“No God that night, that’s for sure,” Marty said. “Branch kept chasing. I stopped. It was a boy. Hazel-eyed, full head of hair.”
“Like your son.”
“Yeah.” Long pause. “Boy laid in that dirt like a seed sack. Gurgling. Crying. Bleeding out of his mouth and ears, busted all to hell. Then he quit breathing.” She felt his heart race. Gripped his hand tighter. “I did CPR. Didn’t help. That boy died in my arms, and Corey Trent did it.”
“So you went crazy.”
“The state’s attorney ruled I applied the appropriate amount of physical force to effect the arrest of a fleeing homicide suspect,” Marty said.
“You went crazy.”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling thinly. “I broke both Trent’s arms. Kicked the hell out of him, snapped off that tooth. Would have killed the bastard if Branch hadn’t pulled me away. To this day, I wish he hadn’t.” He traced a finger from eye to chin. “That’s how Branch got slashed, you know. Trent had a knife.”
Emily nodded, recalling the captain’s omnipresent scar, which wiggled when he clenched his teeth. “That’s another reason you went crazy,” she said. “Because he’s your best friend.”
“You are,” Marty said. “But he’s my brother. No way I let that slash go unanswered.”
“I wouldn’t either, if he was you.”
Marty’s nod said, I know. “We arrested him. He went to jail. He pays tomorrow.”
“Today,” she said, glancing at her watch.
“Even better. It’s closer to noon.” He snorted at her unasked question. “Yes, I hate the death penalty. Yes, they should ban it. Yes, I’m happy Trent’s getting it. Yes, I’m a hypocrite.”
“And I’m the hypocrite’s biggest fan,” she said, kissing him.
Marty reached for the second can of whipped cream.
“Ah-ah-ah,” she said, rolling into the bedside chair and slipping on her clothes. “We already had dessert. It’s time for the main course.”
“What’s that?”
“We identified the serial killer.”
“What?” Marty said, bolting upright. “Why didn’t you mention that when you walked in?”
“I missed you,” she said.
He thought about that, chucked her chin. “I like the way you think, Detective. Now spill!”
3:23 a.m.
“Awfully darn good how you worked out that bus swap, Reverend,” a congregant said. “We’d have never gotten here otherwise.”
“The Lord provides,” Danny said, smiling. “But it’s nice having earthly help, too.”
3:24 a.m.
“His name is Daniel Monroe,” Emily said. “Brother of Earl Monroe, a minor-league gangster executed in 1972 for-”
“Blowing up cops,” Marty finished. “And the grand jury witness they were guarding.”
“Branch said you’d remember,” she said. “Did you know Daniel?”
“Never met the man. Or Earl. But the crime was fairly fresh when I joined the sheriff’s. The old-timers ground that tragedy into us rookies - that this is what can happen on even the dullest assignment, so pay attention.”
She thought of Rayford Luerchen.
“When did you figure it out?” he asked.
“Last night,” she said. “We’ve been nailing down details ever since.”
“And you’re able to come here why?”
“You complaining, big boy?”
“Not hardly,” he said, squirting whipped cream into his mouth.
She squeegeed a glob off his lip. “At one-forty-five, Chief Cross said those of us working the execution should get a few hours’ sleep,” she said. “I told him I’d stop on my way home, let you know what we found. He said take my time because you’re pretty slow on the uptake.”
“Remind me to kick his half-an-ass later,” Marty said. “After buying him a martini.”
“Flatterer,” Emily said, feeling herself blush.
“What about motive?” he asked, back to business. “I get Danny whacking the warden or guards to avenge Earl. Our victims weren’t even born, though. Why them, why now?”
She fished Appendix F from her purse.
“These are our serial victims,” she said. “Zabrina Reynolds, Frank Mahoney, Sage Farri, and so forth.”
“And?”
“They’re also the grandkids of the twelve official witnesses to Earl Monroe’s execution.”
Marty whistled. “Talk about revenge being best served cold. Danny waited three generations to avenge his brother.”
“Not just Earl.”