Sacred Sins

wineglass and smiled at him.
    “You're overworking.”
    “Maybe.”
    “How about I buy two tickets for Saint Croix and we take off the day after Christmas? Have ourselves a week of fun in the sun.”
    “You know I'd love to, but the holidays are the roughest on some of my patients. I have to be here for them.”
    “I've been having second thoughts.”
    “You?” Bypassing the ketchup, she began to nibble on fries and wondered if she had room for a second piece of chicken. “About what?”
    “Getting you involved with these homicides. You're looking worn out.”
    “It's only partly that.”
    “Having a problem with your sex life?”
    “Privileged information.”
    “Seriously, Tess, I've spoken with the mayor. He's told me how involved you are with the police investigation. All I had in mind was the profile, maybe showing off my smart granddaughter a bit.”
    “Vicarious thrills, huh?”
    “The thrill takes on a different complexion after the fourth murder. Only two blocks from here.”

    “Grandpa, that would have happened whether I was involved with the investigation or not. The point now is, I want to be involved.” She thought of Ben, his accusations, his resentment. She thought of her own well-ordered life and the sudden small twinges of dissatisfaction. “Maybe I need to be involved. Things have been pretty cut and dried for me up to now in my life, and my career. My part in this has shown me a different aspect of myself, and of the system.”
    She took up her napkin, but only kneaded it in her hands. “The police aren't interested in the workings of his mind, in his emotional motivation, yet they'll use the knowledge to try to catch him, and to punish him. I'm not interested in seeing him punished, yet I'll use what I can learn of his mind, his motivation, to try to have him stopped and helped. Which of us is right, Grandpa? Is justice punishment or is it treatment?”
    “You're talking to a lawyer of the old school, Tess. Every man, woman, and child in this country is entitled to representation and a fair trial. The lawyer might not believe in the client, but he has to believe in the law. The law says that this man has the right to be judged by the system. And usually the system works.”
    “But does the system, the law, understand the diseased mind?” Shaking her head, she set the napkin down again, recognizing her kneading as nerves. “Not guilty by reason of insanity. Shouldn't it be not responsible? Grandpa, he is guilty of murdering those women. But responsible, no.”
    “He's not one of your patients, Tess.”
    “Yes, he is. He has been all along, but I didn't understand that until last week—the last murder. He hasn't asked me for help yet, but he will be asking for it. Grandpa, do you remember what you said to me the day I opened my office?”
    He studied her, seeing that even with her intense and troubled eyes, the candlelight made her beautiful. She was his little girl. “Probably said too many things. I've been alive a long time.”

    “You said that I'd chosen a profession that would allow me into people's minds, and that I could never forget their hearts. I haven't forgotten.”
    “I was proud of you that day. I still am.”
    She smiled and picked up her napkin. “You've got ketchup on your chin, Senator,” she murmured, and wiped it off.

    T HREE and a half miles away Ben and Ed had had more than one drink. The club was decorated with wine bottles, had its fair share of regulars and a blind piano player who sang low-key rock. His tip jar was only half full, but the evening was young. Their table was roughly the size of a place mat squeezed in among a line of others. Ed worked his way through a pasta salad. Ben settled on the beer nuts.
    “You eat enough of those,” Ben commented with a nod at Ed's plate. “You turn into a yuppie.”
    “Can't be a yuppie if you don't drink white wine.”
    “Sure?”
    “Absolutely.”
    Taking him at his word, Ben plucked up a rotini noodle.
    “What was the word when you called in?”
    Ben picked up his glass and watched a woman in a short leather skirt slide past their table. “Bigsby went by the drugstore where he bought the money order. Nothing. Who's going to remember a guy buying a money order three months ago? Aren't you going to put any salt on that?”
    “Are you kidding?” Ed signaled for another round. Neither of them were drunk yet, but not for lack of trying.
    “You going over to Kinikee's Saturday to watch the