“Your medical examiner still hasn’t released Ed’s body,” the voice said irritably. “I don’t even know when I can schedule the funeral.”
“That’s not acceptable,” Medrano said. “I’ll take care of that.”
“What Ed did was so awful, I still can’t believe he did it. But no matter what, he was my brother. Mom and Dad aren’t alive anymore. It’s up to me to make sure he gets a proper burial. I bet the relatives of the people he shot would say he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s my brother.”
“I learned a long time ago not to judge people,” Costigan said.
Page knew the chief was lying. Most police officers expected the worst in people.
“What did you want to talk about?” the tired voice asked. “I told the Austin police everything I know.”
“There are just a few loose ends we need to tie up, and we’ll try to keep it brief. After your brother’s wife died…”
“Cancer. It was so damned unfair. Ann was always a saint, always helping people. She was one of the kindest, most generous people I’ve ever met. People always used to kid Ed and tell him he didn’t de- serve her. How come serial killers don’t get cancer? Why does it al- ways need to be someone who’s good and decent?”
At the mention of the word “cancer,” Page inwardly winced. He hadn’t been told before how Mullen’s wife had died. He glanced at Tori. The reference had made her pale.
“You said that before his wife died, your brother wasn’t religious,” Medrano continued.
“Never went near a church since my parents made us go with them when we were kids,” the voice replied.
“But after your brother saw the lights…”
“Which I still don’t believe in. If you want my opinion, people are either playing a joke or hallucinating. I didn’t see them, and believe me, I tried. But Ed…”
Page hurriedly wrote something on a slip of paper.
Medrano looked at it. “Maybe your brother’s grief is what made him think he saw the lights. Do you suppose that’s possible?”
“It makes as much sense as anything. Of course I had no idea Ed was going back so many times to that-what do they call it?- observation area. Once was enough for me. I should’ve made him go to a psychiatrist instead of taking him on that damned tour.”
“And that was when he started collecting the religious paintings and statues?” Costigan asked.
The voice sounded exasperated now. “Ed wouldn’t let me in his apartment. We always met at my house, or in a park or a restaurant or whatever. I had no idea he had all that stuff until after the police contacted me.”
“Did he ever talk about God?”
“All the time. I assumed it was because he missed Ann so much that he was determined to believe in heaven so he could convince himself Ann was in a better place and that he’d join her there one day. He stank.”
Costigan sat higher in the hospital bed. “Stank?”
“He wouldn’t bathe. He said the hot water felt so good that it made him feel guilty. The only foods he ate were things he hated-turnips, brussels sprouts, pigs’ knuckles. He slept on the floor. He set an alarm clock to wake him every two hours. He told me Ann had suffered so much that he didn’t have the right to enjoy anything. He said if he did anything that felt good, it would be like admitting he’d never loved her as much as he’d claimed. As far as he was concerned, the only way he could prove how much he loved her was by punishing himself. Lord, I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d made him go to a psychiatrist.”
Medrano looked at Page as if asking whether he wanted to know anything else.
Saddened by what he’d just heard, Page shook his head.
“Well, thank you for the help, Mr. Mullen,” Medrano said. “We’re sorry if we disturbed you. I’ll speak to the medical examiner about releasing your brother’s remains.”
“Anything to try to put this behind me. But I don’t understand how what I just told you is going to help. We know my brother shot all those people. It’s not as if there’s a big mystery about who did it.”
“The thing is, we’d also like to know why he did it.”
“There’s no mystery about that, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Grief made him crazy.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Costigan said. “Thanks again for your help.” He shut off the speakerphone.
No one spoke for several moments. The only sounds came from outside the room-footsteps, hushed voices, a cart being pushed.
“So what did that tell you?” Medrano finally asked Page.
Tori turned to him, seeming to wonder the same thing.
“‘Don’t you see how evil they are?’” Page asked.
All three of them frowned in surprise, seeming to fear he’d become unbalanced.
“That’s the first thing Mullen shouted Thursday night.”
When they understood what he meant, they looked relieved.
“Then he yelled to the crowd, ‘Don’t you realize what they’re doing to you? Don’t you understand you’re all going to hell?’ When he shot at the lights, he screamed, ‘Go back to hell where you came from.’ Just be- fore he started shooting at the crowd, he shouted, ‘You’re all damned.’”
“The ravings of a man who’d recently become a religious fanatic,” Costigan said.
“But the lights weren’t the reason Mullen became a religious fanatic,” Page countered. “You heard what his brother said. Mullen suddenly needed to believe in God and heaven so he could convince himself that his wife was in a better place and that one day he’d join her there. But the lights are another matter. What they did to him made him furious.”
Tori looked as puzzled as Costigan and Medrano.
“They tempted him,” Page explained. “They were so alluring that for the first time since his wife died, he felt good. Better than good. They filled him with pleasure. That’s why he kept coming back- because the lights were like a drug. He fought what they did to him. He bought more religious statues and paintings. He tried to live like a monk and punish himself to prove that he loved his wife, that he was worthy to join her… but he couldn’t stop thinking about the lights. They were a pleasure he couldn’t stop craving. They made him furious because they showed him how weak he was. We’ll never know if he truly thought he could destroy the lights by shooting at them. Maybe he just needed a target for his rage.”
“And then he chose closer targets,” Medrano said, beginning to understand. “Targets he could hit.”
Page nodded. “Exactly. He decided that the lights were evil and that anybody who enjoyed them had to be evil, also.”
“Well, you’ve sure been getting your money’s worth from those psychology courses,” Costigan said.
Page felt his cheeks turn red with embarrassment. “I admit it’s only a theory.”
“One that can’t be proved.”
“Here’s another theory,” Page told them.
They waited. Tori looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.
“Assuming the lights are real…”
“A big assumption,” Medrano said. “I told you, I’ve never seen them, and it isn’t for lack of trying.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“How so?”
“If I’m right,” Page said, “the lights intensify the personalities of the people who try to see them. As a police officer, you’re a professional skeptic. That skepticism becomes emphasized out there. You’re too guarded to be able to see them.”
Page turned toward Costigan. “The man who killed your father was a drunk and a bully. You told me that after he came here, he got more extreme. One theory was that he felt humiliated by losing his job in Fort Worth and having to come to a small town where a relative man- aged to find work for him. His humiliation fueled his rage. But I don’t believe that. The more I’m in Rostov, the more I talk to people and overhear what they say, the more I think the lights mirror what’s going on inside us. They make whatever we are more extreme. Harriett Ward says James Deacon was obsessed with the lights when Birthright was filmed here. They reflected his need to be a great actor to the point that when he was supposed to age in the story, he actually did look older.”