“Our last nut job with enough balls and rage to do the job is George St. Arnaux. He’s my personal favorite. Remember him? The whacko who systematically cut off his victims fingers and toes. How the hell did he get out, I ask ya? Because some legal eagle swears she found an eyewitness who claims the killer was a white guy, not a black, so our friend George was released, though the taxpayers are going to be paying for a new trial, I’ll bet. But George, he was with the lawyer, or so she claims. I think there’s something going on there, ya know what I mean?”

“Not everyone’s mind is in the gutter like yours,” Martinez said. “You already said she’s his lawyer.”

“And she’s boinking him, let me tell you.” His voice lowered, “Some women get off on all that crazy, dangerous stuff, know what I mean?”

“Boinking? Grow up, would ya? We’re not in the seventh grade.” Martinez was not one to hide her feelings. “And your point was…?”

“Yeah, right.” Bledsoe put his hand down and sent her a scowl meant to cut her to the quick, but she held her ground. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t intimidate her. “Anyway, I’ve got no parolee in the state of California I can hang this on. Shit.”

Hayes felt the weight of the investigation. It had been too many days since the coeds had been found dead. The trail was getting cold, not that it had been hot or even warm to begin with. The Springer twins’ murders had moved from page one to further back in the paper, but the killer was still out there. Justice was a long way from being served.

Bledsoe wasn’t finished. “I talked to everyone who knew the Springer twins, retraced their steps. We had officers questioning all the neighbors, friends, relatives. We tried to establish some kind of connection between them and the Caldwell twins, but came up with nada.” He rubbed his face with one hand. “Which brings me back to our ‘friend.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “And I use the term loosely when I call him a detective. This can’t be random.”

“Even if it’s not random, it doesn’t mean he’s the perp,” Martinez said. “If you want to pin it on him, you’ve got to come up with some proof, Bledsoe. Do your job.”

Just then Hayes spotted Rick Bentz, who strode into the squad room and made a beeline for his desk. “Looks like you’ll get a chance to ask him about it yourself.” Hayes smiled for the first time that day. “Knock yourself out.”

“I will.” Bledsoe stepped away from Hayes’s desk, making way for the detective from New Orleans. “Bentz,” he said by way of greeting.