Finally, Meecham said, “You coming down like this. I take it they didn’t die in a car accident?”

“Murdered.”

“Oh Jesus,” Meecham said. “Oh God.” He opened his desk drawer, took out a vial of pills, and swallowed one dry. “I’ve got to ask this: What about the kid?”

“Katie’s fine.”

“Thank God for small blessings.” Meecham had turned green. “You didn’t know how badly those two wanted a baby—especially Linda. Luke wanted one, too, but in infertility cases, it’s usually the woman who brings the man. Jesus, after all those years, for her to get pregnant, just like that. Now, they’re dead. That is fucking awful.”

Decker waited for him to calm down. Watched him light up and smoke another cigarette. Then he took out his notebook and asked, “How long did you treat Linda for infertility?”

“Years,” Meecham said. “Eight years, ten years. I was treating them both. Expensive, invasive procedures. But she was absolutely insistent. Both of them were very compliant, no problems as patients. Except whatever we did for them didn’t work, dammit.

“Problems like that can really stress a marriage, Sergeant. Sex becomes mechanical, a woman becomes preoccupied with ovulation, with the acidity and temperature of her vagina, the man feels like he’s nothing but a reservoir of sperm. But the two of them, they really stuck with it. Together. Then, about four years ago, Linda finally gave up.” Meecham threw up his hands. “Just called one day and said, ‘Stan, I can’t take it anymore.’ I talked to her for a long time, mostly listened to her cry. I told her to give it a rest. Try it again in another year or two. Then, boom, a year later, she’s pregnant. Go figure.”

“Then she wasn’t under your treatment when she conceived?” Decker asked.

“Nope. She was still my patient, but I wasn’t treating her for infertility.”

“So she quit around four years ago,” Decker said.

“More or less,” Meecham said.

Same time as her affair with Byron Howard, Decker thought. He said, “You were surprised when she got pregnant?”

“Flabbergasted.”

“What about Luke?” Decker asked. “What exactly was his problem?”

“Low sperm count, about half of his viable sperm were misshapen. Tails bent, so motility was compromised. Little suckers have to be able to swim to the egg. He had no anatomical reason for the low count—no varicoceles, his testicular temperature wasn’t particularly high. Hot balls kill sperm. Just one of those guys who didn’t have a lot of good jism.”

“And Linda?”