Big Silence by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

University of Illinois and could, unlike Bill Hanrahan who had bad knees, have been drafted within the third round when he graduated. Instead, he had received the calling and now was in charge of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church in Edgewater whose parishioners were primarily Vietnamese, Korean, and poor whites. St. Bart’s was well within the province of the Clark Street station in which they were now standing.
    “Can I get you …?” Hanrahan began.
    “Nothing,” said Father Parker. “I heard about what happened in Ohio.”
    “Yeah,” Hanrahan said, looking around the squad room.
    “Thought you might like to go out for coffee or something and talk about it.”
    “I don’t know,” said Hanrahan.
    “We both remember last time,” said Parker.
    “Vividly.” Hanrahan rubbed the back of his left hand with the palm of his right. “It won’t happen again.”
    Actually, Hanrahan had suffered major losses of faith in his job: his sobriety, his family, and his religion. He had gone to St. Bart’s during an investigation and met “Whiz” Parker, who knew instantly who Bill was. Bill Hanrahan had been one of his football heroes. Together the priest and the cop had begun to work things out, to put Hanrahan’s life back together. It was gradual, no push to rejoin the Mother Church, but he was headed well back in that direction. At least he had been until he saw the woman with her head blown off in a Dayton motel.
    “A coffee,” Hanrahan agreed. “Maybe a burger. After we finish with the guy we’re working on.”
    “Clark Mills,” said the priest.
    “What?”
    “The uniformed officer took me into the little room with the one-way mirror. I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never been behind one. Strange feeling. Like the confessional.”
    “You said …”
    “Clark Mills,” said Parker. “Left Michigan State his third year to go into the NFL draft. Great lineman. All-Big Ten. Came out about five years before I graduated, between you and me. As I recall, he was injured in some kind of car crash before he even signed with the Packers, who drafted him second round.”
    “You sure that’s Mills?”
    “I’m sure,” said Parker. “What’s he done, if I can ask?”
    “You can ask,” Hanrahan said. “Maybe you can even help if you want to.”
    “If I can,” said Parker. “Mills was a great player.”
    “Now he’s homeless and harassing people over on Lunt.”
    “Mills?” Parker looked at the interrogation room door. “He’s the one who’s been doing that? I’ve heard about him. Has he hurt anyone?”
    “Not yet,” said Hanrahan, “but it’s just a question of how long if we don’t do something, and he doesn’t show any sign of cooperating. He scared the hell out of a woman last night. She’s more than just shaken up.”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Go back in the room with the one-way mirror and come in the interrogation room if I call.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’ll do,” said Hanrahan.
    “Then coffee and talk,” Parker reminded him.
    “Coffee, a couple of Dunkin’ Donuts, and talk,” said Hanrahan.
    Parker headed back to the little room with the one-way mirror and Hanrahan opened the door to the interrogation room where Lieberman was saying “… a one-way bus ticket to a destination of your choice. And you don’t come back.”
    Hanrahan closed the door and moved to the chair he had been sitting in. Mills didn’t even look at him.
    “Not interested,” said Mills.
    “Well,” said Lieberman. “Maybe we can persuade you.”
    “Nope.”
    “Maybe we can, Clark,” said Hanrahan.
    Lieberman turned slowly to his partner. The big black man across the table stood up suddenly, his chair falling back against the wall.
    “Behind that mirror is a man who recognized you,” said Hanrahan. “He used to respect you. He’s watching to see how you handle this.”
    “Who?” said the huge man, leaning forward toward the detective.
    “I don’t feel like telling you