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questioned the veracity of Tommy the child’s testimony compared to Dolman the adult’s. The jury handed down a troubled verdict; although believing thatDolman was probably guilty, they could not unanimously dispel reasonable doubt.
    Dolman was acquitted.
    Two days after the acquittal, somebody did a Mickey Spillane on Dolman. He was found shot to death in his living room with twelve pistol rounds at close range.
    Like I the Jury , people said.
    Rumors raced through the county that Washington County detective sergeant Harry Cantrell, the original lead investigator on the case, had taken upon himself to step in and correct some basic system failure. Then there was a debate about the six spent .38-caliber cartridges that had been found next to Dolman’s body. The Saint had reloaded to make his twelve-shot point. Some argued that Harry would never be so thoughtless as to leave brass lying around a crime scene. Others said that it would be just like Harry to leave the brass on purpose, to make it look like some asshole civilian.
    The investigation went cold. And no one really mourned the passing of Ronald Dolman.
    After Dolman’s murder, thousands of people in the Twin Cities began wearing St. Paul Saints baseball jackets to show support for the vigilante. The Saint became a mythic unsolved case and a cautionary tale in metropolitan Minnesota.
    In addition to being a top cop, Harry Cantrell cut a colorful figure as a drinker, womanizer, and gambler. He loved cultivating rumors about himself; the more provocative the better. And not least among the baggage he carried was an acute reputation for meting out street justice.
    When John returned, Broker was studying the St. Nicholas medallion in the evidence bag. The Saint’s calling card.
    “Dolman was a thirty-eight, right? The famous mystery cartridges left on the scene,” Broker said.
    John nodded. “And the priest is a smaller caliber. It’s preliminary, could be fragments. But, like I said, probably a twenty-two.”
    “Is this the same medallion?” Broker said.
    “Looks the same to me. I’m not about to call the state Crime Lab and get the original for a comparison. I don’t want that getting out. Not yet. It’ll be an instant made-for-TV movie when the press gets ahold of this. We need a little breathing room.” John chewed the inside of his lip. “St. Nicholas is the patron saint of children. I looked it all up again last night. Butler’s Lives of the Saints .”
    “Quaint touch,” Broker said.
    John nodded. “Nicholas was a bishop in Asia Minor in the fourth century. He was rich, and he donated his wealth to charity. He’s associated with the legend of the three children. He knew this guy who went broke and was on the verge of selling his three daughters into prostitution. Nicholas would sneak over to the poor man’s house when it was dark and toss in bags of gold to provide dowries for the daughters. So the children were saved.”
    “What about the Santa Claus angle?”
    “That came later, after his legend got mixed up with our German ancestors who wouldn’t let go of their damned evergreen.”
    “Well, this guy isn’t tossing bags of gold.”
    “We’d always assumed the Saint was a guy. Now we got this witness throwing in a twist: was it a woman, or a guy in drag? And in case we’re slow with the medallion—the suspect was wearing a Saints jacket.”
    Broker came forward in his chair again, but slower this time. He leaned his elbows on the table and gave John his full attention. “John, did you drive out here to suggest that Harry Cantrell got drunk and dressed up like a woman to go shoot a priest?”
    John raised his arms and scratched at his sweaty hair with both hands in an exasperated gesture. “When Dolman got off, a lot of people in the county said, ‘I ought to shoot the sonofabitch’—including me. Then somebody did. Some people think Harry was the Saint. Like I said, I’m not one of them. But he knows something. I always figured