The Butcher isn’t a guy who takes kindly to bullies. He told the masked man to take a hike. A fistfight ensued and Bobby was stabbed during the course of it, the knife penetrating just below his right shoulder. Down but not out, he grabbed his attacker’s hand—along with the knife inside it—and continued to fight. Eventually, though, the masked man kicked Bobby to the ground and fled with the cash.

The Butcher was lucky; his injuries weren’t all that serious. He was treated at Cape Cod Hospital that night and released the next day, but because of his assailant’s mask he was unable to give the police a description beyond approximate height and weight. The Chatham cops suspected Derrick Holliston from the start—he’d been released from a juvenile detention facility just a few days earlier, on his eighteenth birthday—but they had precious little in the way of evidence to back up their suspicions. Until they got the results from the Commonwealth’s crime lab.

DNA evidence pegged him. Holliston must have sustained a substantial cut during his struggle with the Butcher. Blood evidence tied him to the scene, to the victim, and eventually, to the empty cash sack retrieved from a town-owned Dumpster a block from the pub. The knife was never found, but the ski mask was, and hair follicles hammered yet another nail into his coffin. On top of all that, the unemployed Holliston had more than two grand in cash when he was arrested at the Monomoy Moorings Motel. Even so, Holliston and the unfortunate lawyer appointed to defend him relied upon what Harry calls the SODDI defense: Some Other Dude Did It.

The jury didn’t think so. The judge sentenced Holliston to five-to-seven and with time off for good behavior—he was a model prisoner, according to his discharge papers—he served just over four. He’d been out little more than a month when Father McMahon was murdered—stabbed and left bleeding on the sacristy floor—and St. Veronica’s Christmas Eve collection disappeared.

“Yeah,” Holliston says, pointing at Harry, “for once you’re right. We’ll let Fitzpatrick do it. I kinda like the idea of the Police Chief tellin’ them what happened. Gives it a little…what’s the word?”

“Credibility?” I ask.

He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. Credibility. I like that.”

Harry closes his eyes, shakes his head.

“You have the cop tell it,” Holliston says.

“Not me,” Harry answers, pointing in my direction. “Marty’s taking the Chief. And don’t worry, she’ll get the whole story from him.”

Holliston looks at me and half laughs. “Even better,” he says. “So it’s settled. I ain’t takin’ the stand.”

“Hold on,” I tell him for the second time in ten minutes. “This is an important decision. Don’t rush it.”

He shrugs. “The top cop tells the jurors what I told him and as far as they know, I’m an altar boy. What do I got to lose?”

He does have something to lose—something important. And his defense attorneys need to tell him so.

I look across the table and Harry arches his eyebrows. It’s my turn, I guess. “Look,” I tell Holliston, “don’t get me wrong. All things considered, I think you’re making the right decision. But don’t underestimate the impact your silence will have on the panel. Jurors like to hear from defendants.”

“But if I take the stand”—he tugs at his stubbled chin—“they hear about that other guy, too, the Butcher.”

He’s right about that. If he testifies that he stabbed the priest only to save his own life, the prosecutor will be entitled to introduce his prior conviction—for stabbing a man in order to rob him. “Like I said,” I tell him, “on balance I think keeping your mouth shut makes sense. I just want to be sure you’re aware of the downside.”

“Okay,” he says. “I get it. I still ain’t takin’ the stand.”

Harry shuts his file and starts repacking his battered schoolbag. “Well,” he says, not looking at Holliston, “then we’ll see you in the morning. If you’re not taking the stand, there’s no need to prepare you for cross.”

Holliston smiles at Harry, then at me. “Right again,” he says to Harry. “You’re on a roll.”

Harry ignores him, bangs on the door for the guard.

Holliston’s still smiling as he leaves. “Go ahead,” he says over his shoulder. “Take the rest of the day off. Both of you.”

Chapter 7

Taking the rest of the day off isn’t an option for either of us. Harry went straight back to the office when we left the county complex, to spend the rest of the day—and probably most of the evening—preparing for trial. I took the Mid-Cape Highway in the opposite direction, destination Stamford. For reasons I can’t articulate—not even to myself—I want to meet the Forresters. Maybe I want to get some sense of Michelle through her family, to find out if she might have chosen to disappear for a while, to glean some idea of where she might have gone if the worst hasn’t happened. Whatever the reason, my gut tells me to do it now, not later.

Michelle’s mother was hesitant when I called from the road. No doubt Geraldine Schilling advised the family to speak only with representatives of law enforcement, whether from the Commonwealth or the State of Connecticut. After a few minutes of conversation, though, Mrs. Forrester relented. She muffled her telephone’s mouthpiece, consulted with her husband in hushed tones, and then agreed they’d meet with me at their home this afternoon. I was pretty confident they would. Generally speaking, parents of missing people will talk with just about anyone.

Traffic is light—no surprise in the middle of a snow-blown weekday—and I find myself pulling into the Forresters’ gravel driveway a little past three, less than four hours after leaving Barnstable. I park my tired Thunderbird next to a blue Jaguar, shiny beneath a thin coat of fresh snow, in front of a buttoned-up, two-car garage. I’m not the only visitor, it seems. I grab my briefcase and walk back toward the Forresters’ front entrance, wondering what in the world I’ll have to say when I get there.

Their colonial is large, though not as imposing as other houses I passed on this block, with cream-colored clapboards and hunter green shutters. Dormant rosebushes ramble along the sides of the house and into the spacious backyard, tented with multiple layers of straw-colored burlap. A full-size, in-ground swimming pool is sealed for the season, dead leaves scattered across its blue vinyl surface. And a screened deck above the pool, off the back of the house, is elegantly furnished for al fresco dining.

The front door is already open when I reach the short flight of wooden steps leading to the porch. “Attorney Nickerson?” A woman in jeans and a black turtleneck hurries outside, not stopping for a coat.

“Marty,” I tell her, extending my hand. She’s about thirty, obviously not Michelle Forrester’s mother. The sister, I realize after a moment; she’s the older sister who spoke briefly with TV reporters last night. She’s not pretty, exactly, certainly not the way Michelle is. But she’s striking in a more subtle, maybe even more interesting way.

“Meredith Forrester,” she says as she shakes my hand. “Michelle’s sister.”

Her shoulder-length hair is jet black like mine, but thicker, more lustrous, like Michelle’s. Her complexion is flawless and her pale blue eyes don’t quite match; one’s a little lighter than the other. “My mother called me at work after she spoke with you,” she says. “She asked me to leave a little early and come over; both my parents wanted me to be here for your visit. I hope you don’t mind.”