"I'm Detective Summers," McGee said, her voice steady. "I'll make a brief statement."
The cameras pressed closer, a wall of lenses. She kept it short — the department was investigating the death of Archbishop Daniels, the public should remain vigilant, anyone with information should come forward. No further details at this time.
The reporters shouted anyway. "Detective! Is it the same killer—" "Detective Summers, is there a—" "Can you confirm—"
She answered none of them. Hannah's hand was on her elbow, guiding her back through the doors, and the shouting followed them down the steps like weather.
As they moved through the crowd toward the cars, McGee felt it — the prickle at the back of her neck, the sense of being watched. Not the cameras. Something else. Something specific.
She turned, scanning the faces. Reporters packing gear. Onlookers behind the barricade. A man in a dark coat near the edge of the crowd, half-turned away, his hand rising to his throat—
Gone. A gap in the crowd where he'd been. If he'd ever been there.
"You okay?" Hannah asked, unlocking the car.
McGee got in. "Yeah." She looked back at the cathedral steps, at the dispersing crowd. "Thought I saw someone."
---
The print came back the next morning.
Lab had lifted it from the cathedral — off the altar rail, of all places, where the killer must have steadied himself. It ran through the system overnight and hit: Michael Bishop, fifty-four, print on file, last known address three years old.
"Got him," Hannah said, tossing the file on McGee's desk. "St. Catherine's Hospital. He's a patient there."
McGee looked up. "A hospital?"
"Room 312. Let's go."
---
St. Catherine's smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. They found Room 312 at the end of a quiet hall, the door half open.
Michael Bishop sat in a wheelchair by the window, a blanket over his knees, staring out at the parking lot. Fifty-four, thin, gray. An oxygen tube ran under his nose. He turned when they came in, and his eyes were clear and tired and utterly ordinary — the eyes of a man with no secrets left worth keeping.
"Mr. Bishop?" Hannah showed her badge, her voice gentler than usual. "I'm Agent Ray. This is Detective Summers. We'd like to ask you about—"
"I know why you're here." His voice was thin, frayed at the edges. "The police called this morning. About a fingerprint." He gestured with one thin hand at the chair, at his legs, at the whole small room. "As you can see, I'm not going anywhere. Haven't walked in six years. Multiple sclerosis. These days I'm lucky if I make it to the window on my own."
McGee looked at Hannah. Hannah looked at the wheelchair, at the blanket, at the man's thin hands.
"Mr. Bishop," McGee said gently, "have you ever been to the cathedral downtown? St. Aldhelm's?"
"Never." He shook his head. "I haven't been anywhere in six years except this room and the physical therapy wing." A pause. "Somebody put my print there. Didn't they."
It wasn't a question.
On the drive back, McGee stared out the window. "He planted it."
"Looks that way." Hannah drummed her fingers on the wheel. "But why? What's the point of a lead that goes nowhere?"
McGee thought about the man in the dark coat — there and gone. About the laughter she hadn't heard yet but could already feel coming.
"To watch us run," she said quietly.