“I know, but the circumstantial case is building up, bit by bit. The DA's going to let Coburg's attorney know how extensively Jeffers is ratting him out, then offer a deal: no death penalty in return for Coburg ratting on Jeffers over Becky. My bet is Coburg takes it. We'll get both of them.”

“Poor Becky.”

“Yeah. Guess how she and Dick got started? Jean had Becky over for dinner, supervisor-student rapport and all that. Eyes across the fried chicken, a couple of knee nudges. Next day Becky and Dick are at a motel.”

“Mrs. Basille said she thought Becky had a new beau. Becky wouldn't talk about it, which led Mrs. Basille to suspect it was someone she wouldn't have approved of—what she called a loser. Becky'd gone with married men before—guys who promised to get divorced but never did. Dick was exactly her type—married and disabled.”

“What does disabled have to do with it?”

“Becky had a thing for guys with problems. Wounded birds. Jeffers' missing leg meshed nicely with that.”

“He's missing a leg? That's what the limp is?”

“He wears a prosthesis. Becky's dad was diabetic. Lost some of his limbs.”

“Jesus.” He smoked. “So maybe there is something to this psychology stuff, huh?”

I thought about Becky Basille, trapped in a locked room with a madman. “Everything Jean and Coburg did was part of the ritual. Like forging Becky's therapy notes and scripting them to make it seem Becky was having an affair with Hewitt. In addition to diverting us, once more, to Gritz, it added insult to injury by humiliating Becky. As if that could undo the humiliation Becky'd caused Jean.”

He stubbed out his cigar. “Speaking of Gritz, I think I found him. Once I realized Coburg and Jeffers were probably using him as a distraction, I figured the poor sucker's life expectancy wasn't too great and started to call around at morgues. Long Beach has someone who fits his description perfectly. Multiple stab wounds and ligature around the neck—a guitar string.”

“The next Elvis. I'd check Coburg's guitar case.”

“Del Hardy already did. Coburg's got a bunch of guitars. And a phase shifter and other recording stuff. In one of the cases was a set of brand-new strings. Missing the low E. The other interesting things that came up were a man's shirt too small to be Coburg's, torn up and used for a rag, still stinking of booze. And an old Corrective School attendance roster with nineteen seventy-three ripped out.”

“Small shirt,” I said. “Gritz was a little man.”

He nodded. “And a client of the law center. Coburg had gotten him off a theft thing, too, couple of months ago.”

“Any indication he ever knew Hewitt?”

“No.”