The more I thought about Rader’s and Wedd’s identical SUVs, the stronger the hero-worship scenario got. But Deputy D.A. John Nguyen didn’t like it, was intent upon finding something more ominous and premeditated.

“I need creepy psycho stuff, Alex. Give me Manson, bloodlust, a folie à deux, the works.”

Milo said, “Seems creepy enough as is, John.”

“Never enough.” Nguyen grinned. “Maybe I’ll get a book deal out of it.”

Reality was, the case would stretch on for months, maybe years. Donny Rader, despite being buttressed by an army of high-priced legal talent, had failed in his request for bail. But the special cell he occupied at the men’s jail put him safely away from the gangbangers and the lunatics and the trophy-hunters, and stories had begun to circulate about special privileges for the star, mailbags overflowing with love letters sent by severely disturbed women all over the world, female deputies charmed by the artfully slurring actor.

Kelly LeMasters got a serious book deal from a New York publisher and quit the Times. Tough luck, John N.

The smart money had Rader avoiding trial via diminished capacity, serving some time in a cushy mental hospital, maybe eventually getting out.

I wasn’t so sure. Then again, I’d been wrong about so much.

At this point, I could live with that.

One month and five days after Rader’s arrest, I drove to Western Pediatric Medical Center, looked for Salome Greiner, found her again in the doctors’ dining room. Late in the day for lunch. Just her and her Jell-O, cottage cheese, and tea. As if she never left the place.

I sat down across from her.

She said, “The prodigal psychologist returns.”

I said, “Jimmy Asherwood was a wonderful man who led a tragic life. I can see why you’d want to protect him. I have no desire to smear his memory. He did nothing to deserve that. Quite the contrary.”

She sighed. For all her vitality, an old woman. I felt like a troublesome son. Continued, anyway.

“I know about his war injury, know that any relationship you and he had wasn’t sexual.”

Anger caused her mandible to jut. “From you,” she said, softly, “I’d expect a bit more imagination.”

That threw me.

She said, “What exactly do you want?”

Rather than answer, I said, “Jimmy respected the right of a woman to control her own body but he was aware that sometimes women—girls—could be pushed into decisions they really didn’t want. Girls from a certain social caste who’d created an inconvenience for their families. Enter, Swedish Hospital.”

“Goods and services for cash, darling. What could be more patriotic?”

“When the girls decided to terminate, Jimmy went along with it. But unlike the other physicians, he tried to find out what they really wanted. Stepped in when he felt they were being steamrolled. How’d he convince the parents?”

“You’re the expert on human nature.”