Page 68 of The Family Cross

His face was grimy, as were his clothes. There was a half-empty pint of gin beside him on the organ bench, and bits of leaves stuck out from his wild mop of curls, but Choir Boy’s long delicate fingers on the organ’s keys were scrubbed clean. He played, eyes closed, swept up in the moment and singing like some improbable lost angel.

I was mesmerized and stood there stunned by his talent. Sampson, his badge out and his hand on his service weapon, went around me and called, “Aldous Campbell?”

Choir Boy seemed not to hear and kept singing. Sampson said, louder and more insistent, “Aldous Campbell? Choir Boy?”

The organ and that remarkable tenor voice fell silent.

Campbell kept his fingers on the keys as he turned his head slowly toward us, eyes bloodshot. Slurring slightly, he said, “I’m allowed to be here. It makes the old Italian ladies happy. They always let me come up to play music after I eat.”

Sampson ignored Choir Boy’s comments. “We’re homicide detectives with Metro PD, Mr. Campbell,” he said, holding up his ID, his other hand still on his pistol. “I’m John Sampson. This is Dr. Alex Cross.”

Campbell’s bleary eyes traveled to me with some interest.

“We’d like to talk to you,” I said.

“I’m right here,” he said, picking up the bottle and taking a swig. “Talk away.”

“Ease up on the booze there, Choir Boy,” Sampson said. “This is dead serious, and you’ll want to be clearheaded answering our questions.”

Campbell snorted derisively. “Been a minute since I’ve been clearheaded, Detective. Months of minutes. What’s going on?”

“You have a place to stay, Mr. Campbell?” I asked, trying to put him at ease with softball questions.

“Here and there,” he said amiably. “You know how it is.”

“I don’t. I have never been homeless.”

He took another sip of gin. “Alex Cross. You’re that cop with the big degree, right? Knows all about criminal minds?”

“I have a PhD in psychology,” I confirmed.

“Thought it was you. So you do know how it is, having someone close to you go to the streets like that.” I felt my brows knit as he continued. “You got a brother named Charlie, right?”

I got a weird feeling in my chest. “I do. We… aren’t in touch. What about him?”

Looking like he thought he had the upper hand now, Aldous Campbell took another swig of the gin and said, “The way he told it, his girl left him a couple years back, family won’t talk to him, and he lost his job. He didn’t have to fall far to end up just like me.”

My stomach sank and all the guilt and anger I felt about my fractured relationship with my only surviving brother pounded me in waves.

“You’re saying Charlie’s homeless?”

“He was getting by the last time I saw him. Got a sleeping bag, few tarps,” Choir Boy said. “He was squatting with me and some other folks in a place up in Northeast before the cops threw us all out.”

My heart began to race.

Sampson asked Campbell, “When was this?”

He thought, squinted, then said, “Maybe a week before the cops came? They cleared everyone out after some poor SOB got set on fire in the lot behind the building.”

Questions erupted in my head that felt like punches to the inside of my skull. I looked over at Sampson and saw from his face that the same harsh possibility had occurred to him.

“You didn’t see Charlie leave?” I asked.

Campbell hesitated, then shook his head. “I do remember seeing his stuff was still there on the third floor when we got rousted.”

“But you didn’t see him in the days leading up to the guy’s death?”

Campbell appeared confused. “I was just there off and on, you know. I could’ve missed him.”