"So you won," I said.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I was the conquering hero." Jab. "My victory bought me more dungeons. More sadists, pills, and needles. That's what your places are about, whether you call them hospitals or jails or schools. Killing the spirit."

I remembered the flash of anger he'd shown in his office, when we'd talked about Dorsey Hewitt.

He should have been taken care of…

Institutionalized?

Taken care of. Not jailed- oh, hell, even jail wouldn't have been bad if that would have meant treatment. But it never does.

"But you got past that," I said. "You made it through law school, you're helping other people."

He laughed and the gun retreated an inch or two.

"Don't patronize me, you fuck. Yeah, let's hear it for higher education. You know where I learned my torts and jurisprudence? The library at Rahway State Prison. Filing appeals for myself and the other wretches. That's where I learned the law was written by the oppressors to benefit the oppressors. But like fire, you could learn to use it. Make it work for you."

He laughed again and wiped his forehead. "The only bars I ever passed, were the ones on my cell. For five years, I've been going up against yuppie careerist assholes from Harvard and Stanford and kicking their asses in court. I've had judges compliment my work."

"Five years," I said. "Right after Myra."

"Right before." He grinned. "The bitch was a gift to myself. I'd just gotten the gig at the center. Gave myself two gifts. The bitch and a new guitar- black Les Paul Special. You remember my guitar, don't you? All that rapport-building crap you slung at me in my office?"

The guitar-pick tiepin…

What do you do mostly, electric or acoustic?

Lately I've been getting into electric.

Special effects, too. Phase shifters…

He grinned and raised his free hand as if for a high-five. "Hey, bro, let's jam and cut a record."

"Is that the offer you gave Lyle Gritz?"

The grin shrank.

"A human decoy," I said. "To throw me off the track?"

He jabbed me hard with the gun and slapped my face with his free hand. "Shut up and stop controlling, or I'll do you right here and make your little friend in there clean it up. Keep those fucking hands up- up!"

I felt spit hit my cheek again and roll over my lips. Silence from the bedroom. The dog's struggles had become background noise.

"Say you're sorry," he said, "for trying to control."

"I'm sorry."

He reached over and patted my cheek. Almost tenderly.

"The bitch," he said wistfully. "She was given to me. Served on a plate with parsley and new potatoes."

The gun wavered, then straightened. He crossed his legs. The soles of his shoes were unmarked except for a few bits of gravel stuck in the treads.

"Karma," he said. "I was living out in the valley, nice little bachelor pad in Van Nuys. Driving home on a Sunday. These flags out at the curb. Open house for sale. When I was a kid, I liked other people's houses- anything better than my own. I got good at getting into other people's houses. This one looked like it might have a few souvenirs, so I stopped to check it out. I ring the bell. The real estate agent comes to the door and right away she's giving me her pitch. Da da, da da, da da, da da.

"But I'm not hearing a word she's saying. I'm looking at her face and it's the bitch. Some wrinkles, her boobs are sagging, but there's no doubt about it. She's shaking my hand, talking about pride of ownership, owner will carry. And it hits me: this is no accident. This is karma. All these years I'd been thinking about justice. All those nights I lay in bed thinking about getting Hitler, but the fuck beat me to it."

He grimaced, as if stung. "I thought I'd put that behind me, then I looked into the bitch's eyes and realized I hadn't. And she made it so easy- playing her part. Turning her back and walking right in front of me. Open invitation."

He coughed. Cleared his throat. The gun bumped against my sternum.

"Everything was perfect- no one around. I locked all the doors without her noticing, she's too busy giving me her spiel. When we reached an inner bathroom with no windows, I hit her. And did her. She fell apart as if she was made of nothing. At first it was messy. Then it got easier. Like a good riff, the rhythm."

He talked on for a long while, slipping into a drone, like a surgeon dictating operating-room notes. Giving me details I didn't want to hear. I tuned out, listening to the dog thump and bark, listening for sounds from the bedrooms that never came.

Silence. Sighing. He said, "I found my life's work."

"Rodney Shipler," I said. "He didn't work at the school, did he? Was he a relative of Delmar's?"

"Father. In name only."

"What was his crime?"

"Complicity. Delmar's mom was dead, Shipler was the only member of Delmar's family I could find. Delmar told me his dad was named Rodney and he worked for the L.A. schools- I thought he was a teacher. Finally I located him over in South Central. A janitor. This tired old asshole, big and fat, living by himself, drinking whiskey out of a Dixie cup. I told him I was a lawyer and I knew what really happened to his son. Said we could sue, class action- even after the bitch, I was still trying to work within the system. He sat there drinking and listening, then asked me could I guarantee him a lot of money in his pocket. I told him no, money wasn't the issue. The publicity would expose Hitler for what he'd really been. Delmar would be a hero."

Jab. "Shipler poured himself another cup and told me he didn't give a shit about that. Said Delmar's mom had been some whore he'd met in Manila who wasn't worth the time of day. Said Delmar had been a fool and a troublemaker from day one. I tried to reason with him- show him the importance of exposing Hitler. He told me to get the hell out. Tried to push me out."

Coburg's eyes flared. The gun seemed fused to his hand.

"Another good German. He tried to push me out- real bully, but I taught him about justice. After that, I knew the only way was swift punishment- the system wasn't set up to do the job."

I said, "One form of punishment for the underlings, another for the high command."

"Exactly. Fair is fair." He smiled. "Finally someone catches on. Mrs. Lyndon was right, you are a clever piece of work. I told her I was a reporter, doing a story on you. She was so happy to help… her little A student." The gun tickled my ribs. "You deserve something for paying attention- maybe I'll knock you unconscious before I roll you over the cliff outside. Such a perfect setup…" Head cock toward the front door. "Would you like that?"

Before I could answer: "Just kidding! Your eyes will be taped open, you'll experience every second of hell, just like I did."

He laughed. Droned some more, describing how he'd beaten Rodney Shipler to death, blow by blow.

When he was through, I said, "Katarina was high command also. Why'd you wait so long for her?"

Trying to buy time with questions- but to what end? A longer ordeal for Robin- why was it so quiet in there?

My eyes shifted downward. The damn gun arm wasn't moving.

He said, "Why do you think, clever boy? Saving the best for last- and you messed me up royal. You were supposed to go before her, but then you started snooping around, sending your queer police buddy snooping, so I had to do her out of sequence… I'm pissed at you for that. Maybe I'll put your girlfriend on the barbecue. Make you watch that with your eyelids taped open."

Smiling. Sighing. "Still, she-beast got done, and what's done is done… do you know how she handled her fate? Total passivity. Just like the rest of you." Jab. "What kind of person would want to spend his life just sitting there listening- not doing anything?"