In this morning’s paper Grueman was quoted as saying that Waddell had not been receiving proper nourishment and his body bore bruises I could not adequately explain.

“What’s the deal, anyway?” Marino went on. “Was he defending these squirrels when you was in law school?”

“No. Several years ago he was asked to run Georgetown’s Criminal Justice Clinic. That’s when he began taking on death penalty cases pro bono.”

“The guy must have a screw loose.”

“He’s very opposed to capital punishment and has managed to turn whoever he represents into a cause celebre. Waddell in particular.”

“Yo. Saint Nick, the patron saint of dirtbags. Ain’t that sweet,” Marino said. “Why don’t you send him color photos of Eddie Heath and ask if he wants to talk to the boy’s family? See how he feels about the pig who committed that crime.”

“Nothing will change Grueman’s opinions.”

“He got kids? A wife? Anybody he cares about?”

“It doesn’t make any difference, Marino. I don’t guess you’ve got anything new on Eddie.”

“No, and neither does Henrico. We’ve got his clothes and a twenty-two bullet. Maybe the labs will get lucky with the stuff you turned in.”

“What about VICAP?” I asked, referring to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, in which Marino and FBI profiler Benton Wesley were regional team partners.

“Trent’s working on the forms and will send them off in a couple days,” Marino said. “And I alerted Benton about the case last night.”

“Was Eddie the type to get into a stranger’s car?”

“According to his parents, he wasn’t. We’re either dealing with a blitz attack or someone who earned the kid’s confidence long enough to grab him.”

“Does he have brothers and sisters?”

“One of each, both more than ten years older than him. I think Eddie was an accident,” Marino said as the penitentiary came into view.

Years of neglect had faded its stucco veneer to a dirty, diluted shade of Pepto Bismol pink. Windows were dark and covered in thick plastic, tugged and torn by the wind. We took the Belvedere exit, then turned left on Spring Street, a shabby strip of pavement connecting two entities that did not belong on the same map. It continued several blocks past the penitentiary, then simply quit at Gambles Hill, where Ethyl Corporation’s white brick headquarters roosted on a rise of perfect lawn like a great white heron at the edge of a landfill.

Drizzle had turned to sleet when we parked and got gut of the car. I followed Marino past a Dumpster, then ramp leading to a loading dock occupied by a number of cats, their insouciance flickering with the wariness of the wild. The main entrance was a single glass door, and stepping inside what purported to be the lobby, we found ourselves behind bars. There were no chairs; the air was frigid and stale. To our right the Communication Center was accessible by a small window, which a sturdy woman in a guard’s uniforms took her time sliding open.