The Catalyst
A Delcan O'Conor Mystery
by Sally Jane Driscoll

The woman in the gray summer suit kept catching Declan O'Conor's eye in the mirror as he slouched at his usual place in Dulaney's, one foot up on the brass rail. Finally, he turned toward her and raised his glass and his eyebrow in inquiry.
She smiled, frowning, then rose and came toward him sideways through the shifting crowd. Two paces away she paused. A hand on her hip, she spread the fingers of the other at waist level, palm out. "Five minutes," she said.
"Honey, as long as it takes," answered Declan. He took his glass and followed her back to her table. In flat-heeled shoes, she stood taller than his stocky five foot six. He smoothed his tie, switching on the tiny cassette recorder that served as his notorious memory.
"You got a name?" he asked as he settled opposite her.
"Just hold on, all right? I want to tell you a story." She sipped at her clear drink, hesitating. Already he could feel the words stirring pleasantly in his head, falling into place for Friday's column. Another "Last night at Dulaney's," he decided. He hadn't done one of those in at least six weeks.
"It goes back to something you were working on ten years ago."
"Lemme see." His thick black brows met, then sprang up. "Ten years ago I was---"
"Yes, that's why I'm here," she went on hurriedly. "Look, I don't have much time. I1ve got to be at the airport in an hour."
"You got my attention."
Her hands fumbled, twisting a wedding ring, then jerked apart and lay still on either side of her glass. "Ten years ago," she repeated, "when we were first married, my husband and I moved into an apartment just across the river in a building with mostly middle-class black families. I was one of the few white girls there."
Declan felt his heart start to pound. Ten years ago, she would have been in her early twenties. Her dark hair was stylishly chopped short now and her skin still fresh. Her face was oddly naïve, incongruous with her age. Through her, he seemed to glimpse another face, a man's, round and olive-skinned, eyes and mouth set in unshakable self-satisfaction.
"Your hair was long then, down to your shoulders," he said.
"Of course it was. That was one of the things that made us suspect, later on---"
"Okay. Take it easy. Go on."
The words overflowed. "The parking lot behind the building looked out over trees and private homes. Our parking spot was right in the middle, up against the fence. We'd get back from the train station around six and sit in the car a while. We could see the water over the rooftops. When it got dark, we turned on the roof light."
"And you were newlyweds," he said, eyes shining.
"I guess we sat close together. We always kissed before we got out and went upstairs."
"His apartment---"
"It was above and behind. He could have looked right down into the car. Or sometimes, coming home from work, he must have passed us sitting in the dark with the light on."
Declan nodded his head in bitter satisfaction. "I knew you existed. I knew there had to be a trigger. I told the cops they should be looking for you instead of him, you'd lead straight to him." He looked at her sharply. "The news was full of him for a year. You must have seen my column or you wouldn't be here now--- Good lord, that's all I wrote about. I appealed to you time after time to come forward."
"How could I know I was the one?" she hissed, grasping his sleeve. "How could I possibly have known? Okay, after it was all over I realized I'd seen him in the halls. He was a pudgy little guy in a tan uniform. Maybe I used to say hi to him. He had funny eyes, like he wasn't all there, and the way he looked at me made me feel slimy."
"That's Jackie," Declan said.
"Anyway, by the time they caught him, we were living in a new place down on the shore. We were horrified, maybe a little titillated. But it was all over. They put him away. What was the use of coming forward?"
There was a pause. Voices and the tinkling of ice against glass rose around them. The air was twilit and the tiny spotlights on the ceiling gleamed. Declan leaned forward.
"It's ten years later," he said softly. "Why come to me now? I'll only put your name in the papers. I'm not a priest, I can't grant absolution---"
She clutched his arm, her face nearly touching his. "It's ten years later, right? We've been parking after work to watch the sun go down over the water. And then, three weeks ago---"
He shuddered despite himself and drew back. "Yeah, the Port James killings."
"I must know him, but how can I know who he is?" she cried. "Plenty of guys look at me. There are plenty of little creeps who look at a woman like that. Is he the mailman? The mechanic? The guy in the next apartment? I must know him, but who is he? Did I forget to say good morning to him one day?"
"Four long-haired girls killed, sitting in cars with their boyfriends," he said. "And now, one short-haired girl dead and one still in intensive care."
She whispered, "Why doesn't he shoot me?"
Declan got up, holding out a hand to keep her seated. "Look, wait here and I'll get the cops for you. They'll be glad to get any lead. You can't tell, though. The Port James killer could be a coincidence."
"We're leaving for the West tonight, moving out West," she gabbled, avoiding his outstretched hand.
"Hold on. Don't think I can't find you."
"You just said yourself, I don't really know it has anything to do with me." She broke his grip with a practiced twist and slipped through the crowd in her flat-heeled shoes. Before he could force a way for his greater bulk, she was at the door. She turned back toward him for a moment and he saw her say, "You don't even know who I am."
He got to the sidewalk in time to see a taxi pulling away with a shadow in the back seat, silhouetted against the glare of the oncoming headlights.