put me in touch with an Austin police officer who could help me do that.”

“You’re investigating on your own?” Page couldn’t tell whether or not Medrano was displeased.

“There’s something I’d like to ask him.”

“I hope you’re not telling anybody that you’re a police officer with authority here in Rostov.” Yes, Medrano was definitely displeased.

“I know the rules,” Page said. “But as long as I make it clear I’m just an interested citizen, I don’t see the harm.”

“Why on earth would he want to talk to you, the husband of the woman who shot his brother to death?”

“He doesn’t need to know that much. But even if he did, there’s nothing wrong with expressing my condolences.”

Medrano still looked skeptical. “What’s your question? Maybe the Austin police can ask it for you.”

“Or maybe you or Chief Costigan could do the asking.”

Medrano studied him and sighed. “Why do I get the feeling that’s what you had in mind all along?”

50

“Mr. Mullen, I’m Captain Medrano of the Texas Highway Patrol.”

The speakerphone sat on the table next to Costigan’s hospital bed.

“And I’m Roger Costigan, the police chief here in Rostov.” Despite his injury, his gravelly voice was strong enough to project to the phone. “That’s the town near the area where-”

“I know where Rostov is,” the male voice said wearily from the phone.

Page and Tori watched from the foot of the bed.

“Thanks for taking the time to talk to us,” Medrano continued. “I’m very sorry to disturb you.”

“Your medical examiner still hasn’t released Ed’s body,” the voice said irritably. “I don’t even know when I can schedule the funeral.”

“That’s not acceptable,” Medrano said. “I’ll take care of that.”

“What Ed did was so awful, I still can’t believe he did it. But no matter what, he was my brother. Mom and Dad aren’t alive anymore. It’s up to me to make sure he gets a proper burial. I bet the relatives of the people he shot would say he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s my brother.”

“I learned a long time ago not to judge people,” Costigan said.

Page knew the chief was lying. Most police officers expected the worst in people.

“What did you want to talk about?” the tired voice asked. “I told the Austin police everything I know.”

“There are just a few loose ends we need to tie up, and we’ll try to keep it brief. After your brother’s wife died…”

“Cancer. It was so damned unfair. Ann was always a saint, always helping people. She was one of the kindest, most generous people I’ve ever met. People always used to kid Ed and tell him he didn’t de- serve her. How come serial killers don’t get cancer? Why does it al- ways need to be someone who’s good and decent?”

At the mention of the word “cancer,” Page inwardly winced. He hadn’t been told before how Mullen’s wife had died. He glanced at Tori. The reference had made her pale.

“You said that before his wife died, your brother wasn’t religious,” Medrano continued.

“Never went near a church since my parents made us go with them when we were kids,” the voice replied.

“But after your brother saw the lights…”

“Which I still don’t believe in. If you want my opinion, people are either playing a joke or hallucinating. I didn’t see them, and believe me, I tried. But Ed…”

Page hurriedly wrote something on a slip of paper.

Medrano looked at it. “Maybe your brother’s grief is what made him think he saw the lights. Do you suppose that’s possible?”

“It makes as much sense as anything. Of course I had no idea Ed was going back so many times to that-what do they call it?- observation area. Once was enough for me. I should’ve made him go to a psychiatrist instead of taking him on that damned tour.”

“And that was when he started collecting the religious paintings and statues?” Costigan asked.

The voice sounded exasperated now. “Ed wouldn’t let me in his apartment. We always met at my house, or in a park or a restaurant or whatever. I had no idea he had all that stuff until after the police contacted me.”

“Did he ever talk about God?”

“All the time. I assumed it was because he missed Ann so much that he was determined to believe in heaven so he could convince himself Ann was in a better place and that he’d join her there one day. He stank.”

Costigan sat higher in the hospital bed. “Stank?”

“He wouldn’t bathe. He said the hot water felt so good that it made him feel guilty. The only foods he ate were things he hated-turnips, brussels sprouts, pigs’ knuckles. He slept on the floor. He set an alarm clock to wake him every two hours. He told me Ann had suffered so much that he didn’t have the right to enjoy anything. He said if he did anything that felt good, it would be like admitting he’d never loved her as much as he’d claimed. As far as he was concerned, the only way he could prove how much he loved her was by punishing himself. Lord, I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d made him go to a psychiatrist.”

Medrano looked at Page as if asking whether he wanted to know anything else.

Saddened by what he’d just heard, Page shook his head.

“Well, thank you for the help, Mr. Mullen,” Medrano said. “We’re sorry if we disturbed you. I’ll speak to the medical examiner about releasing your brother’s remains.”

“Anything to try to put this behind me. But I don’t understand how what I just told you is going to help. We know my brother shot all those people. It’s not as if there’s a big mystery about who did it.”

“The thing is, we’d also like to know why he did it.”

“There’s no mystery about that, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grief made him crazy.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Costigan said. “Thanks again for your help.” He shut off the speakerphone.

No one spoke for several moments. The only sounds came from outside the room-footsteps, hushed voices, a cart being pushed.

“So what did that tell you?” Medrano finally asked Page.

Tori turned to him, seeming to wonder the same thing.

“‘Don’t you see how evil they are?’” Page asked.

All three of them frowned in surprise, seeming to fear he’d become unbalanced.

“That’s the first thing Mullen shouted Thursday night.”

When they understood what he meant, they looked relieved.

“Then he yelled to the crowd, ‘Don’t you realize what they’re doing to you? Don’t you understand you’re all going to hell?’ When he shot at the lights, he screamed, ‘Go back to hell where you came from.’ Just be- fore he started shooting at the crowd, he shouted, ‘You’re all damned.’”