“True.”
Cross stretched. “Our serial is meticulous to a fault. If you were the target, no way he wouldn’t leave his full signature. Plus, the other serial victims weren’t robbed, and their hair wasn’t cut off.”
“So you’re leaning toward a mugger,” she said.
“An addict, given the frenzy of the attack,” Cross said. “I’ll throw your theory in the mix, because I might be wrong. But the evidence suggests you weren’t the target.”
Emily closed her eyes, nodded. “Someone needs a fix so an entire family dies,” she said, recalling the “hubby got transferred so the kids and I did, too.”
“It rains,” Cross said, “even in Camelot.”
9:41 a.m.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, boss,” Johnny Sanders said, looking up from the execution documents papering his desk. “What’s up?”
“Feel like driving to Chicago?”
“When?”
“Now.”
Huh. In seventeen years as a state historian, he’d never been asked to go upstate on such short notice. “I suppose I could,” he said cautiously.
“Good. You’re appearing on Oprah tomorrow.”
Sanders sat back, stunned. “What? Me? Why?”
“You’re the crash test dummy.”
Sanders felt his cheeks tingle. It was fun at first, being a celebrity - even the speaker had called to rib him. Now it was embarrassing.
“I . . . well . . .”
“Relax,” his boss said, helping himself to Sanders’s bowl of M&Ms. “It’s priceless exposure, letting Miss Winfrey know what we do down here in the bowels of government. The governor’s pleased and hopes you’ll say yes.”
Sanders felt sweat roll down his neck. “Why can’t Mr. Covington appear? Or the director?”
“Because you’re the crash test dummy,” his boss repeated. “Closest thing we got to a dead man who can talk on camera.”
He flipped M&Ms into his mouth.
“Oprah wants to know how you felt strapped in that burner,” he said, masticating noisily. It reminded Sanders of feeding time on the veldt. “Saying goodbye to your sainted mother while the juice melts your kneecaps. You know, all that boo-hoo stuff her audience laps up.”
Sanders squirmed. His only “boo-hoo” was wetting his pants when the death box buzzed. He wasn’t going to tell Oprah that. Then again, maybe she already knew. Oprah was everywhere. “How’d she hear about me?” he asked.
“Same as us - that newspaper story.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I assured Mr. Covington you’d be delighted to meet with Team Oprah this afternoon. They’ll put you up on Michigan Avenue and buy your gas and meals. You’ll appear live on the show tomorrow morning. They’ll even let you bring the wife. Whaddaya say?”
Sanders gulped.
“That’s the spirit!” his boss said. “I know you’ll make us proud.”
10:10 a.m.
“Heard you tripped and fell last night,” the CO jeered.
Corey Trent stared at the floor, legs splayed because his balls ached so much.
“Whatsa matter, stinky?” the CO pressed, clearly enjoying himself. “No clever comeback? I’m soooooo disappointed.”
Trent lifted his bloodshot eyes.
“My only disappointment’s your wife,” he said, voice gravelly from one of the sock-chops. “The ho ran outta gas before I could-”
“Put a lid on it, Trent,” the senior CO grunted as he walked up.
“Yaz, bawse,” Trent said, saluting with both middle fingers.
“Best not push that,” senior said, “you don’t want to be pushed back.” He turned to his colleague, scowling. “Thought you knew gators bite when you mess with ‘em.”
The CO tensed like he was going to clobber him.
“I ain’t in no cage,” senior said quietly, flexing his anchor tattoos.
The CO blanched.
Then, unexpectedly, smiled.
“Guess you’re right,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Why waste effort on a dead man? Day after tomorrow, he’s a bucket of extra-crispy.”
Senior slapped his back, and they moved on.
Trent shook his head.
“Hey, Core,” said the arsenic poisoner two cages down.
“Yo.”
“Way to punk his bony ass.”
Trent laughed. “Fun slapping around the new fish.”
“No finer sport,” arsenic agreed. “One thing he’s right about, though.”
“What’s that?”
“You stink like a bucket of turds. Me and the boys voted. You don’t shower by six, we’re gonna make ya.”