Jack hurried back to his car and uncuffed Biehn’s legs. “I’ll get us in,” he said firmly. “I’ll take control of the situation. You talk to him when I say so.” He didn’t ask if Biehn understood. If there was a problem, he would make Biehn understand.
Jack led Biehn over to the porch and left him there, then walked around to one of the side windows. The bungalow was decently maintained, but it was almost all original. The old-style casement window was easy to jimmy, and Jack slid it open in a few seconds. He hopped up and slid himself through the window into what appeared to be the living room. No alarm had sounded, and there was no noise inside the house. Jack stood and walked carefully and quietly to the door. He unbolted the door with only the faintest of clicks, and opened it. Biehn was standing there, his bruised face ghastly in the porch light. The man looked eager, perhaps manic, and it occurred to Jack that he might be collecting information from a madman. Still, Biehn had known the time and place of Yasin’s arrival. There was bound to be more.
The two men, one cuffed and the other guiding him, entered the house, and Jack closed and relocked the door. Together they moved down the hallway and easily found the one bedroom. Jack’s heart started to pound as a rush of adrenaline hit him. Now was the time for both speed and stealth. He moved forward quickly.
Dortmund was a light sleeper. He was sitting up, drowsy and startled, as Jack reached him and clamped a hand hard over the priest’s mouth, shoving him back down into the pillow. He put a knee across the priest’s sternum, robbing him of breath. Dortmund panicked, thrashing ineffectually under his blankets. Behind Jack, Biehn hopped onto the bed, straddling Dortmund’s legs and pinning them down. Madman or not, he knew how to gain control of a suspect.
“Stop. Listen,” Jack commanded.
Dortmund, realizing he was trapped, went limp.
“Good. Don’t give me any trouble and you won’t get hurt. Don’t change positions. Don’t move at all. Don’t make a sound unless you’re told to. When you speak, speak quietly. Understood?”
He could see Dortmund’s eyes wide and gleaming in the dark bedroom and felt him nod his head. He released his grip over the priest’s jaw and face, but kept his knee on the chest. Dortmund did not say a word.
Jack lifted his knee away and nodded at Biehn, who crawled awkwardly off the priest’s lower half. He stepped back and allowed the detective to step forward. Dortmund was frantic to ask a question, but the authority in Jack’s voice still held him in silence.
“You’re Father Dortmund from St. Monica’s,” Biehn said menacingly.
“Y-yes,” the man said. He was mid-sized, perhaps 160 pounds, Jack guessed, with close-cut brown hair. His face was slightly chubby. There was terror in his eyes.
“You know Aaron Biehn?” the detective asked. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His hands twitched inside the cuffs, but Jack could see that they were still on.
Dortmund looked bewildered for a moment, then replied, “Y-yes, I know him. He’s a good kid—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Biehn said, his voice quiet but as intense as a scream.
“Please, what did I—?”
“Don’t ask what you did! Don’t ask. You know. You tortured my son. You molested him!”
Had Jack been present for Frank Giggs’s interrogation, he would have seen that Dortmund’s reaction was entirely different. Giggs had been forced to confront his monstrous self for the first time, and in public, and it had sent a shudder through him. Dortmund’s reaction was fearful, of course, but there was more disappointment and resignation than sudden self-loathing.
“I… don’t know what you’re talking about,” the priest said. “I didn’t do anything.”
Biehn’s hands twitched again, and Jack knew that he wanted to strike the priest. He was glad he’d kept the handcuffs on. “You violated my son. My son, you sick son of a bitch.”
“Please,” Dortmund said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jack needed this all to happen much faster. “We already have one confession,” he said. “You might as well confess, too.”
“Confess—?” Dortmund said. “Are you… are you the police? I want a lawyer.”
“We are the people who decide what happens to you next,” Jack threatened. “And that depends on what you say next. Did you sexually abuse Aaron Biehn?”
Despite the darkness, he could see Dortmund look from one of them to the other, trying to decide what to do. Jack suspected that the priest saw the madness in Biehn’s eyes, and that it scared him, because he finally said in a tiny voice, “Yes.” Biehn said something that was lost behind a choked sob.
“Who else?” Jack demanded. “Who else did this? We know there were others. Tell me now, or I won’t be able to control him.” He pointed at Biehn.
“Giggs. Father Giggs,” Dortmund replied. “And Mulrooney.”
“The Cardinal?” Biehn said.
“Not… He didn’t… didn’t do it,” Dortmund said. “But he knew why I moved to this diocese. He helped make the arrangements.”
Why I moved to this diocese… Jack guessed what that meant. “Are you saying you did this in other places? Is that why you moved here?”
Dortmund nodded. “In my old parish. The church moved me after the parishioners complained. They moved me here. I was supposed to… was supposed to control myself.”
Jack’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the number. Shit. This couldn’t come at a worse moment. “Wait,” he said. He stepped back so that he’d be out of earshot, but kept his eye on Biehn. The man was still twitching, still asking Dortmund a question, but Jack had to answer this.
“Carlos, go,” he said quickly.
“Hey, man,” the NSA operative said. “We got you something. Your boy works late, like me. He made a call a little while ago. Having a meeting at three a.m. at his place with someone. They were definitely talking about plastic explosives. He wants to get hold of more for a new client, he said.”
That’s it, Jack thought. He’s our man. “Who’d he call?”
“That’s a harder one, my friend,” Carlos replied, a little dejected. “Someone with a little sophistication. It was a scrambled line, and sent our tracers all over the damned planet. Could have been right next door for all I know. But we’re on it. He calls that number again, and we’ll get ’em.”
“Thanks, Carlos. This was helpful. I—”
What happened seemed to occur in slow motion. Jack saw Biehn’s hands twitch again, but this time they twitched and came loose. The handcuff stayed on his good hand; the bandaged one came free. Jack was already in motion. He’d already taken one step by the time Biehn’s good hand snatched up the loose ring off the handcuff, turning it into a weapon, and Dortmund’s eyes were growing big as saucers. Jack was finishing his second step and taking his third when the detective punched downward, smashing the sharp edge of the handcuff into Dortmund’s throat.
Life sped up again, and Jack was tackling Biehn across the bed. Biehn turned into a rag doll and Jack rolled him onto the floor, crashing against a dresser. He put Biehn on his face and dragged his hands behind him. He couldn’t see the hands clearly in the darkness, but by the feel of it he could guess what had happened. Biehn’s hand was more damaged than he realized. The fingers had dislocated. Biehn’s twitching had been an effort to dislodge them further. He’d popped his own thumb out of its socket, letting him slip the cuff.