Evelyn’s source for Manson information had gotten back to her with a list of three possible Manson sons: a former Manson family member turned Nevada brothel owner, a drug dealer who boasted of an ongoing prison correspondence with Manson and a B&E artist who claimed to be Manson’s illegitimate son.

“Door number three sounds promising,” I said.

“He’s probably bandying the story around to gain street cred,” Evelyn said. “But we should look him up.” She turned back to her computer. “What’s the name on that sheet again?”

“Benjamin Moreland.”

“State?”

“Right here in Indiana.”

“Hold on.”

Jack shook his head and sunk back into the couch. Five minutes of keyboard-clicking later, Evelyn stopped.

“Well, that’s promising,” she said.

She swung around from the computer and waved at a grainy, enlarged photo on the monitor. Jack and I peered at the screen. A thin, wide-eyed face peered back.

“That good?” Jack asked.

“You don’t see the resemblance?” Evelyn said.

When neither of us answered, she sighed, retrieved the Helter Skelter book from the shelf, opened it to a page of photos and passed it to us. The guy did look like Manson, especially in the upper half of the face, through the eyes and hairline.

“Now, he could be trading on a coincidental resemblance to back up his story,” Evelyn said. “But I’d check it out. DNA is DNA.”

Twenty minutes later, she turned from her computer again. “I found Moreland. Seems he’s currently enjoying the hospitality of a mental institution outside Indianapolis.”

“So he’s Manson’s son after all,” I said. “Or, I suppose, one could argue that claiming to be related to the man is grounds for committal in itself. Either way, it can’t be him.”

“Not so fast,” Evelyn said. “We have no idea what kind of security this hospital has. If this was our killer, it would make one hell of an alibi.”

She pointed to the screen. “He had a series of arrests in the late eighties, then nothing. Maybe he’s moved up in the world. For all his fuckups, Manson was a bright guy. Let’s assume his kid inherited those brains.”

I glanced at Jack. “Do we have anything better to follow up on right now?”

He shook his head.

“How far to Indianapolis?”

“’Bout two hours.” He checked his watch. “Leave now? Should make visiting hours.”

We’d barely made it out of the driveway before Jack said, “Evelyn told me. What happened. At the motel.”

“Ah.”

He drove for another few minutes in silence, then said, “Something else, isn’t there? With Evelyn.”

“I don’t think she expected me to shoot—”

“Not what I meant. About Evelyn. What’d she do?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Don’t doubt that. What was it?”

When I didn’t answer, he pointed at the glove box. “Can you grab—?”