The man tilted his head back, as if he were trying to look down his nose at Delion. He sniffed, swallowed, and wiped his hand across his running nose. “You already know my name. You took my wallet hours ago and then you just left me alone to rot.”

“Your name, sir?”

“My name’s Milton-Milt McGuffey. I don’t need no lawyer, I didn’t do nuthing. I want to leave.”

Delion reached over and took the guy’s forearm in his hand, shook it just a little bit. “Listen to me, Mr. McGuffey, that guy who hit you is a cop. He just wanted to keep you from running away from the scene of a crime. He was being efficient, just doing what he was supposed to do, you know? Trust me on this: You really don’t want to sue him or his ass. Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill Nick Jones at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral mass.”

“I didn’t try to kill no Nick Jones! Is that the broad who was bleeding all over the place? Hey, I was just standing there listening and then everything went wild and I heard her yelling. I just wanted to get out of there and so I pushed open that side door and ran. Then that big guy tried to kill me.”

“I see,” Delion said. “So then, tell me, Milton, why you were at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral. You a former priest or something?”

He wiped his nose again, rubbed his hand on his sweatshirt sleeve, and finally mumbled something under his breath.

“I didn’t hear you, Milton,” Delion said.

“I don’t like Milton. That’s what my ma called me just before she’d whack me aside the head. I said that I like funerals. So many people sitting there trying to act like they give a shit about the deceased.”

Savich touched Dane’s arm to keep him from going into the room. “Easy,” he said in his slow, deep voice, right against Dane’s ear. “Easy.”

“I see,” Delion said. “So you just wandered into Saint Bartholomew’s like you’d walk into a movie, any movie, didn’t matter what was playing?”

“That’s right. Only a funeral’s free. Wish there was some popcorn or something.”

“So you didn’t know the star of this particular show?”

Milt shook his head. His eyes were drying up fast now.

“Where do you live, Mr. McGuffey?”

“On Fell Street, right on the Panhandle.”

“Real close to Haight Ashbury?”

“That’s right.”

“How long have you lived there, Mr. McGuffey?”

“Ten years. I’m from Saint Paul, that’s where my family still is, the fools freeze every winter.”

“Hey, my ex-wife is from Saint Paul,” Delion said. “It’s a nice place. What do you do for a living?”

Milton McGuffey looked down at his hands, mumbled something. It was getting to be a habit.

“Didn’t hear you, Milt.”

“I’m disabled. I can’t work. I collect benefits, you know?”

“What part of you is disabled, Mr. McGuffey? I saw you run, saw you turn around, ready to fight. You were fast.”

“I was scared. That guy was really big. He was trying to kill me, I had no choice. It’s my heart. It’s weak. Yeah, I’ve decided I’m going to perform a public service-I’m gonna sue that cop; he’s dangerous to everybody.”

“Where did you get the silencer for the gun?”

Very slight pause, then, “I didn’t have no gun. I don’t even know what a silencer looks like.”

“We’ll find that gun, Milt, don’t ever doubt that. Was it the same gun and silencer you used to kill Father Michael Joseph?”

He nearly rose right out of his chair, then slowly sank down again, shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t kill no priest! I’m nonviolent. All we gotta do is respect and love each other.”

“Do you prefer a gun to taking a poker and striking an old woman dead?”

“Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What old woman?”

“You remember that piece of doubled-over wire? Do you like that the best, Milt? Pulling that wire tighter and tighter until it’s so tight it cuts right through to bone?”

“Stop it, man. I’m nonviolent, I told you. I wouldn’t hurt nobody, even a parole officer. Hey, you think I shot that broad in the head? Not me, man, not me.”

Delion rolled his eyes, mouthed toward the open door, Prime asshole.

“What were you in jail for, Milt?”

“It was just one mistake, a long time ago, a little robbery, that’s it.”

“There was a guy whose head you bashed in along with the robbery. Don’t you remember that?”

“It was a mistake, I just lost it-you know, too much sugar in my diet that day. I served my time. I’m nonviolent now. I don’t do nuthing.”

“Do you watch the show The Consultant?”

“Never heard of it.” The guy looked up then, and there was no doubt about it, he was puzzled by the question. Genuinely puzzled. He had no clue what The Consultant was, dammit. That, or he was an excellent actor, and unfortunately Delion didn’t think that was the case. Well, shit. That was a surprise, a bad one.

Delion leaned forward, delicately smoothed his mustache with his index finger. “It’s about this murderer who kills people and then taunts a priest about it, all in the confessional, so the priest can’t turn him in. He kills the priest, Milt. This guy’s a real bad dude.”

“Never heard of it. Not a word. I don’t like violent movies or TV shows.”

Delion looked up at Dane, then beyond him, to Savich. Slowly, after but a moment, he nodded.

Savich walked into the small interrogation room, took a seat beside Delion, and said, “How are you feeling, Mr. McGuffey?”

The guy pressed himself against the back of his chair. “I know who you are. You’re that big fella who tried to kill me.”

“Nah, I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Savich said, a smile on his face that would terrify anyone with half a brain, still in doubt in McGuffey’s case. “If I’d wanted to kill you, trust me, you’d be in the morgue, stretched out on a nice cold table, without a care in the world. What did you do with the gun?”

“I didn’t have no gun.”

“Actually, yes, you did and you gave it to that other guy. You know, Milt, the thing is that I saw you. I was watching the crowd, that was my assignment from the lieutenant, to watch, because just maybe the guy who killed Father Michael Joseph would be there, to get his jollies, to make him feel really proud of himself. Sure enough you came. But you weren’t there just because you were proud of your work; nope, you were there to kill Nick Jones because she can identify you. You really moved fast, didn’t you? It’s only been a couple of days since she gave your description to the forensic artist and the drawing of you was in the newspaper. How’d you find out it was Nick Jones?”

“Look, man, I did see that drawing in the paper, that’s true, but I didn’t know who the guy was. Wait, you can’t really think that guy was me. No way, I don’t look nuthing like that dude. Mean fucker, that’s what I thought when I saw his picture and read the story.”

“Yeah, right, Milt,” Savich said. “Whatever. Now, don’t get me wrong. That was a real slick move you made-you palmed the gun, silencer still attached, and handed it off to your partner as you ran past him. He slipped it into his coat pocket. You never broke stride. It really was well rehearsed and well executed. Only thing-I was watching. You weren’t lucky there.”

Savich leaned forward until his nose was an inch away from McGuffey’s.

He said very slowly, “I saw you do it. They’re looking for him right now. I gave a really good description. They’ll bring him in and he’ll rain all over your picnic.” Savich looked over at the door, knew that Sherlock was close.

McGuffey’s eyes followed.

Sherlock stepped right up into the doorway, gave Savich a big smile, nodded in satisfaction, and stuck her thumb up.

“Ah,” Savich said, “at last. Didn’t take our guys too long, did it? Just over two hours. I told you I gave them a great description. Now we have him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t do nuthing, do you hear me? Nuthing! You couldn’t have caught no guy because there wasn’t a guy.”