Jim was exhausted when he got to work the next morning, but overall he felt good. Things were good with Christie for the first time in years, he'd decided he didn't give a damn about what was wrong with Marty. He had a job to do and he was going to do it, then he was going to go home to his beautiful wife.
Hank was fairly strutting through the precinct. Jim had apologized to him, too. He knew he'd worried the dog yesterday, he also apologized for occasionally resenting Hank's help in the past. There was nothing he could do about the past, but from then on, Galloway was right, he could be a better man than before.
Hank sneezed on Marty's chair as they passed.
"Gesundheit, Mutt," Marty said spitefully.
"Good morning to you, too, Marty," Jim said.
"Jim!" Tom exclaimed.
He looked up from folding his coat across the back of his chair. "Morning, Tom."
"We didn't think you were coming in."
Jim checked his watch. "Sorry I'm late." He hadn't gone to bed at a decent hour, then Christie'd let him sleep in, and when he finally got up, he'd found her waiting for him in the shower.
"Are you sure you should be here?" Tom asked more quietly, coming over.
"I do work here." He cocked his head to the side, listening. "Karen still sick?"
"Yeah. She's been calling all morning—"
"I'm a half hour late—"
"I was an hour early. And she called all last night to see how you were."
Jim frowned. "She never called me."
"You couldn't call us to let us know you were okay?" Tom asked, sounding hurt. "You had us freaked out."
Jim tried to smile. "Sorry, Tom." He wasn't going to admit he was still pretty freaked out himself over what had happened. He'd never thought he'd be that open to suggestion, that a few choice words could alter everything he felt.
"Dunbar!" Fisk yelled. "My office."
Jim sidestepped Tom and walked over to Fisk's office slowly.
"Shut the door," Fisk ordered.
Jim knew there was a wedge propping the heavy door open. He felt along the bottom with his foot until he found it and dislodged it.
Fisk was quiet, so Jim pulled one of the chairs up to the desk and sat, waiting. "What the hell happened?" the lieutenant finally asked.
Jim shook his head. "A lot of things happened. And… if you ask Dr. Galloway… they left me "vulnerable to suggestion."" Jim grimaced. There was no way Fisk was just going to let this one slide, not after their conversation about him being extra careful.
The office was quiet a minute. Jim kept his gaze even at the boss. If he had to defend himself, he wasn't going to back down. It was like the first day, trying to convince everyone he was fit for duty.
"So, this guy…" Fisk finally said. "Tom said it was Uncle Josiah, right?"
Jim nodded. "Right. That much he admitted to. He also told me he's like a messiah."
"A messiah?" Fisk cleared his throat. "What's this guy's story?"
Jim looked down a second. "I really wish I could have talked to him longer. All we know for sure is he runs some church—"
"Tom told me there were a couple hundred people in there. They were just listening to this guy? For hours?"
"Yeah."
"So you think he's like hypnotist or something? After what happened to you?"
Jim shrugged. "I can't say for sure. But I can tell you, definitely, it will never happen again."
"You worked it all out with the shrink?"
"Absolutely. We know what happened and—"
"You're not open to suggestion anymore?"
"No."
"Good. Because Tom said, if he hadn't been using all his energy thinking about his next restroom break, he was worried about what might have happened."
Jim burst out laughing. "You're joking, right?" He didn't feel the tension in the room anymore or the need to prove he was fit for duty.
"I don't joke, Jim. You should know that by now."
Jim tried to hide his smile behind his hand.
The boss got up and opened the door. "Selway, get in here."
Before the door shut, Jim heard Marty say, "Tom, you really should have kept a better eye on him." Jim grimaced.
"Pull up a chair," Fisk ordered. "Let's compare notes on this guy."
"Boss, I…" Tom started awkwardly. "About what happened…"
"Yeah, I heard what Russo said," Fisk barked. "Ignore him. He wasn't there. I want everything you can give me on this guy. What's his game?"
"I'd say he almost has cult status," Tom said. "All those people were just tuned in."
"The weird thing was, I don't think it mattered much what he said. He'd go out of his way to prove a point, then contradict himself a minute later and prove the opposite. No one questioned any of it."
"By the end, when he had Jim up on stage… He'd just been telling them there was no God, then he asked them to pray, and they did it."
Jim wrinkled his nose, remembering it all, every word, every sensation. "You asked if he was a hypnotist, but I don't think so. I remember everything, but when you're hypnotized, don't you have these big gaps in your memory?"
"So why'd he call you onstage?" Fisk asked.
Jim shrugged.
"And why'd you go?"
Jim shrugged again. "It's not like I had to. It was like I wanted to get up there and prove him wrong." He shook his head slowly, thinking it over. "I wanted to show all those people that everything he'd been saying was a load of bull and they shouldn't listen to him. I just didn't like the guy."
"No?"
"But he was very charismatic. Could have run for politics."
"So why didn't he?"
Jim leaned back in his chair. "Tom?"
"No idea," Tom said.
"Me, either," Jim agreed. "I don't think he was doing this because he had a calling from God."
"You think maybe he's swindling all these people?" Fisk asked.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"And the connection to the case?"
"Samantha," Jim said. "She must have been part of this group."
"And the guy on the roof," Tom said.
"What'd he say? He was going to save the world "just like Uncle Josiah"?"
"Something like that."
"So his reach stretches far and wide."
"You think he had anything to do with any of the murders? Personally?" Fisk asked.
"I dunno. Artez was pretty adamant about him being a good guy. But the kids… they could go see him until they got old enough to ask questions. The oldest daughter said she didn't remember him."
"And the mom?"
"Swears she never met the man."
"You think," Tom started, suddenly hitting Jim in the shoulder. Jim turned and Tom continued, "That whole thing with the male babies? He was the one who gave Samantha insurance as her husband, but you said Samantha couldn't get married or something because she gave birth to a male baby. You think he was looking for an heir to the throne?"
"Maybe Uncle Josiah really is the dad?"
"Unless you believe in spontaneous spiritual conception."
"Can we find this guy?" Fisk asked. "Get a paternity test?"
"We'll look around," Tom said.
"Tom, what would he have to gain?" Jim asked.
"If you're starting your own religion, what do you need?"
"Followers? Miracles? A gimmick?"
"And it can't hurt to have a son. People love kids. If your own son worships you, they can't question your motives."
"So Samantha couldn't marry Artez—"
"Because she wouldn't be like the next virgin if she did. Maybe all these kids are Uncle Josiah's—"
"Tom, I doubt he's running a harem."
"Hear me out. Maybe Samantha's the only one who gave him a son."
Jim turned away, thinking.
"Sucks to be her, huh?" Tom asked. "Maybe that's why she got singled out."
"So who killed her?"
"If you started your own religion and proclaimed yourself Messiah, don't you think you'd have a little opposition from the sane people left in the world?"
"So it's sane to commit murder?"
"You always hit where it hurts most."
"You can never protect the one you love…" Jim looked up at Tom. "Let's say she knew they were going to kill her. She didn't want her mom to know where the baby was, so she made a bunch of tapes saying she was okay and had a friend call. That keeps her mom out of danger. The mom's not worried and asking questions. She didn't want her mom even knowing about the baby because chances are, whoever wanted her dead was also after the kid."
"I'd definitely agree that you have to kill the son of the messiah to bring him down a notch."
"So she snuck out while Karen and I were there, leaving her son."
"Thinking he was safe in police custody."
"And if DeLana really didn't have anything to do with this group besides being mixed up with Artez…"
"Then her son would be safe because DeLana wouldn't go back to these people."
"Exactly." Jim ran a hand through his hair.
"What's the connection to the Bartlett boy?" Fisk asked. "Why'd you find Samantha hiding in the house with her dead cousin's body, claiming she didn't know who he was?"
Jim shook his head. "Maybe the cousin had been staying with them, too. Maybe he was like an example for her."
"Then why'd they stay in the house?"
"Afraid to leave?"
"So what's our next move?" Tom asked.
"Look into Uncle Josiah some more," Fisk said. "Somehow he's connected to Robby Mulhaney's son, too. Maybe it is just a whacked out follower trying to stop him."
"In which case, we have hundreds of suspects," Jim said.
"Aw, man," Tom groaned.
Jim stood and pushed his chair back into place. "We got our work cut out for us."
"Ah, Jim…" Fisk said. "Stay in house today."
Jim turned back, having momentarily forgotten he'd been called in for a royal ass chewing. Then he grinned and shrugged. "You want to make sure I don't relapse?"
"I want to make sure you don't hear the word "shish kabob" and start doing the chicken dance," Fisk said dryly.
Jim laughed and briefly flapped his arms like wings as he crossed to the door.
The phone was ringing as he walked out of Fisk's office and he listened as Marty answered it.
"Jim, it's Karen. She's wor-ried about you," he said with a sarcastic whine.
Jim smiled over at him and said, "Bite me, Marty," then picked up the extension at his desk. At least the silent treatment was over. He handled sniping better than silence, and this probably mean things were well on their way to being back to normal. "Karen," he said.
"Are you okay? What happened?" she asked. "I leave you alone one day and—"
Jim laughed. "And all hell breaks loose. Sorry about that."
"Why didn't you call? I told them to have you call—"
"I just got done talking to the lieutenant."
She was quiet a second. "Oh." She coughed, but it sounded forced, not part of her cold. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Let me run this by you." He told her the theory he and Tom had cooked up.
"Or what if it is him?" Karen asked when he was done. "If he was really trying to father a son… maybe he couldn't. Maybe he found out Samantha'd had a kid through someone else."
"So he killed her for being unfaithful. What about everyone else who died?"
"What if he's making suggestions to all these people—go jump off a roof, go kill someone. Sounds like they'd do anything he said. It would really explain the erratic behavior."
"Why would he, though?"
"I dunno. Maybe he's pissed off paying for the poor in his taxes. Maybe he's just crazy."
"Then it's a good thing he's not doing little kids' birthday parties," he said.
"Yeah, go jam this donkey tail up Susie's—"
"Karen," Jim reprimanded, laughing. "You sound like you're feeling better?"
"I'll be back tomorrow."
"Good."
"And you'll be careful?"
"I promise. I'll let you know if anything happens."
"Now that's a name I haven't heard in years."
Jim's ears pricked up. "Walter! What are you doing here?"
"Just visiting," Walter Clark said, picking his way through the desks.
"Good to see you."
"Did I actually hear you guys say you were looking for a kid named Pipsqueak?"
"Yeah," Tom said. "A kid, or a man."
"Or a beagle," Marty said. "We can't find anything on the guy."
"You're probably not looking back far enough." Walter sat down at Karen's desk, his weight making Karen's normally quiet chair creak like it was on its last legs.
Jim spun his chair and clasped his hands on his chest as he leaned back. "You knew a Pipsqueak?"
"Could be the same guy. Back in the '80's, there was this kid, more an honorary mascot than anything else. We were always looking for Pipsqueak, it was like he was the only lead we'd ever have, only we wouldn't be able to find him."
"He was a kid?"
"Yeah, thirteen, fourteen, somewhere around there. He was in with all these tough guys. Even part of two rival gangs for a while. The kid was amazing. Really smart. Great at hiding. Even when we did find him, he'd only tell us what he wanted. He was a tough nut to crack, shall we say."
"Do you think he's still alive?" Marty asked.
"Undoubtedly. But I bet he doesn't go by Pipsqueak anymore. Everyone has to grow up." Walter stood.
"Hey, Walter," Jim said, leaning forward. "I want to get your thoughts on this."
"Shoot." Walter leaned a hand on the corner of Jim's desk.
"We have several DOAs. We had two families that might be witnesses, but the only thing they could give us was Pipsqueak. Now two of the witnesses are either dead or missing. You think maybe he'd kill someone?"
"Maybe. He wasn't much of a murderer back when we were always dragging him in, but people change, Jim. He always had a chip on his shoulder. He was too short, too smart, too young. But he was never naïve and he was never actually involved in any of the crimes. At least, not that we could connect him to."
"Do you have a name?"
"Nah, it was a long time ago. Even if he had a name in our files, I'd doubt it was his real one. And I doubt he'd be using the same one now. Brilliant kid, cars, stereos, electronics, you name it. Security systems, getting information from people. But we could never pin anything on him."
It had been a quiet day at work, with Karen gone and Marty barely speaking. They hadn't been able to come up with much on Josiah Wilkins by the end of the day, especially not regarding a criminal history. With Walter's help, they'd started looking into Pipsqueak the possible poisoner, but hadn't yet found anything useful.
Christie wasn't home yet. Jim changed and fed Hank, then pulled out a beer. He pulled a couple Braille practice books off a shelf and cleared the coffee table, then sat on the floor to practice. He'd had so little time to actually sit down and study it, but Christie was right, he'd have to eventually.
A knock on the door startled him. Usually people called up to be buzzed in, so he hoped it was just a neighbor popping by for something. Hank followed him to the door.
"Oh," a male voice said, then it was quiet.
"Oh?" Jim asked, almost smiling. It was amusing when people thought they needed to play the "guess who I am" game. He waited patiently, his hand on the door. He didn't feel threatened at all by the presence in the hallway, so he just waited.
The man cleared his throat. "Is your wife home?"
"No, Clay, she's not." Jim kept the surprise out of his voice and hopefully off his face. This was the last person he'd expected.
"You remember me?" He sounded surprised.
"Well, I'm sure you couldn't forget me," Jim shot back with a little smile, hoping he looked penitent, if not just a little embarrassed, for Clay's sake.
Clay Simmons, his wife's chief editor at the magazine. Jim had been convinced he was a womanizing slime—takes one to know one, right—but now he wasn't so sure. There were a lot of different sides to people.
He cleared his throat again. "I've been trying to call her cell, but she's not answering. So I thought I'd just drop this off. It's on my way."
"What is it?"
"It's not an engagement ring, trust me."
Jim laughed. "Hey, I'm sorry. Truce?"
"Sure. Here."
"Like I said, what is it? Big package? Small? One hand, two hands? Is it heavy?" He played the questions nonchalantly, not wanting to let Clay think he had the upper hand, but letting him know he was just human.
"A few pages of notes for her article."
Jim held out a hand and took the pages in a large envelope.
"And a dress."
Clay draped it over his arm. "I'll give them to her the second she comes in." Jim felt the fabric of the dress, momentarily wondering if it could be some snazzy evening gown and Clay was passing off tickets to a Broadway show with it. But the moment passed—he knew his wife and if Clay was that much of a sleaze, she wouldn't give him the time of day. "Thanks for stopping by."
Clay grunted. "Have a good night."
"You, too." Jim shut the door. He dropped the envelope on the kitchen counter and laid the dress over the back of the bar stool, exploring the short sleeves, belted waist, long skirt. There was nothing scandalous about the dress, not even a plunging neckline.
The front door opened and Jim turned, one hand still on the dress, ready to tell her Clay had just stopped by.
"It's calico," she said.
"What's that?"
"Little squares. The top is calico, the bottom is plain cotton. It twirls if you spin."
"Oh." He nodded. "Clay was here."
"I ran into him on the way up."
"That was a fast meeting."
"We didn't have much to say. He's just my boss."
"Has he been giving you a hard time since the party? You were worried about his good will, so I apologized."
She moved up against him to take the dress, so he pulled back his hand and put his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged. "Everything's been fine. He said he didn't blame you for being a little jealous."
Jim buried his face in the back of her hair. "A little jealous?"
She leaned back in his arms. "I sort of like it when you're jealous. You hadn't been in so long."
Jim squeezed her tightly. "Sorry 'bout that."
"Are you feeling better?" She reached up a hand and fluffed the hair away from his forehead.
"Absolutely."
"You want to stay for dinner?"
He laughed. "You make it sound like an elicit rendezvous. In which case, I'd love to." He turned her around in his arms. "What time's your husband coming home?"
She bristled, stiffening.
"Sht, sorry. Bad joke."
She buried her face in his shoulder and held him tight.