“Messed up, but she’ll be okay,” Decker said. “Fucker cracked her skull. Doctor was amazed it didn’t do her in, but thank God it didn’t. They’re monitoring her for pressure on the brain. But the doctor doesn’t think she’ll have any permanent damage except maybe the left corner of her head will be slightly caved in. So she’ll change her hairdo.”

“Bastard,” Hollander said. “We put Miller with some real hard cases. Three Bee’ers—big, black, and been there before. Miller’s got a nice tush. Ten-to-one his asshole’s gonna be yawning before the day is through.”

“It’s not enough,” Decker said.

“True, but it’ll have to do for the time being,” Hollander said. “Second, we got somebody waiting in one of the interview rooms. They wanted Marge, but told me you’ll do if she’s not around.”

“Who?”

“Sue Beth Litton is there with her brother, Earl.”

“What?”

“Seems Earl has a confession to make,” Hollander said. “He’s been Mirandized and everything. Don’t want a lawyer, no, no, no. He and Sis are just waiting for you to put it all down in writing.”

Decker stared at him. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Marge asked Sue Beth if she remembers her mother and brother being up there when she arrived,” Decker said. “Now, suddenly, Earl, the retarded brother, mind you, has something to tell us.”

Neither one spoke for a moment.

“Something stinks,” Decker said.

“To high heaven,” Hollander added.

24

The interview room was an 8' × 8' box toplit by two rows of fluorescent tubing. The acoustical wall tiles had recently been painted pale yellow and gave off an unhealthy glow under the harsh light. Through the door window, Decker could see Sue Beth sitting at the far end of the room, her eyes fixed upon her hands clasped and resting on the metal tabletop. Even though she’d donned a simple cotton dress, she’d made some attempt to doll up—eyeshadow, lipstick, hair curled. The makeup job seemed overdone. A silver charm bracelet dangled from her right wrist. Earl was positioned on her left side.

Though Decker knew Earl was twenty-five, it was hard to believe this male a man. His head was small for his soft body, his face round, with rosy cheeks. His eyes were coffee beans, close-set and filled with childlike fear—a boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. His nose was flat, his chin held an extra layer of flab—not exactly a double chin, more like baby fat that never went away. His mouth was open—he seemed to be breathing through it—his teeth were yellow and small. A moment later, small, stubby fingers wiped his low-set brow. The only hint of his age was meager stubble over and under thick red lips.