Wainwright held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. He ate the shrimp and took a drink of his beer.

“I was with the bureau for eighteen years.”

“I know. The Office of Professional Responsibility,” Louis said.

Wainwright paused. “You’d like to know exactly what that is, wouldn’t you?”

Louis took a swig of beer, then nodded.

“OPR is an inspection team that evaluates misconduct and efficiency problems, kind of an internal affairs department,” he said. “It was put together as a response to all the corruption in the early years. Lot of the guys were there on temporary assignments.” He gave a wan smile. “We called ourselves rent-a-goons.”

Louis couldn’t decide who felt more ill at ease, he himself or Wainwright.

“You said it was temporary?” Louis said.

Wainwright nodded. He pushed the bucket toward Louis but Louis shook his head.

“You’re missing a treat here,” Wainwright said.

“They look too much like crawfish.”

Wainwright pulled the bucket back and peeled another shrimp, chewing it slowly.

“My first real assignment was as a field agent working out of Jackson, Michigan.”

“Jackson? That’s farm country,” Louis said.

“It was a satellite office. The bureau has hundreds of them in small towns. They’re called RAs—resident agencies.”

“What the hell do FBI agents do in places like Jackson?”

“Not much,” Wainwright said. “I had a few bank robberies and one custodial kidnapping, but those years were pretty quiet at first.”

Louis picked at his fries.

“Then in 1973 a girl was murdered in Albion, a town nearby,” Wainwright said. “Everyone in that town knew who did it—a snot-nosed college kid named Carson. But no one seemed to want to prosecute one of the town’s favorite sons.”

Wainwright paused to take a drink. “Then another girl turned up dead. Both the mothers were begging me to step in. Because the girls appeared to be forcibly taken, I was able to call it a kidnapping and took it over.”

“Did you catch Carson?”

“Yeah, after he killed a third time.” Wainwright pushed the shrimp bucket away and finished his beer.

Louis signaled the waitress for another round.

“I got lucky in that case, Louis,” Wainwright said, “made a few right turns here and there. Before I knew it, I was being asked to advise on other similiar cases. This was before anyone really knew much about serial murders. Shit, we just called them multiples in those days.”

He paused. “I worked nine or ten cases. Then we caught a case in seventy-eight near Adrian. Ever heard of the Raisin River Killings?”

Louis sat upright. “Harlan Skeen?”

Wainwright nodded, his eyes drifting. “Skeen raped and murdered twelve little girls. We found the first body in April of seventy-eight. The second one turned up around July Fourth. By Thanksgiving, we had found four.”

The waitress put the fresh beers in front of them. Wainwright took a drink before he went on.

“I was assigned to the task force. We put everything humanly possible into that case for nine months.”

Louis waited. It was a full minute before Wainwright went on.

“Toward the end of winter, we had another girl go missing,” he said. “A week later, we finally got a break. Someone saw a man taking a girl into his car and got a license number. That night, he was spotted at a traffic light and ran. We chased the fucker into a park.” Wainwright shook his head. “I had this wild idea that maybe we’d get lucky, that maybe we’d find this kid alive.”

Wainwright stopped again.

“What happened?” Louis prodded.

“We cornered Skeen in the bathroom.” Wainwright took a drink of beer. “I had to shoot him.”

The flatness in Wainwright’s eyes was chilling. “What about the girl?” Louis asked.

“We found her when we popped his trunk. She was dead.”

Louis looked away.

“The other bodies turned up one by one when the snow started melting. I was called out for every single one.” He paused. “Then, one Saturday afternoon, I got the call again. I didn’t want to go because my kid had a basketball game, but I went. It was raining, windy, still cold like it can be in April. I drove down to Adrian, out to the woods. I parked at the bottom of the hill with all the other units.”

Wainwright stopped, staring at this hands, clasped around the sweating beer bottle.

“I got out and looked up the hill. It was foggy and all I could see was that damn yellow tape flapping in the wind.” He looked up at Louis. “Something happened. I couldn’t go up. I just couldn’t go up there and look at one more of those damn little bones.”

A burst of laughter drifted over from the family at the next table.

Wainwright cleared his throat. “The next day I asked to be reassigned. They sent me to OPR.”

His blue eyes remained locked on Louis for a moment; then he raised the bottle to his lips. He closed his eyes as he drank. When he finally put the bottle down, it was empty.

“Almost every agent I worked with paid a price in some way,” he said. “Ulcers, heart scares, divorce. It’s not so much dealing with the evil as what the evil leaves behind.”

“Anita Quick and June Childers,” Louis said quietly.

Wainwright nodded slowly. “The families,” he said. “That was the worst part for me, dealing with the families.”

They fell quiet.

“Dan, this thing with you and Farentino—”

“What about it?”

“You want me to talk to her, try to smooth things over?”

“Why?”

“Because we have to work together,” Louis said.

Wainwright picked at the Bud label. “Do what you think is necessary,” he said.

Louis wanted to say more, but he could tell from Wainwright’s eyes that the subject was closed.

The bartender ambled over to the jukebox. A few seconds later, the bar filled up with the sound of Frankie Goes to Hollywood singing “Relax.”

Wainwright was staring at the window. It was raining lightly, the neon Bud sign forming red streaks on the glass. Wainwright looked back at Louis.

“What the fuck is this song about?” he asked.

“Jerking off,” Louis said.

Wainwright shook his head. “Man, I’m getting old.” He stood up, tossing a twenty on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Patsy Cline’s contralto drifted out of the house, floated over the canal, and dissipated in the balmy night air. The mangroves were black lace against a lavender sky.

Louis watched the family across the canal cleaning up after their barbecue, the kids rolling on the grass like puppies while the mother tried to herd them inside. They appeared to be acting out parts in a silent movie, their movements overlaid with music.

The sliding glass door opened and Louis looked up to see Dodie coming out, a sandwich and beer in his hand.

“I didn’t know you were home,” Dodie said. “We didn’t wait supper on ya. You ate yet?”

Louis shook his head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

“Mind if I sit?”

Louis motioned toward the lounge. Patsy Cline had launched into “How Can I Face Tomorrow?” Louis heard Margaret’s voice warble in sync with Patsy’s.

“Margaret really likes her country music,” Louis said.

Dodie stared at him. “You don’t?”

“It’s all about drunks and losers and ugly dogs. Pretty pathetic stuff, don’t you think?”

“Some folks would think cop work is pretty pathetic, too. It’s just life.”

“And death,” Louis said.

Dodie nodded. “I suppose.”

Louis stood up and went to the edge of the patio. The thick curtain of night had descended. The family across the way had gone in, turning off their porch lights. The glow of their television danced in the darkness.

“Sam, I need some advice,” Louis said.

“Sure.”

“Dan’s not who I thought he was.”

“Folk seldom are.”

Louis turned. “No, I mean, he’s not strong as I thought. I think he’s losing his grip on this case.”