And Gus had him killed. Gary Nemeth.

"Then what?"

"I - do we have to talk about it?"

"We goddamn as hell do! How did it happen?"

"They ran him down with a truck. They took him out of bed in the middle of the night, must have been close to midnight. Nothing's out there at that hour. Put him on the road, walking. In his pajamas. I remember the pajamas. Yellow, with baseballs and mitts all over. I - I could have tried to stop it but it wouldn't have made a difference. The kid knew, he had to go. Simple as that. They would have done it later and probably me, too. It was wrong to do that to a little kid. Coldblooded. I started to say something. Gus squeezed my arm. Told me to shut up. I wanted to scream. The kid was walking on the road, all alone, half - asleep, like he was dreaming. I kept quiet. Halstead got into the truck, drove it a ways down the road. I could hear him revving it up, from around the bend. He came back speeding, headlights on high beam. Hit the kid from behind - he never knew what happened, he was half asleep."

He stopped talking, panting, and closed his eyes.

"Gus talked about doing the teacher right then and there but he decided to wait, see if she'd told anyone else. He had Halstead follow her. He staked out her place. She wasn't there. Just her roommate. Halstead wanted to kidnap her, beat it out of her, see if she knew anything. Then he saw the teacher come back with some guy - it was Handler - to pick up her stuff. Like she was moving in with him. Halstead reported it back to Gus. Now it was getting complicated. They kept watching the two of them and finally saw them meet with Bruno. We knew Bruno - he'd volunteered at La Casa, seemed like a great guy. Very outgoing. The kids loved him. It was clear, at that point, that he'd been a spy. Now it was three mouths that had to be closed.

"The calls came a few days later. It was Bruno, disguising his voice, but we knew it was him. Saying he had tapes of the Nemeth kid telling all. He even played a few seconds over the phone. They were amateurs, they didn't know Gus had them from day one, right in the crosshairs. It was pathetic."

Pathetic was the word for the scenario: Take one nice girl. Elena Gutierrez, up from the barrio, attractive, vibrant. A little materialistic, but warm - hearted. A gifted teacher. Depressed about her job, burned out, she seeks help, enters therapy with Morton Handler, M.D." psychopath cum psychiatrist. Ends up going to bed with Handler but continues to tell him her problems - one major one being the kid who never talked before who's suddenly opening up and telling her terrible things about strange men doing bad things to him. He opens up to Miss Gutierrez because she's warm and understanding. A real talent for drawing them out, Raquel Ochoa had said. A talent for working with the ones who didn't respond to anyone else. A talent that cost Elena her life. Because what was human tragedy to her smelled profitable to Morton Handler. Nasty things in high places - what could be juicier?

Of course Handler thinks these things but he keeps them to himself. After all, maybe the kid is making it all up. Maybe Elena is overreacting - you know women, especially Latin women - so he tells her to keep listening, emphasizes what a good job she's doing, what a source of support she is for the child. Bides his time.

Shouldn't I report this to someone? she asks him. Wait, dear, be cautious, until you know more. But the child is crying out for help, the bad men are still coming for him… Elena takes it upon herself to call Gary's doctor. And thus signs his death warrant.

When Elena hears of the child death, she suspects the awful truth; she falls apart. Handler shoves tranquilizers down her throat, calms her down. All the while his psychopathic mind is going click click click, because now he knows there's money to be made.

Enter Maurice Bruno: fellow psychopath, former patient, new buddy. A real smoothie. Handler recruits him and offers him a cut of the yield if he infiltrates the Gentleman's Brigade and finds out as much as he can. Names, places, dates. Elena wants to call the police. Handler quiets her down with more pills and more talk. The police are ineffectual, my darling. They won't do anything about it. I know from experience. Slowly, gradually, he gets her to go along with the blackmail scheme. This is the real way to punish them, he assures her. Hit them where it hurts. She listens, so unsure, so confused. Something seems so wrong about profiting from the death of a helpless little boy, but then again, nothing will bring him back, and Morton seems to know what he's talking about. He's very persuasive and besides, there's that Datsun 280ZX she's always wanted, and those outfits she saw last week at Neiman - Marcus. She could never afford them on what the damned school pays her. And who the hell ever did anything for her, anyway. Look out for number one Morton always says, and maybe he's got a point there…

"Earl and Halstead looked for the tapes," Kruger was saying, "after they tied them up. They tortured them to get them to tell where they kept them but neither of them talked. Halstead complained to Gus that he could have gotten it out of them but Earl went to work too fast with the knife. Handler passed out when he cut his throat, the girl freaked out totally, screaming, they had to jam something in her mouth. She choked, then Earl finished her, played with her."

"But you finally found the tapes, didn't you, Timmy?"

"Yes. She'd kept them at her mother's. I got them from her junkie brother. Used smack as a bribe."

"Tell me more."

"That's it. They tried to put the squeeze on Gus. He paid them once or twice - big amounts 'cause I saw large rolls of bills - but it was just to give them false confidence. They never had a chance from the start. We never got the money back, but I don't think it mattered. It was a drop in the bucket. Besides, money doesn't seem to turn Gus on. He lives simply, eats cheap. There's big bucks rolling in every day. From the government - state and federal. Private donations. Not to mention the thousands the per vs pay him for their jollies. He stashes some away but I've never seen him do anything extravagant. It's power he's after, not bread."

"Where are the tapes?"

"I gave them to Gus."

"Come on."

"I gave them to him. He sent me on an errand and I delivered."

"That's a strong - looking knee. Pity to pulverize it to bone meal." I stepped on the back of his leg and bore down. It forced his head up, had to hurt.

"Stop! Okay. I made a copy. I had to. For leverage. What if Gus wanted me out of the way one day? I mean I was his golden boy now but you could never know, right?"

"Where are they?"

"In my bedroom. Taped to the bottom of the mattress."

"Don't go away." I released my foot.

He gnashed his teeth like a netted shark.

I found three unmarked cassettes where he said they'd be, pocketed them and returned.

"Tell me some names. Of the molesters in the Brigade."

He recited like a kid delivering his confirmation speech. Automatic. Nervous. Overly rehearsed.

"Any more?"

"Isn't that enough?"

He had a point. He'd mentioned a well - known film director, a deputy D.A." a political biggie - a behind - the - scenes man who managed to stay in front - corporate attorneys. Doctors. Bankers. Real estate honchos. Men whose names usually got in print when they donated something or won an award for humanitarian service. Men whose names on a campaign endorsement roster brought in votes. Ned Biondi would have enough to turn L.A. society on its ear for quite some time.

"You're not going to forget all of this when the police ask you about it, are you, Tim?"

"No! Why should I? Maybe cooperating can buy me out?"

"You're not getting out. Accept it. But at least," I added, "you won't end up fertilizing McCaffrey's vegetable patch."