Tate Collier’s Lexus skidded up to the pay phone on Route 29.

He leapt out, looking around desperately.

He saw no one.

“Hello?” he called in a harsh whisper. “Hello!”

He glanced at the old diner-or what was left of it after an arson fire some years ago-and piles of trash. Deserted.

Then he heard a moan, followed by some violent retching.

Tate ran into the bushes. There Konnie sat, bloody and drenched in sweat, vomit on his chin, eyes unfocused. He’d been crying.

“Jesus. What happened?” Tate bent down, put his arm around the man. When Konnie’d called him twenty minutes ago he’d said only to meet him here as soon as possible. Tate knew he was drunk, only half conscious, but had no other clue as to what was going on.

“I’m going down, Tate. I fucked up bad. Oh, Christ..

Bett… now Konnie… What a day, Tate thought. What a day.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m okay. But I may’ve killed people, Tate. There was an accident. I left the scene.” He gasped and retched for a minute. “They’re looking for me, my own people’re looking for me.” He coughed violently.

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No, I’m turning myself in. But-”

He rolled over on his side and retched for a few minutes. Then caught his breath and sat up.

A squad car with flashing lights cruised past slowly. The searchlight came on but it missed the bushes where Tate crouched beside the detective.

“Listen to me,” Konnie said. “You have to get to the office. You need to look at the receipts.”

“Receipts.”

“For the tires. Go to the office, Tate. Genie should’ve made a copy of them. I’m praying she did. Ask her for them. But move fast ‘cause they’re going to impound my desk.”

“Genie? That’s your assistant?”

“You remember her. The list of receipts, okay?”

“All right.”

“Then look for whoever paid cash for the tires.”

“Cash for the tires. All right.”

“She ran warrants but that’s not… that’s not what I shoulda been looking for. Tate, you listening?”

“I’m listening.”

“Good. Look for the receipts where the customers paid cash. Then run the tag numbers of their cars. If the registered owner doesn’t match the name on the receipt that’s our boy The one took your daughter. I got a look at He caught his breath. “I got a look at him.”

“You saw him?”

“Oh, yeah. The prick suckered me good. He’s white, forties, dark hair. Six feet. About one seventy. Said he… Claimed he was Bureau. He suckered rue just like my daddy suckered people. Shit. God, I’m sick.”

“Okay, Konnie. I’ll do it. But now I’m getting you to the hospital.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not wasting another fucking minute. You’re going do what the hell I told you. And be there for my arraignment. I can’t believe what I did. I can’t believe it.” His voice disappeared in a cascade of retching.

Tate found his old commonwealth’s attorney ID badge at home and ran back to his car, hanging the beaded chain around his neck.

The date was four years old but was in small type; he doubted anyone would notice.

In twenty minutes he was walking into the police station. No one paid him any attention. He signed the log-in book and walked into Konnie’s office.

A heavyset woman, red eyed and crying, looked up.

“Oh, Mr. Collier. Did you hear?”

“He’s going to be all right, Genie.”

“This’s so terrible,” she said, wiping her face. “So terrible. I can’t imagine he’d take to drinking again. I don’t know why I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’m going to help him. But I’ve got to do something first. It’s very important.”

“He said I should help you when he called. Oh, he sounded so drunk on the phone. I remember he used to call me up and say he wouldn’t be coming in today because he had the flu. But it wasn’t the flu. He sounded the way he was tonight. Just plain drunk.”

Tate rested his hand on the woman’s broad shoulder. “He’s going to be all right. We’ll all help him. Did you make a copy of the receipts?”

“I did, yes. He always tells me, ‘Make a copy of everything I give you. Always, always, always make a copy.’”

“That’s Konnie.”

“Here they are.”

He took the stack of receipts, owners of Mercedeses who’d bought new Michelins. On four receipts the cash/check box was marked. He didn’t recognize any of the names.

“Could you run these tag numbers through DMV and get me the names and addresses of the registered owners?”

“Sure.” She sniffed and waddled to her chair, sat heavily. Then she typed furiously.

A moment later she motioned him over.

The first three names matched those on the receipts.

The fourth didn’t.

“Oh my God,” Tate muttered.

“What is it, Mr Collier?”

He didn’t answer He stood, numb, staring at the name Aaron Matthews, Sully Fields Drive, Manassas, the letters glowing in jaundice yellow type on the black screen.

24

The Court: The prosecution may now present its summation, Mr. Collier?

Mr. Collier: My friends… The task of the jury is a difficult and thankless one. You’re called on to sift through a haystack of evidence, looking for that single needle of truth. In many cases, that needle is elusive. Practically impossible to find. But in the case before you, the Commonwealth versus Peter Matthews, the needle is lying out in the open, evident for everyone to see.

There is no question that the defendant killed Joan Keller He was seen walking with the victim, a sixteen-year-old girl, by Bull Run Marina. He was seen leading her into the woods. He was later seen running from the park five minutes before Joan’s body was found, strangled to death. The mud in which her cold corpse lay matched the mud found on the knees of the defendant’s jeans. When he was arrested, as you heard from the testimony, he blurted out to the officers, “She had to die.”

And in the trailer where he lived, the police found hundreds of comic books and horror novels, depicting big, hulking men doing unspeakable things to helpless women victims-victims just like Joan Keller

The defense can see that shiny needle of truth as clearly as you and I can. There’s no doubt in their minds, either, that the defendant killed that poor girl. And so what do they do? They try to distract us. They raise doubts about Joan’s character They suggest that she had loose morals. That she’d had sex with local boys… . sometimes for money. Or for liquor or cigarettes. A sixteen-year-old girl! These are nothing more than vile attempts to distract you from finding the needle.

Oh, they talk about accidental death. “Just playing around,” they say. The killer was a troubled young man, they say, but harmless.

Well, I’d say the facts of the case prove that he wasn’t harmless at all, don’t you think?

Harmless men don’t strangle innocent young women seventy pounds lighter than they are.

Harmless men don’t act out their sick and twisted fantasies on helpless youngsters like Joanie Sue Keller

Ladies and gentlemen, don’t let the defense hide that needle of truth from you. Don’t let them cover it up. This case is simple, extremely simple. The defendant, through his premeditation, his calculation, his knowing, purposeful intent, has taken a life. The life of a young girl. Someone’s friend. .. someone’s sister. .. someone’s daughter There is no worse crime than that. And he must be held full y responsible for it.

The great poet Dante said that the most righteous requests are answered in the silence of the deed. I’m not asking for hollow words, ladies and gentlemen. No, I’m asking for your courageous deed-finding this dangerous killer sane, finding him guilty and recommending to the court that he pay for young Joan Keller’s life with his own. Thank you.