William Gallagher had just finished reviewing the cover story for the Thursday late edition when Susan Glass came dodging into his office holding a manila envelope.

     “You're gonna want to scrap the lead, Bill.” Her dirty-blond hair swung forward as she leaned on his desk. If she wasn't twenty years his junior, Susan would be the type of woman he would easily fall in love with. But since he was a sixty-two-year-old widower, who was not the type of man easily attracted to her age and life experience, their close professional relationship had been more rewarding than a romantic one might have ever been.

     Gallagher looked at the folder in her hand. It was gripped so tightly it might as well contain the secret to immortality.

     “Wanna tell me what's in the folder?” The playful grin that followed his words came from knowing that her usual game of cat and mouse was in play.

     “I'll get to that in a second,” she said, returning a mischievous grin.

Gallagher glanced at his computer screen with the cover he was ready to send to the press.

     The Philadelphia Times story he'd just edited had the headline TOWNSEND VISITS PHILADELPHIA SUBURB. It featured how a Broomall nursing home was the only Pennsylvania visit for the now-identified healer, before new images showed him surfacing back in New York again Wednesday evening. A color photo from the home's security desk was the accompanying image.

     He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, his belly popping forward.

     “Okay, Sue, let me have it.”

     She was his best reporter and, knowing her as well as he did, he could tell the enthusiasm bursting from her pores meant she was holding on to something big.

     “Well, I did a little research into the names of the people that were healed in the nursing home, and found that one of them was Irene Campbell.”

     Gallagher had never heard the name before.

     “Okay. Go on.”

     “Well, she happens to be the mother of Father Philip Campbell. Remember him?”

     Gallagher looked at her sideways with veiled irritation. He might be twenty years her senior, but he was hoping that her question was rhetorical.

     “Of course I remember, Susan. So he healed Campbell's mother. I doubt he knows the identity of every person he—”

     “Bill, you know me better than that. Do you think I'd be this excited if it stopped there?”

     Gallagher grinned. Of course she wouldn't.

     “I interviewed staff members at the nursing home, and several of them believe she was the first one he healed there. Irene Campbell was suffering from late-stage Alzheimer's and she was the first of many who were previously incapacitated that strolled into the communal lounge yesterday morning.”

     “Okay. So he healed Campbell's mother first. Maybe he admired the man like everyone else did and just wanted to do something special.”

     “Sure, that could be. But remember what I kept saying yesterday? Why there? Why focus exclusively on New York City then come out to a small town outside Philly, only to go back to New York on the same day?”

Gallagher was nodding. He had found the circumstance extremely puzzling, as if the Healer of New York had started to branch out, only to change his mind. Yet choosing a small town like Broomall, instead of Philadelphia itself, seemed a rather odd choice.

     He looked up at her, wearing a crooked smirk. “You gonna continue the bread crumb trail, or are you going to tell me what you found?”

     “Phillip Campbell vanished nearly four years ago and no one has heard of him since.”

     Gallagher's smirk became an expression of puzzlement. A few seconds later, his eyes sprang open.

     “Oh my god!” A beaming smile nearly disfigured his face. “Are you telling me that John Townsend is Philip Campbell?”

     She was grinning as she slowly nodded her head. “I checked Philip Campbell's social security number. That's when I discovered that it's now the number for a John Townsend. He changed his name three years ago. That's why he disappeared without a trace.”

     Gallagher's clownish grin gave away his enthusiasm. And then it suddenly faded.

     “Wait a second. I know you're a great reporter, Susan. But you're not the only one out there scanning the names of the patients this guy cured. Why hasn't anyone else made the connection?”

Now it was her turn to feign irritation, though in fact, she did feel a bit irate.

     “It is a bit of a leap, Bill . . . give me credit.”

     “I'm sorry, hun. Of course it is.”

     “Anyway,” she continued, “it wouldn't matter if someone else made that leap. Anyone looking for a John Townsend is going to find the same thing I did.”

     “Which is?” he asked with genuine curiosity. He felt like he was in a detective story— this was Glass's usual method of feeding him details little by little. She delighted in leading others to her conclusion, and she often wrote her pieces with a similar technique.

Her eyebrows bounced up in a mischievous, almost sexy manner.

     “Not one John Townsend in the entire WhoNet database remotely resembles this guy. And according to sources in the social security administration, every John Townsend on record was born with that name.”

     “But you just said he changed it back—”

     “I got lucky. When I discovered that Father Campbell's mother was among those healed, my curiosity was piqued and I couldn't shake the feeling. I decided to check with the Chester County District Court to see if Philip Campbell ever changed his name. They had no record of a name change in their court. So I asked if it was possible that he did it elsewhere. They said it was out of the question. The present guidelines of the Department of Homeland Security would log any such change into the federal registry.”

     Gallagher chuckled, knowing what his reporter probably did next.     

     “But that didn't convince you, did it?”

     She shook her head, smiling.

     “I spent a good part of today traveling to a few smaller courts around Philly and came across a small one not far from Campbell's old house in Exton itself. As I went through the court's database, I found a change of name filed for a Philip Campbell to a John Townsend. Somehow,” she paused to allow for a sly expression, “it never made it into the federal registry.”

     Gallagher chuckled as he closed his eyes and shook his head.

     “Our computer whiz hacked the court's system,” he said a moment later.

     Glass sighed, looking over her boss's head as memories from four years back flashed across her thoughts.

     “It wouldn't surprise me.” She said. “He certainly had the expertise. And considering how his fame only exploded with his Robin Hood act, he was probably hounded by followers, detractors, and reporters alike. Hell, I certainly reached out for a follow-up myself; I can only imagine the number of other news outlets that did the same. The poor guy probably just wanted to vanish.”

     “I don't blame him. I would have done the same thing . . . if I knew how.” Gallagher found himself suddenly feeling sorry for John Townsend after all he'd been through. But he especially felt bad knowing it was his paper that would be exposing his true identity—an identity that the priest had gone to great lengths to hide.

     Glass folded her arms, the manila folder jutting out from her left. “That courthouse in Exton is the only place where one social security number is associated with two names—Philip Campbell and John Townsend.”

     “You're absolutely certain about this, right?”

     Glass was all too familiar with her boss's strict policy of validating potential leads and information, so she had done what made the most sense.

     She smiled before putting the folder on the desk in front of Gallagher.

     Gallagher glanced at it for a moment, then met her eyes while wearing that renowned smirk of his.

     “You really like building up to the moment, don't you?” He chuckled, picking up the folder.

     “It's why you gave me the name.” She smiled back.

     “The Queen of Sleuth,” Gallagher said, opening the folder.

     Inside was a color printout with John Townsend's image on the left and an archived image of Father Philip Campbell on the right.

     He put on glasses that had been hanging around his neck and began focusing on the images side by side. After a moment of mentally removing the facial hair and focusing on the eyes, lips, and nose, Gallagher knew without a doubt that both faces belonged to the same man.

     He dropped the photos on the desk and sighed, then leaned back again in his chair.

     “This is incredible.”

     He was still feeling awe from the miracles that had transpired over the past four days, and now the shocking revelation that it had been Philip Campbell all along raised even more questions than it produced answers.

     “It's . . . pretty crazy, I know.” Susan said, shaking her head.

Gallagher leaned forward, wearing a mischievous grin. “It's too bad you didn't wait another twenty minutes,” he said.

     Glass was perplexed. “But . . . but we would have gone to press by then.”

     “Yes, and for the first time in thirty-five years, I would have had to call out 'Stop the presses!' ”

     She giggled, then stepped to her left and dropped into one of the chairs facing his desk.

     “Either this guy is a living saint or—”

     “—or nothing,” cut in Gallagher. “He's a living saint. That and the most confirmed psychic healer in history.”

     He looked at the computer screen to his right for a long moment, staring at the headline that would have been hitting the streets and the internet not long from now. He turned back to Glass.

     “This guy's life has been one amazing and diverse enigma. Time magazine could sum it up with their covers. In his twenties, he revolutionizes the tech industry with his software, earning him a cover on the magazine. Sells his company soon after and dives into the seminary. Then a few years after graduating into the priesthood, he becomes an Internet sensation, earning him Time's Man of the Year cover. A decade after that he lands there once again, this time for stealing five million dollars and donating it to charity.”

     “Then he disappears,” Glass added.

     Gallagher looked back down at the images on his desk. “And now he pops up under a different name, healing the sick and dying by the hundreds.”

     “Which will put him on the cover again, no doubt.”

     Gallagher let out a short chortle. “Yeah, no doubt.”

     He turned back toward the computer screen and sat frozen for a long moment before suddenly switching into his well-known commando mode.

     “I want all archived material on Father Campbell pulled up immediately. You and Seth are gonna write two different articles. The first is an exposé on his life—as detailed as possible—with every tidbit available leading up to his notoriety on the Internet: his crime, what he's done under his new identity, finishing it up with the events of this week. The second is going to be about his apparent ability to be forgotten by those he comes in contact with. Whether it's security, or doctors, nurses . . . even the people he's healed—it's always the same, they never remember a thing.”

     Glass liked the angles but found one large piece missing, and it was something that certainly needed addressing. “What about all the people he's healed?”

     “What about them? They'll be covered in the first piece.”

     “I mean the fact that they all have this overwhelming desire to be of service . . . to help others. It's pretty even across the board, even with the young children.”

     Gallagher's eyes lit up. “Oh Jesus!” he nearly yelled. “Of course, yes!” He then began panning the room, as if he were searching frantically for lost keys. His eyes suddenly locked back onto his lead writer.

     “Make that the second angle. You'll need to access all the patient interviews since the healing began. Why is there a sudden need or desire for them to help other people; what's their common motivation, if any? Father Campbell was known for his compassion, so did he do something to them in the healing process? Did he whisper something in their ear? If there is a way to link it back to his once being a priest, then do it. I want as positive a spin as possible, mind you.”

     Glass looked sideways at her boss, with a bemused look.

     “What's there to spin, Bill? This guy is healing hundreds of people every day. Police cameras even have him healing people in the streets. Considering the lengths he's gone to to hide his identity, I doubt he's doing it for the fame.”

     “I know that, Susan.” His features quickly became serious. A moment later, he looked away from her and back down to the images on his desk, focusing on the one of Father Campbell.

     “I'm just worried.” He looked back up to Glass. “There are plenty of agitators who would love this guy to have some fault or dark secret. The Robert Lockes and Phil Rushmores of the world. The kind of scum who concern themselves with sensationalist crap because it sells better than the truth. Townsend's empathy is so alien to their nature, they need him to be a bogeyman.”

     “No intelligent person takes Rushmore seriously, Bill. And as for Locke—”

     “Titan News Corporation has the largest market share, Susan. Say what you will about their definition of facts, a lot of people watch them and believe their crap. What this paper puts out there has to be verifiable, with no stone unturned. Remember Seth's screw-up with that piece on the Iraq vet . . . I don't want another news outlet having a field day with a mistake we made or some detail left missing.”

     Her subtle nod only reaffirmed what she had believed back when that article was going to press—that something seemed suspicious about the source claiming the soldier was a deserter.

     “I'll call upstairs,” continued Gallagher, “let them know what we've got here. That we'll have the full story up on the site tonight and in hard copy for the morning edition.”

     When it appeared that Gallagher was finished, Glass nodded and jumped out of her chair to leave his office, but stopped when he called her name.

     “Susan. I don't need to tell you that the clock is ticking here. It might be hard to make the leap you did, but I'm sure some other bright-eyed reporter will find the Campbell connection soon enough. We need to be first out there with this.”

     “You got it,” she said, then with an exaggerated grin, added, “Chief.”

He looked up her, smiling at the reference to Superman, one of their favorite inside jokes.

     “Great Caesar's ghost, Susan. Don't call me Chief!” He winked at her before she turned and left his office.