7. The Knight
I met Katz the next morning in the Philadelphia Police headquarters lobby. Her Covid mask was black. Of course. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tired. The rules allowed handshakes, so we did that. She had a firm grip.
“I hope you managed some sleep,” I said, speaking through a mask that sported a hotel brand.
She shrugged, then pulled a small tube from her pocket. “Here—eyedrops. I got an extra tube from the office nurse. My eyes wouldn’t stop itching.”
That was nice of her. Maybe the gift meant we were friends.
Today she wore an outer jacket with “FBI” printed large on the breast and back—a good choice for a visit to the PD headquarters, where uniforms were dominant. My own sports jacket was comfortably worn and had suede elbow patches. My shirt lapels were unfashionable—I’d bought it at a sidewalk retro shop near the hotel. With the jeans and too-long curly hair and two-day stubble, the look was … professorial? Really, I was aiming for a retro high-school teacher aesthetic. That was for Chad Lohman’s benefit.
Katz knew the way to the basement cells. Two security checks, and even my belt bagged for the duration. The cells at HQ were reserved for special prisoners; I guess the Bureau’s interest in Lohman made him special enough.
The drab interview room had no recording equipment and no observation window. The only furniture was a table bolted to the floor and three aluminum chairs, spaced six feet apart as required by the virus regulation. Lohman was in one of them, his court-appointed attorney in another. The third chair was for me. An armed cop leaned by the door, brawny arms folded.
“Could we have a chair for Special Agent Katz?” I asked the cop.
This was to be my interview, not a tag-team with Katz. She’d already had her turn. But she looked tired enough to deserve a chair.
“Have to ask the sergeant,” said the cop. He didn’t move.
“I’m fine,” said Katz. She’d already stationed herself in the corner behind Lohman.
I took the free chair, stuffed my mask into a shirt pocket. The interview would be a challenge with three onlookers, one of them paid to object. And I’d have only half an hour. On the plus side, they’d all agreed there’d be no recoding. Even Katz had left her cellphone outside.
The lawyer—a scrawny fellow with bright eyes—introduced himself. He sat hunched forward in his chair, neck crooked back, thin face thrust up, attentive.
Lohman looked more relaxed than his lawyer. Maybe more resigned. He leaned back with his arms folded and his legs crossed, but tucked under his chair. He looked too big for it. His fleshy pink face and small mouth made him look like an overgrown baby.
I smiled amiably at him. I’d have put out my hand to shake, but we were too far apart. “Hello Chad, I’m James Arklow.”
“You some kind of street dick?” said Lohman, abruptly.
My clothes had thrown him. He expected uniformed cops and lawyers in suits. Anyone in civvies must be a detective. But my clothes were out of step for a plainclothesman. I knew Lohman had attended high school. My idea was to remind him of an authority figure he might have respected, but who was too far in his past to resent.
“Oh, no,” I said with a practiced chuckle. “I have a private practice in neuropsychology. But I’m not here to talk to you as a psychologist. I’m here to—”
Lohman interrupted. “I don’t need a shrink and I already told the local boys and him—” He jerked a thumb towards the lawyer. “—all I got to tell.” He rotated his wrist so that the thumb pointed at Katz. “I told that fibbie kid the same.” Then he re-crossed his arms and clamped his lips tight like a baby saying ’no’ to its food.
“So I won’t ask,” I continued. “What happened in the parish hall isn’t my business. See, I want to help a few good cops understand what maybe you already figured out. Something a lot bigger than one Mexican priest.”
Father Torres was—had been—American, not Mexican. But I was trying to shape pieces to fit the puzzle of Lohman’s mind, and make it easier for him to distance himself from his own act.
The lawyer peered at me with narrowed eyes. But I hadn’t accused his client or asked him a question, so he had nothing to object to. Katz’s expression was just puzzled. Lohman still had his lips clamped tight, but his eyes were on mine.
I leaned forward and spoke quietly. “And I’m here because of the boys you were trying to free. Because it should be about the caged boys, shouldn’t it? But it isn’t. Somehow it’s twisted into being just about—”
“There were no caged boys,” objected the lawyer, his voice squeaky with consternation.
I gave the lawyer a contemptuous look, as though he’d said something off-color in class. “Did I ask you a question? We all know there weren’t any in the hall. Who said there were?”
The lawyer pulled his tortoise head back an inch, frowning. Like he’d been denied in court and didn’t know why.
I turned back to Lohman.
“They moved ’em,” said Lohman, sullenly. “They must’ve done. Or I messed up about the place.”
“Who knows?” I said. “But that’s not the point. The point is: why isn’t anyone following up on the boys? Why not follow up when there’s that much at stake?” I looked at the lawyer. “Do you know?”
The lawyer pulled his head another inch back and blinked at me. “I fail to see the relevance …”
The court-appointed attorney probably had fifty cases on the go. His job was only to ensure protocol was followed. Of course, Katz had been following up on the boys, but she knew better than to comment.
I turned back to Lohman and chose my next words to get a reaction from his lawyer. “Look, Chad, you and I both know they’ll send you up for something. Voluntary manslaughter, Murder Two, even Murder One. They—”
“Hey, hey,” squawked the lawyer. “You’re anticipating a conviction before charges are filed. Mr. Lohman is entitled to due process of law, and—”
I raised my voice. “Sure he is. But how the hell are you going to get it for him, if you can’t even answer about follow-up on the boys?”
The lawyer stopped with his mouth open, trying to make sense of that nonsense.
“The priest drew on me,” said Lohman, hoarsely. Then he corrected himself. “I thought he drew on me. That’s why I shot him.”
“And if the boys had been there, you’d have been justified.”
“This is preposterous nonsense!” shouted the lawyer.
“Whose side are you on?” I shouted back. “Obviously not Chad’s.”
The lawyer again forgot to close his mouth.
“I heard a noise,” said Lohman, plaintively. “I thought they were there.”
“And if they were, it’d be a different situation. But as it is, they pound away trying to invent a motive, trying to establish intent. Chad Lohman has a beef with Mexicans. Mexicans killed your business. You intended to shoot him because you hate Mexicans. On and on. They don’t even ask, they just say it a hundred times, like saying it makes it true.” That was an easy guess. After all, I’d spent an afternoon correcting statements like “So, after you threw the device into the SUV …”
Lohman was panting through his mouth. “Yeah. The fuck.”
“Arklow, you’re leading,” barked the lawyer. “Mr. Lohman, you don’t have to respond to his suppositions.”
I kept my eyes on Lohman and lowered my voice again. “But it makes no sense. Like you’d drive two hours intending to kill some random guy you’d never met in a place you’d never been.”
This time, the lawyer said nothing. He knew that uncertainty about motive and intent could make a difference to sentencing. Now I had them both interested.
I laid out my case while tapping a finger in my palm, channeling a favorite teacher from my youth. “You weren’t at the parish hall by chance—that wouldn’t make sense. No, you were there to rescue the boys. You’re a guy who got commendations for valor, not a guy to let people mess you around. You didn’t mean to kill that priest, but shit happened. Nobody’d make a big deal out of it if you were in the PD—the union would have your back.”
A good interrogator is a good listener—that’s conventional wisdom. But I was doing the talking. So long as I was talking, I was shutting out the lawyer. I didn’t want Lohman to talk a lot. I wanted his reactions. As a cop, he’d had a temper, a hair trigger. Given the right trigger words, I hoped he’d shoot off his mouth the same way.
I kept talking, kept tapping. “And speaking of cause—you knew what the priest was about, didn’t you. He was one of them. His name was on the list.”
Lohman rocked back and forth, his lips parted over his teeth. “Yeah …” he said under his breath.
“And it’s no surprise. Anyone can see in the news there’re hundreds like that, thousands.”
“Perverts,” panted Lohman. “Filth.”
“That club of theirs is two thousand years old. Only no one dared ask, no one dared tell, and anyone who did got silenced. Two thousand years claiming to be on the side of the light. All a lie. All those boys who disappeared …”
“Thassit,” hissed Lohman. “Taken by them, to be used for their perversions.”
The lawyer was staring at Lohman with his mouth open around a half-formed word, unsure whether to say it. This was a new angle, and it wasn’t clear yet whether it would help or hurt his defendant. I could see him wondering: what list? What evidence are they holding back?
I continued. “Only now the roaches are exposed. Someone’s working in the shadows to expose them. You know it’s true. But that someone can’t come out in the open, not yet. They need soldiers willing to risk even their freedom to do what’s right.”
Lohman swallowed, blinked rapidly at me. He was rocking, and there were beads of sweat on his brow.
Now I was taking chances, earning my ‘free agent’ keep. I leaned forward, lowered my voice further, and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Look, we both know there’s more than one faction, and the line of shadow cuts through the Church—and the police. You knew that even in the PD, didn’t you?”
Lohman jerked his head in a nod, sprinkling beads of sweat.
“What is this bull crap?” grated the lawyer, throwing up his hands.
“You shut up,” Lohman bellowed at him.
“There’s a lot of sheep who know nothing—millions of them.” I pointed at the lawyer. “Like him. And you know there are people who’ve sold out. Too damn many. But a few are loyal to the light. You can’t trust anyone who hasn’t received the message and understood.”
I leaned farther forward. “Why do you think they brought me in—an outsider?” I whispered. “Why do you think we’re meeting alone?”
Lohman gulped. He rocked forward, intent. The cop by the door advanced a step to listen. Katz’s eyebrows were bowed up as high as they could go.
Lohman jerked his thumb in her direction. “The fibbies—they’re sell-outs!”
“No, not all,” I said, gravely. “If you think about it, you’ll understand. With the priests, it’s not always … just … boys.”
Lohman’s eyes darted toward Katz, then back. His little mouth popped open, then closed in a pout of disgust. He nodded.
Katz crossed her arms tighter and glared at me.
I crossed my own arms, leaned back, and tried to project authority and finality. I was running out of interview time. “The lost boys, Chad. They’re why I’m here. We have to move before it’s too late for them.”
“But … but I’m stuck in a goddamn cage.”
“Like the boys. There are others who receive the messages. But each has his own mission. Only you had yours.”
“But … but you must see the messages, too. They’re all there in the pictures the angel sends, there for all to see.”
Bingo.
The William Blake poem sprang from God knows where. With gravity, I intoned, “And by came an Angel who had a bright key / And he open’d the coffins and set them all free.”
Lohman gaped at me.
There was a hard rap on the door. My time was up.
I said, quietly, “The key, Chad. Can’t set them free without it.”
“Oh, shit, yeah. It’s a triple cross, real small. That’s mine.”
I stood. “Thank you Chad. This can only help you, too.”
The lawyer was still staring at Lohman, still with his mouth open. But I could see the wheels turning in his head. Boys in cages, angels with keys … an insanity plea was looking better all the time.