“Gunther knew there was a possibility Pinder or one of the chicken hawks might link him to Klapec, so he began feeding false information to Rinaldi,” Slidell said.

“Do you think Gunther knew Evans was Lingo’s right-hand man?” I asked.

“The guy wasn’t stupid, but he definitely had some screws loose,” Slidell said. “They found Tegretol in his apartment. Lots of it.”

“That’s a medication for bipolar disorder.” Ryan.

Slidell’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Like I said. The guy was a whack job.”

I considered, decided against attempting to explain manic depression to Slidell.

“He’d stopped taking his meds?” I guessed.

“Clever move, eh? Doc said he was probably in something called an acutely manic period.”

Impatient with the topic of Gunther’s mental health, Slidell segued back to Evans. “Maybe Gunther learned Evans’s name from Rinaldi. Or spotted him on the tube with Lingo.”

“Lingo’s tirades fed right into Gunther’s delusion,” I said.

“And set Asa Finney up as a perfect patsy to take the fall for Klapec,” Ryan added.

“Here’s the biggest mind-fuck,” said Slidell. “Gunther didn’t know Finney and didn’t know he’d been shot by Klapec’s father. If he’d heard that, he wouldn’t have bothered with the frame on Evans, unless he just wanted to burn the guy.”

Slidell shook his head.

“I was way off base on Finney. The guy was just trying to make a dime and be left alone. His income came from Dr. Games and other sites loading ads on gamers. And the Ford Focus spotted near the witch camp turned out to belong to a cousin of one of the locals.”

“Did CSS find anything useful in Granny’s freezer or basement?” Ryan asked.

“Enough blood for a transfusion. DNA’ll show it came from Klapec.”

“I suspect some of the blood may belong to Señor Snake,” Ryan said.

“Gunther left the copperhead on my porch?”

Slidell nodded. “Probably meant as another satanic misdirect. Or maybe Gunther thought he could scare you off the case.”

I just looked at him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Slidell said. “Maybe the guy wasn’t so smart after all.”

“Why did Evans come home early last night?” I asked.

“Landlady dimed him. Told you that old harpy was trouble.”

“Why did Evans park way up the block instead of just pulling into the driveway?”

“He was probably worried that our warrant might include his vehicle. He must have surprised Gunther sneaking in from the golf course.”

“To plant the saw and Klapec’s head.”

Slidell nodded again.

“When Gunther learned we’d questioned Pinder he decided it was time to get the goods out of Granny’s basement. After capping Evans, he saw us right there in the garage. Things were spinning out of control and he was thinking wildly. That’s when he dreamed up the murder-suicide plan.”

More came out over the course of that day.

At age six, April Pinder had taken a car bumper to the side of her head. The injury resulted in an inability to properly sequence certain types of information. Time was one area that caused her difficulty. Pinder had mixed up dates, confusing the day Gunther got out of jail with the day before he went in.

Turned out Gunther/Ziegler did have a record. Using a long list of aliases he’d worked a number of con games over the years, most bilking elderly or retarded women. A scam based on checking obits, then delivering COD packages requiring payment of money due. Door-to-door peddling of candy, candles, and popcorn for false charities. Sale of “winning” lottery tickets and counterfeited contest coupons. All petty stuff. Nothing violent. His boyish good looks undoubtedly served him well. It was only after going off his meds in August that he started showing bursts of violent behavior.

Overnight, the weather had turned cold and rainy. For the rest of that day and the next, Ryan and I hunkered down at the Annex. Ryan was moody, quiet. I didn’t press. Shooting someone is never easy for a cop.

Katy visited on Saturday morning. She’d never heard of the Cheeky Girls. We all laughed. She talked more about law school. It was good.

Allison Stallings called shortly after noon. I didn’t pick up, but listened as she recorded a message. She’d decided to write about a multiple murder in Raleigh, apologized in case her deception had caused me problems, promised to set the record straight with Tyrell.

Slidell stopped by around four. With him was a very tall woman who almost matched him in weight. Her skin was caramel, her hair black and woven into a single thick braid. From her posture and bearing I knew she was on the job.

Before Slidell could speak, the woman shot out a hand. “Theresa Madrid. This extraordinarily fortunate detective’s brilliant new partner.”

Madrid’s grip could have cracked coconut husks.

“Chief thinks my cultural sensitivities need broadening.” Slidell, out of the side of his mouth.

Madrid clapped Slidell on the back. “Poor Skinny pulled a lucky double-L.”

Ryan and I must have looked blank.

“Lesbian Latina.”

“She’s Mexican.” Slidell’s lips did that poochy thing they do.

“Dominican. Skinny thinks every Spanish speaker must be Mexican.”

“Astounding,” Slidell said. “All those amazingly rich and diverse cultures evolving the same wife-beater shirts and plastic Jesus lawn shit.”

Madrid’s laugh came from somewhere deep in her belly. “Not as astounding as your girlfriend’s mustache.”

Slidell added another puzzle piece. It came from Rinaldi’s son, Tony. His youngest child had Cohen syndrome. Rinaldi was spending all he had on his grandson’s medical fees and on tuition for special schooling. And then some.

When they’d gone, Ryan and I agreed. Slidell and Madrid would get along fine.

Ryan cooked. Chicken fricassee with mushrooms and artichokes.

I worked on a lecture.

Over dinner, and later, we talked.

There had been so many deaths. Cuervo. Klapec. Rinaldi. Finney. Evans. Gunther.

Like poor little Anson Tyler, T-Bird Cuervo had met a violent but accidental end. A man alone in the dark on a railroad track. Perhaps drunk. Perhaps naive about the high-speed technology that had so recently come to his town. Cuervo was a harmless santero. Beyond selling a little marijuana, he’d done nothing illegal, perhaps eased the way for newcomers marginalized like himself by differences in language and culture.

Jimmy Klapec had been driven into the streets by an ignorant and intolerant father. Like Eddie Rinaldi and Glenn Evans, he died because a man went off his meds and lost touch with reality.

Vince Gunther/Vern Ziegler’s life ended why? Because his own brain betrayed him? Because he was evil by nature? Neither Ryan nor I had an answer for that one.

Asa Finney’s death was the most disturbing of all.

“Klapec, senior shot Finney because he was tormented by guilt,” Ryan said.

“No,” I said. “He was driven by fear.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Americans have become a nation afraid.”

“Of?”

“A shooter on a rampage in a school cafeteria. A hijacked plane toppling a high-rise building. A bomb in a train or rental van. A postal delivery carrying anthrax. The power to kill is out there for anyone willing to use it. All it takes is access to the Internet or a friendly gun shop.”

Ryan let me go on.

“We fear terrorists, snipers, hurricanes, epidemics. And the worst part is we’ve lost faith in the government’s ability to protect us. We feel powerless and that causes constant anxiety, makes us fear things we don’t understand.”

“Like Wicca.”

“Wicca, Santería, voodooism, Satanism. They’re exotic, unknown. We lump and stereotype them and bar the doors in trepidation.”

“Finney was a witch. Lingo’s rhetoric tapped into that fear.”

“That plus the fact that people have lost confidence in the system on other grounds. Klapec was a sad example. There’s a growing belief that, too often, the guilty go free.”