I walked to the other side of the bed. Kelly rolled his eyes, trying to follow me. I pulled out the picture of Ami in the milkshake shop and held it up.
A flicker in Kelly’s eyes before he looked down. He knew her. Or at least recognized her.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Beats the fuck out of me.”
“And this guy?” I pulled out Noah’s drawing of the yellow-eyed man near the train.
Kelly got busy plucking at the plastic ID on his wrist. “A man near a train. The fuck do I know?”
I stuck the photo of the Superior Gentlemen under his nose. “And these guys?”
“Looks like a bunch of fags.”
“Riley Lynch,” I said.
“Who?”
“Todd Asher.”
“The fuck you talking about?”
“And Craze. Who’s Craze, Kelly?”
Something slithered into Kelly’s eyes. His skin took on a gray cast. Bandoni caught the change and leaned in. “He a friend of yours?”
Kelly held up his middle finger.
I folded my arms. “Here’s what you and I and Detective Bandoni all know. When the techs finish processing that reefer car, they’re going to find your fingerprints. And your DNA. All it takes is a single hair, Kelly. Did you know that? A few skin cells. And then we’re going to place you at the scene of the crime.”
Kelly had stopped moving as soon as I said fingerprints.
“We know you were there,” I said. “And we know you’re an asshole. A real, genuine, bottom-of-the-barrel asshole.” I leaned over the bed. “But I’m not as convinced as my partner that you’re a killer. What I think is that you saw something that scared the crap out of you. Maybe someone even beat you because of it. And now you’re afraid to talk.”
He snorted. Kept his eyes down. “So what if I was on that reefer? I’m not saying I was. But if I was, so what? That ain’t murder.”
“Here’s what we’re going to tell a jury. You and your pal Patterson caught out in North Platte so you could get to Denver and your favorite band. You picked the chicken car because the door was open. At some point, probably in Ogallala, you tagged the car because you wanted to tell the entire world how fabulous your band is. Kill the Normies.”
Bandoni picked up the story. “By then the chickens were starting to reek. Must have been a real stink fest. But you were too stoned to care.”
“Plus, relocating in a heavily patrolled rail yard is risky,” I added. “Cinder dicks everywhere. You stayed put.”
“Then, outside Denver, the train stopped,” Bandoni said. “And here’s where things could go either way. Maybe you killed a guy . . .”
“Or”—I snapped my fingers, and Kelly jumped—“maybe you saw him killed.”
Bandoni jutted his chin forward. “Which is it, band boy?”
Kelly tucked his chin to his chest and stayed silent. His breathing rasped in and out. Black ink on his forearm read Jesus raves.
From the other side of the curtain came a continuous stream of chatter and the whoosh and beep of machines. Nearby, a curtain slid on metal hooks. Someone walked past with the squeak of rubber soles on tile. A man said, “. . . myocardial infarction. It means we have to . . .”
Bandoni’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then excused himself and went out into the hall.
A single bead of sweat caught on Kelly’s hair and splashed onto the bed.
“Who did land one on you?” I said softly. “Was it the same guy who murdered Noah? Did he tell you he’d kill you if you squealed? Tell you he’d beat your head in while you were sleeping?”
“Fuck you.” Another bead of sweat dropped.
“Was it Craze?”
Silence.
“We can protect you.”
Petzky came in.
“Your partner wants you,” he told me. “I’ll watch this guy.”
“Last chance, Kelly,” I said. “You want to tell me what really went down out there?”
He gave me the finger again. But the gesture was half-hearted.
“Why don’t you sleep on it?” I said and blew him a kiss.
On the other side of the curtained doorway, Bandoni was still on the phone. He gave me a nod and finished the call. Then he pocketed his phone and dropped into a chair, his bowling-ball head sunk into his shoulders like it now weighed fifty pounds.
“We got a second victim,” he said.
The hallway took a small twist, a warp in space that only I could see. And suddenly Noah Asher stood beside Bandoni.
He was a ghost with a face now, courtesy of the DMV photo. Pale skin, kind eyes. That innocent-looking black cowlick.
He pressed a hand to his heart.
Bandoni stuck his head into the bay where Kelly sat. “Petzky, book this asshole. Possession of an illegal weapon.”
Kelly’s howl of protest followed us as we headed toward the exit.
“Fill me in,” I said.
“Smith and Wesson were up on rotation,” Bandoni said. “But as soon as they saw that someone had used the corpse as an Etch A Sketch, they called us.”
The emergency-room doors whooshed open, blasting us with cold air.
“The body’s on the altar of a church,” he went on. “Redeemed Life.”
I gave him a startled glance. “Todd Asher’s church.”
“Right. Someone’s on the way now to pick up Todd. Riley Lynch, too, while we’re at it. Our victim’s a white male. Midtwenties. No ID yet. The killer wrote across his chest, ‘Vengeance is ours, we will repay.’”
“The Bible. Like Noah.”
“Romans twelve nineteen, according to Weston, but with a slight change.”
“The killer used the plural,” I said.
“Right.” Drops of rain darkened Bandoni’s coat. “Not ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ but—”
“Vengeance is ours. Meaning we have more than one killer?”
Bandoni grunted. “Meaning we don’t know shit yet.”
I unlocked the Tahoe and looked through the window at Clyde. He wagged his tail in greeting. I owed my K9 partner a good belly rub when we got home.
While Bandoni heaved his bulk into the passenger seat, I started the engine and cranked the heat. The police-issued parking permit fluttered on the dash.
Bandoni pulled out his cigarettes, tapped the pack on the back of his hand. “That wasn’t all. The killer—”
“—or killers—”
“—carved up
