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I LEFT ROB TRILLING to try to soften Kevin Doyle up. When I stepped out of the conference room, they were chatting about their time in the military. Trilling was careful not to drift back into any incriminating subjects. We wanted Doyle to talk, not go silent.

It was late afternoon, an awkward time between lunch and dinner, but I realized we were all hungry so I got us some pizza from the little place around the corner. As I was bringing it back to the conference room, I noticed Walter Jackson working on two computers at once. That was always a good sign for an investigation he was involved in. I didn’t even bother him. He seemed to be onto something fairly big. I was hoping we could use it to convince Doyle to talk.

Doyle, Trilling, and I wolfed down a couple of slices of cheese and pepperoni. It wasn’t bad. The food revived me, and the off-brand cola gave me a little sugar boost. God knows I needed it.

Trilling turned to me and said, “This guy has been on some high-profile missions. He was in the mountains of Afghanistan for five months straight. Very impressive.”

I saw what Trilling was doing. Showing Doyle we didn’t view him as a mad-dog killer. We respected his service to the country. We just wanted to talk.

I had seen in his file that Doyle was originally from Brooklyn. “Let me guess. You’re an Irish Catholic kid. You probably grew up with a bunch of siblings and cousins.”

That made Doyle smile for the briefest moment possible. He said, “Two sisters and a brother. And some older cousins who lived right next door to us.”

“You were never lonely.”

“It prepared me for living in a barracks. Snoring and noise didn’t bother me like it bothers a lot of guys in the service. As long as no one was peeing in the bed next to me, it was a step up from my childhood.” He spoke as if he was remembering what his life was like before he turned into a contract killer.

I didn’t push it. I sat there, thinking up my next angle of attack. That’s when Doyle surprised me.

He said, “Would it be possible to speak with a priest?”

“You mean, like, for confession?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. And Communion.”

Trilling said out loud, “Where will we find a priest to come to our office on such short notice?”

I said, “I know one.” I explained to Doyle my grandfather’s position in the church, how Seamus had become a priest later in life, as a widower after having a wife and family and owning a local bar. “He may not be what you consider a typical Catholic priest, but I swear to God he’s a good man. Down to his very soul. He believes in God as strongly as anyone I’ve ever met. And he will not tell me one thing you say. This will have nothing to do with our case—you have my word on it.”

Doyle looked up at me and nodded. “I know your reputation. I’ll accept your word as gold.”

I was on the phone to Seamus before I even left the conference room.