Show of Evil

'You have a different idea?'

'No, sir!'

'Everything in order?' Vail asked Stenner. 'About the arrest, I mean?'

'We served the warrant on him, Mirandized him, and used the sheriff in Stephenson County to locate the body.'

Parver sat quietly in the corner, nibbling on the corner of one lip.

'What is it, Shana?' Vail asked.

'I can't help thinking if we had taken him down right after the deposition, Poppy Palmer'd still be alive.'

'We didn't have anything to take him down with after the deposition,' Vail answered, a bit annoyed. 'Hell, by the time we got the warrant, she was already dead.'

Parver did not reply to Vail's comment.

'Shana?'

'Yes, sir.'

'If she hadn't lied to us, she'd still be alive.'

'I know.'

'There's no looking back on this. Tell Rainey for me the girl's blood is on his hands, not ours. If he had delivered his man to us when he said he would, Poppy Palmer would be alive today.'

'I'll tell him that.' She nodded.

'Good. No more plea bargains. You wanted to take him all the way? Do it. Take him all the way to the chair.'

'Yes, sir.'

St Claire trudged through the chilly sunset to the records warehouse two blocks away. He had seen the sun rise and now was watching it set, but he was still too adrenalized to quit for the night. He decided to take a stab at finding the missing Stampler tapes among the mountains of records and files and boxes in the chaos that was the trial records warehouse. It would be impossible, he knew, but maybe he would get lucky twice in one day.

He walked wearily through the dim, two-storey-high crisscross of corridors lined high with boxes and files and illuminated only by green-shaded bulbs high above the walkways. He heard the muffled tones of Frank Sinatra singing 'Come Fly With Me' echoing from one of the corridors and the dim reflection of a light casting long shadows into the main walkway. When he reached the corner and looked down the aisle, he saw a police sergeant seated in a rocking chair under an old-fashioned floor lamp with a fringed shade. He was listening to a small transistor radio with his feet propped against a grey metal desk, gently rocking himself.

'Hi, there,' St Claire said, his voice reverberating down the corridor.

'The old cop jumped. 'Goddamn,' he said. 'Scare a man half to death.'

'Sorry,' said St Claire, walking down the box-lined corridor. 'M'name's Harve St Claire, DA's office.'

The cop lowered his feet and turned the radio volume down. A handprinted sign on a doubled-over piece of white shirt-board read

C. FELSCHER, CUSTODIAN.

'Sgt. Claude Felscher at your service.' He stuck out his hand.

He was a large, bulky man, overweight and rumpled, his uniform unpressed, his pants sagging under a beer belly, his tie askew and not pulled tight enough to hide the missing top button on his blue uniform shirt. A tangled fringe of grey hair curled over his ears. He looked dusty and forgotten, like a fossil lost in the shadowy corner of a museum. Only his badge added an incongruous touch to the gloomy scene. It was polished and it twinkled under the dim bulb of the old lamp.

St Claire wedged a healthy chew under his lip and offered the plug to the old cop, who shook his head.

'How long've you been custodian here, Claude?'

'Hell, I been here since Cain knocked off Abel.'

'Must be the loneliest job in town.'

'Oh, I dunno,' the old-timer said. 'Look around you. I got all these famous cases to keep me company. Remember Speck? Richard Speck?'

'Sure.'