It had been another ten days and all they'd been doing was spinning their wheels. The closer they got to the next body, the more agitated Goren got, and Eames found herself having trouble settling him down. So they were both getting frustrated. She knew it was nothing he had control over, and she was just as worried about the next murder…but there was nothing they could do. One thing that eased her mind, though, was the fact that she could still get him to smile for her…a real smile, one that reached his eyes. As long as he would smile or laugh, he was ok, and she didn't worry as much. When he stopped smiling, then she would really worry.

The seventh murder victim had been found and he was waiting near the curb when she pulled up to his building. He was pacing. As he got in the car, she said, "Don't get me wrong, but we really have to stop meeting like this."

He looked at her with that half-amused smile she found so endearing and shut the door. "It's not my idea," he said quietly. Well, the circumstances weren't, to be sure. Being with her in the middle of the night…that was something he could get used to…something he'd give almost anything to…damn. Reluctantly, he dragged his tired mind from the bedroom. He sat in silence for a minute. "This doesn't make sense, Eames. He dumped this body at St. Cecelia's. He's never used the same dump site twice."

"Well, the last murder broke form by being in Manhattan. Two in the same borough. Now it's three."

"These murders have been fairly well organized. They don't seem to be a product of rage or impulse. They've all been killed away from the dump site. He's been very careful not to give us any clues that could help us identify the bodies. We didn't even implicate him in the first four murders until we found the fifth. He ties them together by numbering them…but now…staying in Manhattan…using St. Cecelia's twice…Is he panicking?"

"Maybe he's comfortable here. Maybe he knows St Cecelia's. "

He nodded. "Maybe."

He fell silent and looked out the window. It was never good when he turned in on himself like that. She also knew that trying to draw him out of it was pointless. So she turned her attention to the road and left him to his thoughts.

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When they arrived at St. Cecelia's, Father Sean was sitting on the steps, well away from the crime scene, his head in his hands. Goren walked up to him and lowered his large frame onto the steps beside the priest. "I thought I could help him," Father Sean said miserably.

"Help who?"

He looked up at Goren. "I can't say. He confessed, Detective. I can't tell you anything more."

"Father, seven men are dead."

"I know. I know. And more will come…unless you can stop him."

"So help us out here."

"I wish I could."

"You can."

"No, Detective. I can't. But I would like to see the men he killed. I may know them."

"How?"

"They may be parishioners. I won't know until I see them."

Eames could see the fury, even though it was well contained, grow like a storm in her partner's eyes. "Go check out the body," she said quietly. "I'll talk to Father Sean."

Goren's jaw knotted tensely. But he got to his feet and went to examine the body. Eames sat beside the distraught priest. "Why do you think you know the victims, Father?"

"Call it a hunch."

"And their killer?"

"Like I told your partner, he is protected by the seal of the confessional. I cannot say more."

"You told my partner more will come, unless we can stop him."

"Yes."

She sighed. This was going to drive Goren up a wall. "Will you come with us, Father? Answer some questions down at our squad?"

"Yes, of course. But understand…I cannot betray…"

"Yeah, I know…the seal of the confessional."

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Goren walked around the body, studying it with a practiced eye. Squatting beside it, he lifted one hand…and it came free from the arm. He tilted his head and looked down at the arm, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Why do you have that man's hand in yours?"

He looked up at his partner. "It just came off."

He set the hand down beside the body and walked around to the other side. He lifted the other arm by the sleeve. The hand fell at his feet. "This is interesting."

"This is creepy, Bobby."

"In some cultures, cutting off the hands is the punishment for a thief."

"So you think he stole something?"

He shook his head in frustration. "I don't know yet, Eames."

"Well, Father Sean is waiting in the car. He says if he does know the victims, those names he'll give us."

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Eames got the priest settled in an interrogation room with photos of all the victims, then joined her partner and the captain in the observation room. "He knows who's doing this?" Deakins asked.

Eames nodded. "Yes, he does. But he won't tell us."

"He can't tell us." Goren was pacing. "The seal of the confessional is inviolate. His hands are tied."

"People are being killed here," Eames pointed out, annoyed at his absolute declaration.

Goren was shaking his head. "There are no exceptions. None. If he told us, or gave us any clues that would lead to the penitent, he would be excommunicated, his soul condemned. It's one of the Church's most sacred trusts."

Deakins let out his breath. "Talk to him, Bobby. See what he'll tell you."

Father Sean looked up when the two detectives entered the room. His eyes were haunted. He had just finished writing the names of the victims on the paper Eames had given him. "Unfortunately, I was right. I knew all of them. If you need addresses, my secretary can get those for you."

They sat across from the priest, and, as Eames took the paper from him, Goren began, gently. "I understand the situation you find yourself in, Father. Do you understand ours?"

"Of course I do, Detective."

"Why didn't you tell us who the victims were on Sunday, when we were investigating the sixth death?"

"I didn't know at the time."

"You knew the sixth victim."

"And I would have told you if I had looked at him closely enough to recognize him. I have never discovered a dead body before."

Eames frowned. "Seems like you're getting lots of practice now."

Father Sean looked at his hands and remained silent. Goren's voice was still gentle. "Had he confessed at that time, Father?"

"Yes. And like I told you, I thought I could help him."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No, I don't. Not now."

"But you did then?"

"Yes."

Goren ran a hand over his hair in frustration. "So what do we do here, Father?"

Father Sean leaned toward the big detective. "You find him, Detective, and you bring him to justice. I can't help you." He sat back. "Look at the murders, Detective Goren. Think. You'll get it." He looked at Eames. "There's nothing more I can do to help you. May I go now?"

She nodded. "You're not under arrest, Father. One of the officers will take you home."

"You know where to find me if you need me."

He left the room. Eames turned to her partner. "Can't we get him for obstruction or something?"

Goren shook his head. "We could, but it wouldn't do any good."

There was that look again…he was thinking. Father Sean had told him as much as he could…the murders…think…