"I wanna go! Now!" Heath yelled.

"Lower your voice. You don't want to spend the night in the lockup, do you?"

"Let me outta here!" Heath produced a corkscrew and pointed it menacingly at Driscoll.

"Put that thing down!"

"Open the fuckin' door!"

Exasperated, Driscoll leaned over the desk and forcibly grabbed the derelict by his throat. "Put it down on the desk, now."

The derelict growled.

"Now, I said." Driscoll applied more pressure to his hold.

Heath dropped the weapon.

"Tell me what you remember seeing that night," Driscoll ordered, picking up the corkscrew and placing it in his pocket.

"Why do we hafta go back there?"

"The sooner you talk, the sooner they let you out of here."

Heath's eyes bulged. His lips began to quiver again as he spoke. "He was down on his knees, the whole time. Like he was doin' somethin' holy. First he cut up the girl's body. I think she was already dead. Then he nailed her to the boardwalk. He kept hitting her with a ball-peen hammer, again, and again, and again."

"Who was the girl? How did she get there?"

"I couldn't help her, I really couldn't. He hit her so hard."

"Did you see the man's face? Can you describe him for me?"

"It may have been the dead of night, but living under the boards gives ya the eyes of a cat. I'm tellin' ya, I saw the guy."

"Could you identify him?"

"He was goin' at it real slow. Like he really got off on it."

"Did the killer see you?"

"No way."

The door opened, and a police sketch artist stepped into the room.

"I got here as soon as I could, Lieutenant. There was a tie-up on the Brooklyn Bridge. I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"Your timing is excellent, Kelly. Mr. Heath here is about to describe our killer."

"I am?"

"Do you know what this is?" Driscoll asked, pointing to the artist's chalk in Officer Kelly Gilmore's fingers.

"I know nothin'."

"C'mon, you musta been a kid once. You musta played with crayons and colored chalk."

"I was born old."

"All kids enjoy playing with chalk, even old ones."

"So?"

"So, this nice lady came all the way in from Brooklyn to draw us a portrait on this here sketch pad. Why don't you just sit in this chair and start remembering?"

"She's a cutie," Heath snickered.

"That she is. And now she has some questions for you."

"But I ain't got nothin' more to say."

"How 'bout his hair?" Gilmore asked. "Was it curly? Straight? Long? Short?"

"Hair is hair. It was on top of his head."

"You gotta help me draw it. I wasn't there."

"I was there, lady, but it was dark."

"You mean his hair?"

"C'mon, lady. It was dark as a witch's ass."

Driscoll was growing impatient. He figured he'd try a different approach. "Drop it, Gilmore! This witness is a waste. We've got better things to do than stand around and listen to his arrogance. The guy didn't see anything. He's as blind as a maggot and even smells like one."

"Watch your tongue, Irishman," Heath sneered, casting a glare at Driscoll.

"I'm outa here!" Driscoll growled.

"Wait for me," Gilmore echoed, packing up her charcoal.

"Ba dhuthchas riamh d'ar gcine chaidh gan iompail siar o imirt air!" Heath shouted in Old Irish. Heath shouted in Old Irish.

"What's he raving about?" asked Gilmore as she made her exit with Driscoll.

"Something from Ireland's national anthem," Driscoll answered, his voice carrying back into the room.

"Hey! I'm not done yet!" Heath bellowed. "Your guy is one of us!"

Was Driscoll being baited by an alcoholic vagrant, or did the man really have something to offer? The Lieutenant stepped back inside the room. "You better not be pullin' my chain," he warned.

"He's one of us," Heath sighed. "Shame on him. A man of Erin."

"What makes you so sure he's an Irishman?"

"I sure didn't see the blue of his eyes," Heath muttered, "but I can tell you by his Gaelic tongue that the fiend was born and bred in Sligo."

"Alcohol plays tricks on the mind, you know."

"My mind works just fine. I, too, was born and bred in Sligo."

In a flash, Driscoll realized he had stumbled upon his first substantial lead. Here in the confines of a psychiatric ward he had found the first witness to a psychotic killing. "Whadya friend from Sligo say?" he asked, cautiously.

"He was praying. Just kneeling there, praying."

"A priest?" Gilmore asked.

"Hell, no! He was prayin' in Old Irish over his kill."

"Heath, can you remember the prayer?" Driscoll urged.

"That I'll never forget."

The drunk assumed the killer's stance and moving slowly, as though he too enjoyed it, began hacking away at his invisible victim. "Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga!" "Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga!" he intoned. he intoned.

Chapter 32.

"Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga," Seamus Tiernan, Chairman of Columbia University's Department of Celtic Studies, read. "To the sun and the moon and the stars, Lieutenant."

Busts of Celts and Britons, with shields and battle axes, stood vigil over the scholarly office.

"Druidic, fifth century A.D A.D., a ceremonial incantation. Probably used for a sacrifice," Tiernan explained.

"Sheep and goats?" Driscoll asked.

"Roosters...and infants. True pagans. They believed they owned their children and could sacrifice them at will. Yes, Lieutenant, those were the dying gasps of heathenism in Northern Europe. Christianity saw that it didn't last much longer."

"Getting nostalgic?" Driscoll asked, an eyebrow raised.

"You've missed your calling, Lieutenant. It might have been the priesthood instead of the precinct."

Driscoll recognized the tone in his voice. He had heard it many times before. It was the tone of someone who believed the police were a necessary evil. Someone to call when your car radio was stolen. It was a common affliction among the northeastern intelligentsia.

"Professor Tiernan, I have a few more questions."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I have papers to grade."

"Tell me, Professor, in your world are papers more important than human life?"

"That's your job Lieutenant, not mine."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could help me."

"All right, then. Fire away."

"Are these Druids still practicing? Perhaps in the tristate area?"

Tiernan reached for his pipe and filled it with an aromatic mixture. A flame gushed from his Flaminaire as he fired the pipe's chimney. "They may be," Tiernan said cautiously.

"Maybe doesn't cut it. Are they or not?"

"I really do have work to do. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Driscoll reached in his pocket and pulled out several Polaroid crime-scene photos. "No. I won't excuse you," he barked. He threw the photos on Tiernan's desk. "There, Professor. That's his handiwork. Now, are you gonna help me?"

All of Tiernan's attitude abandoned him. He seemed to shrink before Driscoll's eyes. "Oh my God," he kept repeating. "Oh my God!"

"Well, Professor?"

"There is a secret society. They meet in a small town called Fremont Center in upstate New York. I visited them once in my fanatic days. Druids, with genealogy back to the Old Sod. But, I'm not sure if the society still exists." Tiernan was stammering.

"When was the last time you were there?"

"Christmas Day 1988. The winter equinox. Not since."

"Can you get me in?"

"I don't think so. Ever since I baptized my children, the society has shunned me."

An awkward silence settled between the pair.

"Lieutenant?" Tiernan managed, eyes fixed on the photos.

"Yes, Professor?"

"I'm not feeling well right now. Perhaps we can continue this discussion at another time. Say, dinner, at my house on Saturday?"

"Thank you, Professor," Driscoll said, wondering why Tiernan had made such a gesture. "I'd like to bring along a fellow detective. If that's OK with you."

"Please do. If you're wondering why the invite, my wife fancies herself a mystery writer. She would love to meet a pair of true-to-life homicide detectives."

"Then, Saturday it is," said Driscoll.

"May I ask one favor of you, Lieutenant?"