He’d taken the hair from Moreland months ago and stored it. Then he’d planted it on a scene, to support his later claim to be the son of Charles Manson. Whether it went further than that was supposed to depend on whether he’d need Moreland as a scapegoat. If he did, Moreland would die, in an apparent suicide, but not before confessing to the crimes. As for how a psychiatric patient had managed to commit them, that would be up to the Feds to puzzle out, formulating a theory to fit the evidence.

But now he’d had to use Moreland in a very different way, and couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He’d liked the Manson angle. It had served him well.

Back in 1969, when the Manson murders hit the news, he’d been just starting as a hitman, making the transition from stealing goods to stealing lives. Like most people, he’d followed the case with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Yet in his case, it was revulsion at the killer’s mistakes, and fascination at the uproar he’d caused.

The murders were a work of genius carried out by an idiot. How many times had he worked through Manson’s crimes himself, imagining how much more panic they could have caused if they’d been done right…if the killer had left so little evidence that it looked as if he’d never be caught.

When he’d come up with this plan, he’d thought of the Manson killings. He’d considered reenacting them, but he didn’t have the stomach for that kind of bloodbath. At his age, too, such theatrics seemed a tawdry way to get attention. So he’d done the murders his way, and added the Manson link to set people’s minds and fears buzzing. It’d worked beautifully. But now the time for that game was past.

He’d tossed Moreland to the Feds early, so they’d know the whole Manson angle was a crock. Then they’d concentrate on their theory that the killer was a hitman. He wasn’t worried about that—his cover was secure—but the increased pressure on the profession should make his colleagues think twice about coming after him. They’d turn their attention to protecting themselves, which was what they did best anyway.

Yet after he’d made his decision, he’d realized the tip-off could prove even more useful. It was all a matter of how the Feds played the hand he’d dealt them.

As he was considering this, the agents left the hospital. Disappointment thudded into the pit of his stomach. They were alone. He’d hoped they might have Benjamin Moreland with them. Not that he’d expected them to arrest Moreland, but he’d thought they might remove him for questioning, perhaps even take him into protective custody. That would have made things easier.