“Another person has just been shot leaving confession. I picked up the Chicago PD radio traffic. Here is the address.”

“So he had this lined up before he even left for downstate,” said Ferguson.

“It would appear so.”

“OK. I’m going to go scope this out. Run the victim, see what we get. Also, get on the horn with Snyder, get the straight shit on what she told Weaver, see if she can update it any based on recent events. And find out what we’ve got on Fisher’s dad. This all ties back somehow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ferguson turned toward the door.

“Chen, do we have a problem? Over the Moriah shit?”

“Our orders were for a sterile op, which meant killing the child in the van. Your interpretation differed from mine. We took it up the chain of command, and the chain of command came down on your side. I have no issue with that.”

“And killing the kid, you would have had no issue with that?”

“No.”

Ferguson just nodded and left.

CHAPTER 34 – CHICAGO

Crime scene already had a tarp over Tommy Riordan when Lynch got there.

“He really crucified?” Lynch asked McCord, who was eating a hot dog out by the curb.

“Just stepped out the door when he got hit,” said McCord. “Basal reflex threw his arms out, round hitting his sternum knocked him backward, and he ended up hanging from his pits from the door handles.”

“Press get that?”

“Oh yeah. Your buddy Regan got here awful damn fast with a photographer in tow. That’s gonna be the cover of the Sun-Times tomorrow for sure. One of the TV guys already did a quick standup. Your guy’s got a name now – the Confessional Killer.”

“Great,” said Lynch. “Rifle?”

“Haven’t got him off the door yet, but you gotta figure.”

A sergeant Lynch didn’t know walked over. “You the guy they called in on this?”

Lynch put out his hand. “John Lynch. I caught the first one up at Sacred Heart.”

“Got six people were on the street out here when Riordan got popped. They’re all inside. Can’t decide whether they heard anything or not. Nobody saw nothing. He’s standing outside the door, suddenly he’s doing his Jesus impersonation.”

“OK, thanks. I’ll get to them. You got a timeline?”

“4.15 damn near exactly.”

“Anybody check for electronics like we had at the Marslovak scene?”

“Crime scene guys already got those. Same stuff, they tell me.”

“Great, just great.”

Cunningham walked up. “What’s with the hair, Lynch? Going skinhead on us?”

“Whole Michael Jordan thing looked so good on you, thought I’d give it a try.”

“White boys got ugly heads. Like the eyepatch, though. The pirate thing is cool.”

Cunningham took a few minutes to recon the site, then identified the shooter’s likely hide. Fifteen minutes later, Lynch and Cunningham stood in the fourth-floor apartment looking through the window toward Our Lady of Martyrs. Behind them, the crime scene guys were taking pictures of a corpse on the floor.

“Same deal,” Lynch said. “No rock this time. Glass cutter. Cuts a hole in the glass and shoots through it.”

Cunningham nodded. “She’s got these thick drapes, too, and he’s got them pulled most of the way shut. Help keep the sound down, and anybody looking back this way isn’t going to be able to see anything inside.”

“How hard a shot?”

Cunningham shrugged. “Little closer, little more wind today. Figure a wash. No stretch for our boy.”

“They’re saying he got him through the heart again.”

“Looked like.”

Lynch turned to look around the room while Cunningham stood at the window. Cunningham took out his scope again, looking toward the church with the same view the shooter had.

Hadn’t been any kind of fight. Small room, maybe thirteen feet from the door to the window. The woman had been some kind of unicorn nut, glass and ceramic unicorns everywhere. Must have been a couple dozen of them in the tall, skinny curio cabinet to the right of the door, couple of them on the coffee table in front of the sofa, more on the end table. Nothing knocked over, nothing on the floor.

Looked like she barely got in the door. She was stretched out on the other side of the coffee table from the sofa. She must have walked in on him after he took the shot. Way she was lying, he wouldn’t have been able to stand and line himself up with the hole in the window. Neck was broken. Lynch didn’t need the ME to tell him that. He could smell urine, too, and shit. Lots of times that happened, dead people not being real big on muscle control. Pissed Lynch off, her having to lie there like that, stinking in her own filth. You could look at the place and see she liked things clean, could see she took the time to bleach her blouse and starch the crap out of it. And she had to end up on the floor, her pants full, while guys took pictures of her.

“Hey Lynch, get over here.”

Lynch stepped around the corpse and joined Cunningham by the window. Cunningham handed him the scope and pointed toward the east edge of the crowd. “Cubs cap, khaki jacket, shades. Standing next to the garbage can. See him?”

Lynch picked out the guy. He was drinking a can of Dr Pepper. “Yeah, I got him.”

“I’ve seen that guy before, Fort Campbell. Turned up a couple of times when Gulf War I was getting going. Had an agency smell on him.”

“You sure?”

“Scout/snipers, we got paid to notice things and remember them. And shoot them.”

“OK, let’s scoop him up.”

Lynch got on the radio to the uniform sergeant handling the crowd. “We got a guy we’d like to talk to. Six foot, one-eighty or so, Cubs hat, shades, tan jacket, blue jeans. East end of the crowd, north side of the street, standing by the garbage can next to the bus stop. Be cool. Don’t want to spook him.”

Lynch watched the sergeant call a uniform over. Nobody pointed, but the uniform took a look as he crossed the street. Soon as he did, the guy in the jacket dropped his soda into the garbage, turned around, and headed around the corner. The uniform took off running, going around the building maybe twenty seconds behind. Too long. The guy was gone.

Lynch called down to the sergeant again. “Get that garbage can sealed off. There’s a Dr Pepper can in there, should be right on top. I want the prints off that.”

In the apartment, the crime scene guys were getting ready to roll the body over. When they did, the piece of brass the woman had lain on stuck for a moment, then fell to the carpet.

“Maybe caught a break here, Lynch,” a crime scene tech said. More photos of the brass, then he bagged it.

“Let me see that,” Cunningham said. He took the plastic bag, held it up. “Son of a bitch.”

“Son of a bitch what?” Lynch asked.

Cunningham kept looking at the casing. After a moment, he handed the bag back to the tech.

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Thought I saw something, but it was just the light.”

Lynch looked at Cunningham, who was working hard at looking at anything but Lynch.

“What’d you think you saw?” Lynch with a little edge in his voice, pushing it.

CHAPTER 35 – CHICAGO

Lynch had just gotten back in his car when his cell buzzed on his hip. He snatched the phone up.

“Lynch.”

“It’s Liz Johnson at the Tribune.”

“A little formal, Johnson, considering I’ve seen you naked.”

“This isn’t a social call, Lynch. I just heard about Riordan, wondering if you have anything for me.”

“Nothing I can give you.”

“But something you can give Dickey Regan?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You see Regan’s story today? ‘Mystery of the Olfson Factory and the Magic Bullet’? All this inside forensic shit on the Marslovak shooting and the whole mess in the basement there? And I got people around the office knowing I’m seeing the lead on the case and wondering why I’m getting my ass handed to me by your buddy Regan. So maybe I’m a little sensitive, wondering, you know, am I mostly good for taking you home from the hospital and cooking you breakfast.”