Stanley clears his throat yet again.

“What did the background check tell you about Monteros?”

Stanley jumps up and his chair topples backward once more. “Objection, Your Honor!”

“Counsel”-Judge Long waves his arms like a traffic cop-

“approach.”

Stanley and I hurry to the judge’s bench, to the side farthest from the jury.

“Where are you going with this, Counsel?” Judge Long directs his question to me, in a whisper.

“Monteros was on the county’s registry of known sex offenders, a repeat pedophile.”

The judge shakes his head emphatically before I complete the sentence. “Not coming in.”

“State of mind, Judge. That information was conveyed to the parents-to the defendant-before Monteros was arrested. Surely it goes to state of mind.”

Judge Long shakes his head even harder. “No way. I’ll allow testimony about what happened to this child. That’s all. No prior acts.”

He’s right, of course. Even if Monteros were alive and sitting in the courtroom, evidence of his prior bad acts wouldn’t be admissible. Not unless he opened the door by offering evidence of good character. And no lawyer with a license would let him do that.

Stanley rights his chair again and sits, and I return to my post in front of the jury box. Twenty-eight eyes search mine. They want to know what information I’m being forced to swallow. They want to know what I know-more important, what Buck Hammond knew-about Hector Monteros.

I’d like to tell them to remember this moment. I’d like to tell them to keep it in mind as they listen to the Chief’s testimony. I’d like to tell them to read between the lines, to fill in the blanks, to figure it out for themselves.

I can’t, of course. I can’t say any of those things. Not now. Not ever.

Chapter 22

Silence settles on the courtroom like cloud cover. The jurors’ gazes rest on Tommy Fitzpatrick. Mine does too. But I’m in no hurry to resume questioning. The longer the pause, the more memorable the hole in the testimony. At least that’s my theory.

Finally, Judge Long leans forward and catches my eye. “Counsel,” he says, “you may proceed.”

I smile up at him, as if I’d been awaiting his permission.

“You told us yesterday, Chief, that Hector Monteros was the main suspect in the disappearance of Billy Hammond, is that correct?” I turn to scan the faces in the jury box as I ask the question.

“That’s right,” he answers.

I face him again. “Who were the other suspects?”

His smile is barely perceptible. He knows where this is going.

“There weren’t any other suspects,” he says.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“To this day?”

He nods. “To this day.”

“You also told us you were hoping-initially, at least-that Monteros would lead you to Billy Hammond, correct?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t necessary, though, was it?”

“No.”

“Why not, Chief?”

He takes a deep breath. Stanley shifts in his chair and Judge Long looks over at him, no doubt anticipating an objection. Stanley doesn’t get up, though. I walk to the jury box and lean forward on its banister, my back to the witness.

“We found the boy,” the Chief says. “We found his body. Early Monday morning, the twenty-first, at about half past one.”

I continue to stare at the panel. “Where did you find Billy Hammond’s body?”

Water pouring from pitcher to glass is the only sound in the room. Silence surrounds us, weighs on us, while the Chief sets the pitcher down and pauses for a drink. “We had canine units working the canal. Two of them; one on each side. They started combing the area late in the day Sunday, as soon as the van was located.”

Another pause. Another swallow.

“One of them found the boy’s body. It was buried in a shallow grave, under thick brush, about a hundred yards behind the power plant.”

The jurors are silent, their eyes riveted to the witness box. Their expressions are fixed; no emotion in sight.

“Tell us about Billy’s body, Chief. What condition was it in?”

Stanley’s creaking chair tells me he’s getting up again. “Your Honor, please. Counsel is crossing the line here. This is nothing but inflammatory.”

Judge Long shakes his head. “I’ve already ruled on this, Mr. Ed-gar-ton the Third. I’ll allow testimony about what happened to this child. The information is relevant to the defendant’s state of mind and I’ll allow it for that limited purpose.”

The judge turns toward the witness box. “Chief Fitzpatrick, keep it brief. Just the facts.”

The Chief nods up at the judge. His eyes rest briefly on Buck before he faces the panel again. The jurors stare back at him, not blinking. “The boy was bound and gagged,” he tells them. “Naked.” Tommy Fitzpatrick almost swallowed the last word. If the jurors got it, their faces don’t say so.

“An oil-stained towel was stuffed in his mouth. Thin metal cables were twisted around his ankles and wrists. They’d worn through the skin in some spots, exposing the bone.”

The Chief takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and looks at Buck again. “There were no other marks on his body.”

Two jurors in the front row close their eyes. The other twelve don’t move a muscle. I wait until all eyes are open and on me, then turn to face Buck and Patty. Buck’s head rests in his arms on the table, his body rigid. Patty lifts her face skyward, eyes closed, cheeks drenched. Neither one of them makes a sound.

The Chief wipes his eyes. “Twenty-seven years I’ve been on the force. I’ve never seen anything worse.”

“Objection!” Stanley’s face is beet red, his forehead vein bulging.

“Sustained!” Judge Long isn’t happy either. “Chief Fitzpatrick, please, sir. Answer only the question asked. And give us the facts, nothing more.”

More than a decade I worked in this courtroom as a prosecutor. Not once did I hear Tommy Fitzpatrick express an emotion. Until now.

The Chief looks up at the judge, wiping his eyes again. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I apologize.”

Judge Long turns to the panel. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement.”

They nod at him, compliant.

“How did you know the dead child behind the power plant was Billy Hammond, Chief?”

The Chief shifts in his seat. “Well, we felt pretty confident about it from the start. Everything fit. We couldn’t say for sure, of course”-the Chief gestures toward Buck-“until his father identified the body.”

I cross the room again to stand behind Buck, who manages to lift his head from the table to face the Chief. “When did he do that?”

“Right away,” the Chief says, looking back at Buck. “Mr. Hammond was waiting at the morgue when the body arrived-at about two forty-five that morning. We’d called from the road and asked him to meet us there, so we could get a positive ID as quickly as possible. We’d also called the coroner in to do an immediate autopsy. Mr. Hammond identified his boy before it started.”

“Were you present, Chief Fitzpatrick, when Mr. Hammond identified his son?”

“I was.” The Chief stares at the hat in his hands.

“Describe for us, if you can, Mr. Hammond’s demeanor at that time.”

Stanley stirs but says nothing.

For a few moments the Chief seems unable to tear his eyes from his hat. Finally he looks up, his eyes glistening, and speaks directly to the panel. “He collapsed. Fell to his knees at first, then put his face down on the floor, his cheek pressed against the linoleum. I knelt beside him, said I was sorry.”

The Chief shakes his head slowly. “Hell of a thing to say to a man at a time like that. Words are no good sometimes.”

“What did Mr. Hammond say?”

The Chief shrugs and looks down at his hat again, blinking. “Mr. Hammond didn’t say anything. Banged his head against the floor. Kept banging it, harder each time. It took three of us to stop him.”