Free Burning Man by Alan Russell

flow as a sign from God. Michael was going to live.”
    I had heard the story a hundred times but would never tire of it. Judging by the laughter around me, I wasn’t alone.
    “For years Father Pat has been threatening to immortalize that moment with a statue,” Barbara said.
    “Not a statue,” the priest said. “I was thinking more of a tasteful stained-glass window.”
    “Remind me not to give to your building fund this year,” I said.
    “Michael is the only baby that I ever baptized twice,” he said. “His parents wanted to have a more official baptism the second time around.”
    “But before Father Pat committed to a redo,” I said, “he wanted written assurance that I would be wearing a waterproof baptismal gown.”
    “It was either that or me going to the bishop and asking if I could conduct the service in a bathing suit.”
    The church had used its influence to make sure I was adopted into a Catholic family. My parents had worshipped at Blessed Sacrament until we moved to the San Fernando Valley, but even then Father Pat had stayed in touch with me. Over the years our paths had frequently crossed. After my encounter with the Strangler, Father Pat had visited me often at the hospital. He knew me well enough to recognize that this time my visit wasn’t just a social call. After the others excused themselves, Father Pat looked at me expectantly. We weren’t in the confessional booth, but it feltlike it. He took a read of my tired eyes, but I wasn’t there to talk about my hellish dreams.
    “I caught a case this morning,” I said. “A newborn girl was abandoned.”
    I didn’t have to tell him there was no happy ending. He nodded his head and closed his eyes in silent prayer. My eyes stayed open. I was a throwaway kid investigating another throwaway kid. My biological mother was never found; I would find Rose’s mother.

CHAPTER 5:

CROSS-IMAGING
    The door opened a crack, and a solitary brown eye peered at me suspiciously from behind the safety of a door chain. Even law-abiding citizens, those without so much as a parking ticket, are wary of talking to cops. When you have a face that’s scarred like mine, people tend to be that much more suspicious. After being burned in the fire, I kept trying on friendly faces for size in the mirror, but what looked back at me were distorted grimaces and leers. It’s been easier to not smile.
    “I’m Detective Gideon,” I said, showing my badge wallet.
    The night before, I’d canvassed apartments in the area, and I had started knocking on doors again early that morning. If you want to catch people, you need to seek them out at odd hours.
    I explained the purpose of my visit to the brown eye. When I finished, the chain came down and the door opened a little wider revealing a midthirties white male. “No,” he said in answer to my questions, “I didn’t see any baby or anyone carrying a box.” He yawned and shook his head. “Isn’t it early for you guys to be coming around like this?”
    “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I said.
    I did my closing speech, the one where I handed over my card and asked to be called if something came up that might be useful to the case. Sirius and I were already walking away when the man called out, “Wait a sec. Aren’t you the cop that took down the Weatherman?”
    With my back turned to him, I offered a noncommittal wave. If he’d known anything about baby Rose, I would have lingered, but I could do without another conversation about Ellis Haines. That was a trip down memory lane I didn’t need this morning.
    The sound of music called to me from my cell, the opening notes to “Hail to the Chief.” The chief is the only person in my cell phone’s contact list to whom I’ve assigned a ringtone.
    “Gideon,” I said.
    “This is Gwen from Chief Ehrlich’s office calling, Detective. Are you available to talk to the chief?”
    “I’m all ears.”
    “Thank you,” Gwen said. “Please hold for a