Free The Man Who Murdered God by John Lawrence Reynolds Page A

His attacks, after all, may be on priests primarily, but he seems to be attacking the entire Church establishment. So I’m surprised you gentlemen have received no notes or telephone calls.”
    Lucas scanned the room, waiting for questions. When he saw there were none, he went on.
    â€œI find something else fascinating,” he said, stroking his chin and studying the polish on his black wing-tip shoes. “And that’s the fact that your killer attacks only one victim at a time. At the seminary, after all, he had literally dozens of unarmed victims to seek out. I also find it interesting that he did not eject the shell and reload the gun at either scene.”
    â€œWe figure he’s just unfamiliar with the weapon,” McGuire offered.
    Lucas turned to face him and stood silently for a moment as though pondering the idea. “Yes, I know,” he said slowly. “But what if he’s shocked by the horrible consequence of his actions?” The doctor turned to the rest of men. “A shotgun at close range produces a devastating effect. Medical people, police officers like yourselves, we become familiar with the injuries. Others would be astounded at what they had done. It may, in a sense, awake them from the psychotic state they have been in.” He looked around the room. “It’s an interesting hypothesis, isn’t it?”
    â€œAny ideas where we start looking?” McGuire asked. “I mean, this guy doesn’t walk down Boylston Street too often with his Remington over his shoulder.”
    Lucas stared off in the distance as he spoke, his eyes fixed somewhere above the heads of the men seated in front of him. “I don’t have any idea where you could start,” he said. “But I can assure you someone will reveal his identity and his location and his motive for doing these terrible things.”
    â€œWho’s gonna tell us that?” McGuire demanded.
    Again Lucas turned his head to study McGuire, as though confirming the source of the question.
    â€œ
He
will,” he answered finally. “Your murderer will. Mark my words.”
    When Lucas left, Janet Parsons, the first woman elevated to detective status on the force, entered with her files of tips and telephone calls. “So far sixteen people have confessed,” she said in a bored voice from a desk at the back of the room. McGuire stood where he was, arms folded. The other men twisted to watch her. Janet had nice legs. And an unhappy husband at home, McGuire had heard. Somebody said he hung around the bars a lot. “None of them are worth a damn,” she said. “We’ve had seventy-three telephone tips, fifty-eight of them anonymous. We’ve run down about sixty of them. Reports are here in the files. All negative.”
    She looked up, and the men raised their eyes to meet hers. “Anything else?” she asked drily.
    â€œDo I have copies of all the tips?” Vance asked. McGuire wondered whether Fat Eddie the Toothbrush practised to make his voice sound as though it came from the bottom of his balls.
    â€œSee that he gets a set, Janet,” McGuire said. “And copy him on everything that comes in.” That’ll keep the son of a bitch tied up, McGuire figured. “This should do it,” he said to the rest of the group. “I want everything written down, no verbals. We’re here tomorrow, same time. Let’s get it done.”
    â€œYou must be busy, Joe.”
    She was propped high on her pillows, watching him. McGuire looked at her, then away. There was something different about her. Something in her eyes.
    â€œI was here last night, I told you. Just got in a little late.”
    â€œI know.” She smiled, “I found your note. And the nurses told me. They think you’re sweet.” She leaned over to reach a cardboard candy box on the table beside her. “I put some things in here for you,” she said. “I want you