"But I didn't enter with Roy-Boy," Blackburn said. "He went in through a window in the back, where the woman was. Didn't anyone see him?"

"Apparently not. But even the state admits he was there, so that's the route we'll take during the trial. We'll try to make the jury believe that he did it, and that you entered the apartment several minutes later."

"Well, that's what happened," Blackburn said.

"I believe you," his attorney said.

This time Blackburn not only found no comfort in the statement, but heard that it was a lie. His instincts told him that if he was going to get out of this mess, he would have to do it himself. This time, he would listen to them.

The hearing on the new rape charge took place on Wednesday, May 14, 1986, Blackburn's twenty-eighth birthday. His lawyer arranged for him to be allowed to wear a suit and tie instead of jail fatigues, but he was transported to the courthouse in handcuffs and leg shackles. His lawyer was not allowed to accompany him in the van.

He sat on a wooden bench in the van's rear compartment. Three Texas Department of Public Safety troopers serving as guards sat on a bench across from him. They wore cowboy hats and mirrored sunglasses. They reminded him of Officer Johnston.

"You know that needle they stick in your arm," one of the troopers said. "Supposed to be painless, but it ain't."

Another trooper nodded. "It's as big around as a garden hose."

"Sometimes they have to dig for twenty or thirty minutes to find the vein," the third trooper said.

Blackburn watched them. They were pretending to be talking to each other, but their message was for him.

"Personally," the first trooper said, "I wisht they hadn't gone to the needle at all. It hurts some, but not enough. Not as much as this boy hurt that woman he killed."

"I've never killed a woman," Blackburn said.

The troopers turned toward him. Their mirrorshades reflected his face six times. The van went over a bump, and the reflections jiggled.

"Shut up, boy," the second trooper said. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"You were speaking to me," Blackburn said.

The third trooper reached across with his rubber baton and jabbed Blackburn in the stomach. Blackburn saw it coming and tensed his muscles for it, then doubled over to make the trooper happy.

"Don't puke on them shiny shoes," the first trooper said. "The judge won't like it."

"Judges frown on puke," the second trooper said.

Blackburn sat up and smiled.

"Wipe that grin off," the third trooper said, "or I'll give you another politeness lesson. You hear?"

"Yes," Blackburn said. "Thank you."

The troopers glanced at each other-or seemed to; it was hard to tell with the mirrorshades-and then laughed.

" 'Thank you,' " the first trooper repeated. "Ain't that polite?"

"Polite as Sunday school," the second trooper said.

"Why you thanking us, boy?" the third trooper asked.

"For giving me a reason," Blackburn said.

"A reason for what?" the first trooper asked. Blackburn said nothing.

The van stopped in a tunnel under the courthouse, and the troopers hustled Blackburn to a courtroom where the third trooper took a set of keys from his shirt pocket and removed Blackburn's handcuffs and leg shackles. That was another concession that Blackburn's attorney had won for him. It was to be the last one.

The hearing was quick. Blackburn's attorney protested the rape charge, but the judge let it stand. Since Blackburn was to be tried for murder anyway, the judge said, the state might as well kill two birds with one stone and try him for rape at the same time. If the charge had no merit, the jury could say so. Bail was denied. Blackburn's attorney sighed and said nothing more.

Five minutes later Blackburn was in handcuffs and shackles again. Five minutes after that he was back in the van with the three DPS troopers, waiting on the driver and shotgun rider. The driver and shotgun rider had not expected to be needed again so soon, and had gone to the courthouse cafeteria. One of Blackburn's troopers called them on a walkie-talkie, but they replied that it would be a few minutes before they could return to the tunnel.

The troopers didn't seem to mind.

"Tough break in court today," the first one said in mock sympathy.

"Guess you won't be raping anyone else," the second said.

"I've never raped anyone," Blackburn said.

The third trooper jabbed him with the baton again. This time Blackburn didn't double over.

"I've never raped anyone," Blackburn repeated, "and I've never killed a woman. Men, yes. But never a woman."

"How many men?" the first trooper asked.

"Just so we know how scared we should be," the second said.

"Eighteen," Blackburn said. "So far."

The troopers laughed.

" 'So far,' " the third one said. "Whoo, this boy's a mean one."

"You remember them all, do you?" the first trooper asked. "Every man you killed, every way you did it?"

"Yes," Blackburn said.

"Well, hell, enlighten us," the second trooper said. "We got time. Who was your first one? A cripple in a wheelchair?"

The troopers were chuckling. They thought Blackburn was a psychopathic freak who needed to hurt women to feel strong. They didn't believe he had killed any men.

Blackburn stared at his six reflections. "The first one," he said, "was a cop."

The troopers stopped chuckling.

"It was my seventeenth birthday," Blackburn said, "eleven years ago today. It was even a Wednesday. He was the city cop of my hometown in Kansas. He shot a dog on the steps of the Nazarene church, so I took his gun and killed him. The gun was a Colt Python with a four-inch barrel." He nodded at the third trooper. "Like the one in your holster. Most people with three fifty-sevens have Smith and Wessons, but I was always glad to have a Colt."

"There's nothing wrong with Smith and Wessons," the first trooper said.

"Hell, no," the second said.

"I never said there was," Blackburn said.

The third trooper stood, crouching because of the low ceiling, and shoved his baton into the loop on his belt. His hand went to the butt of his pistol. "Boys," he said, "if you would like to go for a cup of coffee, I would be happy to stay with the prisoner."

The first trooper looked up at him. "You know we can't do that."

"He's shackled," the third trooper said. "And you don't have to be gone long."

The second trooper shook his head. "Anything you want to do, you can do with us here. We won't say a word."

"Two minutes," the third trooper said. "That's all I want. You can stay close to the van if you're worried."

The first trooper shrugged. "What the hell. I ain't worried."

The second trooper shrugged too. "Okay. What the hell."

The first and second troopers left the van and shut the door. The third trooper unsnapped his holster's safety strap and removed his pistol. It was identical to Blackburn's old Python.

"You want to take this from me?" the trooper asked, holding up the gun.

Blackburn saw no point in lying. "Yes," he said.

"You want it bad enough to kill me for it?" the trooper asked.

Blackburn considered. "No," he said. "I do want to kill you, but taking the gun would be incidental."

The trooper cocked the Python and pointed it at Blackburn's face. "Why do you want to kill me, then?"

Again, Blackburn saw no point in lying. "Because you're a sadistic prick."

The trooper came close and placed the gun muzzle against Blackburn's left cheek. "You got an answer for everything," he said. "So answer me this: Why do I want to kill you?"

The muzzle pressed upward. It hurt, but Blackburn ignored it.

"Because you're a sadistic prick," he said.

The trooper took the muzzle away from Blackburn's cheek and then hit him on the other side of the face with the Python's butt. Blackburn fell and lay on the bench. He heard the roar of blood in his skull.