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One of the nurses said, “Bravo,” and began to clap.

And then we were all clapping, me with tears running down my cheeks.

It was a moment and a night I will never forget.

51

UNDER PRESSURE FROM CHIEF of detectives Willard Kane, who himself was under pressure from the chief of Metro and the mayor, John Sampson and I were back in the office early Tuesday morning and working every lead we had.

I’d left the house happy to hear that Nana Mama had had a restful sleep with no heart issues. And Dr. Ames was going to drop in and see her.

On the way to work, Sampson and I discussed going to Bethesda to see if we could rattle the folks at Frost and Lear but decided to wait a day and instead work the Choir Boy angle hard. We needed to talk to him.

While Detectives Judy Winthrop and Tommy Hayes read up on the Firebug cases, Sampson and I looked for seminaries in the DC area. There were several, but none had any record of a former seminarian with the first name Aldous.

“He could have cooked up the story of being booted,” Sampson said, discouraged. “But why would someone make up a story about getting kicked out of a seminary? Is that a good pickup line these days?”

“Can’t see how it would help the pickup or the job search,” I said. “Maybe he lied about where he was tossed out. Maybe he changed just enough that he couldn’t be tracked.”

Winthrop and Hayes came over, looking concerned.

Winthrop, a former college rugby player in her early forties, said, “So Sean Brundage is living under that bridge?”

“He’s had a hard road,” I said.

“Because he deserved a hard road,” said Hayes, a lean former Marine in his late thirties who had facial scarring from acne.

Winthrop said, “He really messed up several of our cases.”

“Big-time,” Hayes said. “Three got thrown out of court because of his misconduct.”

“Good to know,” Sampson said.

“You’re looking at him for this, right?” Winthrop said. “Because I would not put something like this past him.”

“Hundred percent,” Hayes replied. “He would be my number one suspect.”

“But not ours,” I said. “Brundage has been nothing but cooperative and helped us understand the dynamics of the homeless camp. And absolutely no one we’ve talked to so far has pointed a finger at him.”

“We’ll see,” Winthrop said, glancing at her partner. “But in the meantime, back to the murder books.”

When they’d walked away, Sampson looked at me. “What do you think?”

“I just said what I thought.”

“Agreed,” John said. “I think their history is clouding their take.”

“Feels like that to me,” I said. “Back to Choir Boy.”

We expanded our search. I focused on the states up north while John looked at those toward the west.

I struck out talking to officials at seminaries in New York, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Vermont. Sampson had a similar lack of luck with seminaries in Kentucky, Indiana, West Virginia, and Michigan.

I was about to give up completely when I came across the website for a Trappist monastic order in southern Vermont that supported itself via farming and beer brewing. Those interested in becoming monks spent their first years as novices while preparing to take their vows.

Sounds like a seminary to me. I called the monastery and was put through to the office of Friar Arthur Driscoll.

When the friar answered, I explained who I was and who I was looking for.