“She didn’t have to say anything. We’re holding her for defenestration,” said Conklin. “You know what that is, Louie?”

“For God’s sake,” Montana said. “What kind of sadist are you, Inspector?”

Louie looked incredulous. “You’re Homicide and you’re charging her for a sex crime?”

Conklin leaned back in his chair. “Defenestration is from the Latin meaning ‘out the window.’ Yeah, Louie. We tried to save her, but she jumped. We’re holding her at the morgue. Sorry for your loss.”

Louie bellowed, “Nooo.”

His body seemed to inflate, the cords of his neck standing out, his muscles swelling. Then, like Sampson pushing against the temple columns, Louie pressed his hands against the table and started to stand.

Conklin leaned on Bergin’s shoulder with both hands, forcing him back into the chair.

“Mr. Montana,” I said, “tell your client to behave or I’ll have him shackled.”

“Louie. Don’t let them bait you. Just listen.”

I was listening and watching, too.

Conklin was thinking fast, moving fast. A natural interrogator. And a brave cop.

I saw why Jacobi was proud of him. I was proud of him, too.

“We found out something a little unusual at the morgue,” said Conklin. “Tell you the truth, I was surprised when the ME told us. I mean, Cherry was such a knockout, Louie. Hard to believe.”

I was watching Louie’s face closely as Conklin snapped first one driver’s license, then another onto the table like playing cards.

The photos made a startling side-by-side comparison. Looking from one to the other, you could see it clearly. The same eyes, the same cheekbones. The same mouth.

Conklin kept going. “I had to see these two pictures together to believe it. Kenneth Guthrie. Cherry Chu. They’re one and the same person.

“I guess he was being Ken when you and he did the killings, right Louie? And when he was Cherry Chu, he was your girlfriend.

“Your girlfriend,” Conklin said, his voice colored with wonder. “Bro, your girlfriend was a man.”

Chapter 91

Chapter 91

I WATCHED LOUIE’S FACE change from red to mottled to a bloodless, almost clammy white. He moaned, then started banging his head on the table until his attorney got up from his chair, grabbed Louie’s shoulders. Shook him until he stopped.

Montana looked up at me, his expression explosive, and it wasn’t an act.

“Where the hell is your inspector going with this, Lieutenant? Do you have any evidence against Mr. Bergin? If not, pardon me for saying drop dead, and we’ll see you at his arraignment.”

“We lifted Louie’s print from one of our victims,” I said, “and his DNA is at the lab. Marked ‘rush’ and red-flagged.”

“He gave you his DNA?”

“He abandoned it. We collected it,” I said, sitting down beside Louie, talking just to him.