“As a human being, I am deeply grieved that Sister Frankie died and that I couldn’t do anything to keep that from happening.”

“So tell us, as a human being, what Sister Frankie said.” Torgeson’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“Sister Frankie said Iowa was depressing. She’d just come back from trying to help the families of the people your buddies in INS scooped up and arrested for the crime of working in a meat-packing plant. She said it was … Oh, I get it.” I leaned back against the egg-carton hospital mattress. “Sister Frankie was helping people who were in this country illegally. That’s why you’re all here, panting like badly trained bloodhounds.”

Lotty’s fingers gripped my shoulder: Steady there, Vic. Keep your temper under control.

“Do you think her death is connected to her work in Iowa?” I said.

“We’re asking the questions this afternoon, Warshawski.” That was the woman from OEM, determined to be as tough as the men around her.

I smiled tightly. “So you do think her death is connected to her work in Iowa.”

“We don’t know,” Torgeson said. “We don’t know if Sister Frances was the target or another member of the Freedom Center. It might even have been you. You’ve made yourself plenty unpopular with some people in this town.”

The accusation was so ruthless, so unsettling, that I almost missed the woman from OEM saying, “We thought the target could also be one of the families who live in the building. Some are illegals. Some are dealing drugs.”

“You know a lot about them,” I said. “Fast work.”

It’s an amazing thing about lack of sight: you feel people’s emotions more than when you can see them. I could feel Torgeson withdraw into himself, as if a glass wall had slipped between him and the room.

“You know about them because you’ve had the Freedom Center women under surveillance,” I said. “You’ve been watching them, tapping their phones. America is facing international terror threats, and you’re following a bunch of nuns.”

“We are not at liberty to discuss our actions, nor are we required to do so,” the OEM woman snapped.

I ignored her. “You’re dogging the sisters and you couldn’t stop a fire bombing.”

“We moved as fast as we could,” Torgeson protested. “We were undercover. It didn’t look like a serious attack at first, not until we saw the flames in the windows.”

“What in the name of sweet Fanny Adams did you think it was?” I cried.

The room became completely quiet. I could hear the hospital noises, the pages, the squeaking of rubber soles on worn linoleum.

One of the Bomb men cleared his throat. “Tell us what happened inside the apartment.”