CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
For the third time in as many days, Daniel found himself in a police interrogation room with someone he had arrested as the Cryptex Killer.
It was the familiar scene—concrete box of a room, one way glass along one wall, bad coffee on the table, and a suspect handcuffed to an uncomfortable plastic chair.
The suspect, however, was different. Very different.
He was a well-kept man of about fifty, with a neatly trimmed black beard, the olive skin and brown eyes of someone from the Mediterranean, wearing black slacks and shirt with a priest’s collar.
Plus he was speaking urgently in Italian. Not babbling nervously like George Hansen, not ranting and raving like Andrew Critchfield, by desperately trying to make himself understood as if he had great news to share.
He was
