"And so admired throughout the diocese," I said. "I'm Bob Mills, by the way, and I know your husband, Art. We've bowled together." They both nodded and smiled wanly. "Sometimes I gave your husband a lift on Wednesday night when your brother was using his car."

It took a second for this to register, but then it did, and she said, "Oh, yes, the bishop always left his car to be waxed out at Byrne's Wednesday night and Mortimer used Art's car to make his calls. Wednesday night was his night to visit the homeless.

Mortimer never forgot the unfortunate, even after he became a media personality."

"I suppose the bishop's accident must have been almost as hard on Art as it was on you, Mrs. Murphy."

I could see that this made them both a little uncomfortable, and she said, "Yes, Arthur is deeply saddened," and let it go at that.

"Maybe I'll just look in on the bishop and say a little novena," I said.

"Thank you," Mrs. Murphy said. "It's all anyone can do now."

We said good-bye, and as the two moved on down the corridor I heard Mrs. Murphy's friend say, "Well, now, that was nice of him, wasn't it?"

I walked into the room past the vacant-eyed truck driver and stood at the side of the bed of the vacant-eyed bishop. He was surrounded by flowers and cards and statuary, as if he'd already arrived at the cemetery, but instead of a white clerical collar around his neck, he was hooked up to a feeder and a respirator, and he had a big white bandage wrapped all around his head.

I leaned down to his ear and whispered, "Hello there, Ail-American Asshole Mega-Hypocrite."

If, in his mind, he formulated a furious reply, he did not speak it. end user

I drove over to the Cityscape office on Greene Street and found Joel McClurg about to leave for the day.

"Do you keep a Times Union library?"

"Only as far back as 76."

"Good enough."

"What are you looking for?"

"I found John Rutka's Mega-Hypocrite-the one he told you was evil and John was scared to death of. Now I want to find out how he knew the man was evil. I'll bet I know, but I want to confirm it."

McClurg's eyes got big. "You actually found the guy that killed Rutka?"

"No, not yet. That's somebody else. That part will be simple, I think. But first things first."

"You're not telling me a thing, Strachey. And after all the help I gave you."

"Just let me look something up. Then we'll take a ride and you can take a picture of the murder car. How would that be? Or do you have someplace else you have to be?"

McClurg led me quickly to the Times Union index and showed me how to use it. Within a minute I'd found the October 1982 newspaper with the front-page story on Father Mortimer McFee's investiture as bishop of the Albany diocese. The ceremonies were of only passing interest to me; it was Father McFee's background I wanted to learn about, and I did.

Born in Buffalo in 1931, and raised there, Mortimer McFee had attended seminary in Batavia and served as assistant pastor at a church in New Rochelle for three years. Then he became pastor at St. Joseph's in Water-town, where he ministered from 1956 to 1968. In April of 1968 Father McFee was appointed parish priest at St. Michael's in Handbag, where he served until his elevation to bishop of the diocese in 1982. During Rutka's troubled teen years, full of turmoil and lies, his parish priest had been Mortimer McFee.

As we drove out to the diocese headquarters in Latham, I described to McClurg the chain of evidence and happenstance that had led me to Bishop McFee-from the All-American Mega-Hypocrite listed in Rutka's index but missing from his files, to Nathan Zenck, to Bruno Slinger, to Ronnie Linkletter, to Jay Gladu, to Royce McClosky, to Art Murphy, to June Murphy, to the room at Albany Med I'd stood across from nearly every night for a month.

McClurg took notes and gasped quite a bit. He shouldn't have been shocked. It was the oldest story in human history-not that a new bunch of pious phonies didn't keep showing up every generation to imbue the story with a grand new stench.

McClurg said, "When this comes out, aren't you afraid Ronnie Linkletter will kill himself?"

"I don't think so. I think Channel Eight will release him from his contract and he'll get a job in Gum Stump, Idaho, where he'll boost the ratings of whoever hires him. Ronnie's sweet-looking, he opens his mouth and mind-numbing inanities fall out, and he can tell when it might rain. Ronnie wants to be on television more than he wants to die, and a man like that has a future in American broadcasting."

"But if you're right about who killed Rutka, Linkletter will have to testify at the trial. He was there the night the mirror fell and the white Chrysler showed up."

"I feel bad for Ronnie," I said. "But he knew the character of the man he lay down with, and he's paying the price. Causes have effects. Acts have consequences. If Linkletter had come out and come to terms with his homosexuality and grown up, none of this would have happened to him."

McClurg shuddered theatrically. "Jesus, Strachey, you sound just like John Rutka-really quite pompous. I'm not gay, but I'll bet it's not as easy as that. Straight people hardly ever change their personalities and just start being sensible all the time and unaffected by the past. Are gay people superhuman that they should do any better?"

There was a logic to what McClurg said, which I immediately recognized because it was in many ways my own. But there was more to it, too.

"Up to a point," I said, "I agree with you. But when somebody's fear and self-loathing and self-delusion can actually get somebody killed, then we have to say: He should have done better. None of the people in the McFee-Linkletter-Slinger axis behaved as well as he should have-had to have done-and John Rutka lost his life as a result. And my guess is, during his adolescence Rutka lost something else to the demented Mortimer McFee, and that's what set all this violent craziness in motion."

"We'll never know for sure."

"No," I said, "but with Rutka dead and the bishop as good as dead, it's all academic now. Except, of course, for the killer of John Rutka."

At a quarter of seven we drove into the stone-walled grounds of the beaux-arts mansion that housed the diocese administration offices and the living quarters for Bishop McFee and his staff. The beds of purple snapdragons blooming on either side of the main entrance were lovely next to the shiny car under the porte cochere, a big white Chrysler.

No one appeared to greet us as I parked behind the Chrysler, and no one came out to inquire when I removed from my wallet the photocopy Bub Bailey had given me, of the slice of mud flap found outside the Rutka house after the murder. I crouched down, found the mud flap on the Chrysler that had a slice missing-it was the rear left-and held the photocopy up to it. The fit was perfect. I had found the murder car. McClurg took notes and pictures.

Still, no one appeared-we were not expected, after all-so we got back into my car and drove over to Route 9. I phoned Bub Bailey from the diner where McClurg and I had a couple of burgers, and Bailey agreed to meet us outside the eatery at eight. I phoned Timmy, who wasn't home and was probably at Albany Med, I guessed, and left the message that it was nearly all over and I'd see him later at home.

Bailey showed up promptly at eight with a Handbag patrolman and two state police detectives. I gave them a six-minute version of what I had learned and approximately how I had learned it, leaving out the blackmail, Dirty Harry tactics, impersonating an FBI agent, etc. They listened very, very gravely. The two detectives then took Bub Bailey aside and they conversed quietly. They knew they would have to either act or kill both Joel McClurg and me. Bailey must have advised acting-or maybe the state cops were professionals, too-because that's what we did next.