He grimaced, as if stung. “I thought I'd put that behind me, then I looked into the bitch's eyes and realized I hadn't. And she made it so easy—playing her part. Turning her back and walking right in front of me. Open invitation.”

He coughed. Cleared his throat. The gun bumped against my sternum.

“Everything was perfect—no one around. I locked all the doors without her noticing, she's too busy giving me her spiel. When we reached an inner bathroom with no windows, I hit her. And did her. She fell apart as if she was made of nothing. At first it was messy. Then it got easier. Like a good riff, the rhythm.”

He talked on for a long while, slipping into a drone, like a surgeon dictating operating-room notes. Giving me details I didn't want to hear. I tuned out, listening to the dog thump and bark, listening for sounds from the bedrooms that never came.

Silence. Sighing. He said, “I found my life's work.”

“Rodney Shipler,” I said. “He didn't work at the school, did he? Was he a relative of Delmar's?”

“Father. In name only.”

“What was his crime?”

“Complicity. Delmar's mom was dead, Shipler was the only member of Delmar's family I could find. Delmar told me his dad was named Rodney and he worked for the L.A. schools—I thought he was a teacher. Finally I located him over in South Central. A janitor. This tired old asshole, big and fat, living by himself, drinking whiskey out of a Dixie cup. I told him I was a lawyer and I knew what really happened to his son. Said we could sue, class action—even after the bitch, I was still trying to work within the system. He sat there drinking and listening, then asked me could I guarantee him a lot of money in his pocket. I told him no, money wasn't the issue. The publicity would expose Hitler for what he'd really been. Delmar would be a hero.”

Jab. “Shipler poured himself another cup and told me he didn't give a shit about that. Said Delmar's mom had been some whore he'd met in Manila who wasn't worth the time of day. Said Delmar had been a fool and a troublemaker from day one. I tried to reason with him—show him the importance of exposing Hitler. He told me to get the hell out. Tried to push me out.”

Coburg's eyes flared. The gun seemed fused to his hand.

“Another good German. He tried to push me out—real bully, but I taught him about justice. After that, I knew the only way was swift punishment—the system wasn't set up to do the job.”

I said, “One form of punishment for the underlings, another for the high command.”