Decker said, “I’ve been working on a missing kid that turned into a quadruple homicide. Kid’s okay, thank God. In the room are the sister and retarded brother of two of the victims. Seems the retarded brother is ready to confess.”

“Confess to what?”

“I presume he’s ready to confess to one or more of the homicides, but the kid doesn’t want a lawyer. Actually, his sister doesn’t want him to have a lawyer. And the brother will do whatever the sister tells him to do.”

“How old’s the brother?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Who’s his legal conservator?”

Decker smiled to himself. A legal conservator wasn’t the type of detail these men would pay attention to. Not that farmers eschewed all urban life. Man, they could be wizards when it came to leveraging property or machinery for bank loans for expansion or modernization. But try getting them to make a will. He heard his father’s voice ring through his ears.

What do I need a will for, Pete? I don’t care what happens after the Good Lord sees fit to take me away.

Decker had tried to reason with him.

The estate would be thrown into probate, Dad. Your assets would be frozen, and Mom would be strapped until the funds were released. ’Course, Randy and I would take care of her, but you know how independent she is. A will would avoid all that mess.

Logic didn’t change Lyle Decker’s mind a whit.

Decker looked at Nixon and said, “I don’t think they’ve ever officially appointed a conservator for the kid. The boy—rather, man—does have a mother and a father, but the sister says she’s the one who’s been responsible for him for the last six years.”

Nixon said, “Let me talk to my clients.”

“They may not be too happy to see you,” Decker said. “I sort of forced you on them. I want the confession, but I want it done by the book.”

“Give me a minute alone with them,” Nixon said. Five minutes later, he exited the interview room. His face had become flat, his eyes had lost their sparkle.

“Everything okay, Lou?” Decker asked.

“You’re right,” Nixon said quietly. “They don’t want a lawyer. Especially a nigger lawyer.”

“Oh shit, I forgot about that!” Decker said. “I didn’t even think about you being black. These people are backwoods, have a thing against anything that’s not white Baptist. I’m sorry, Lou. I really am sorry.”

Quietly, Nixon said, “It’s okay. It happens.”

“What do we do now?” Decker asked.

“Let me be there,” Nixon said. “Let me advise them even if they don’t want it. Then, if they want to hang themselves…well, can’t stop the world from turning, Pete.”

Earl was slow to get started. He slurped his juice, looked at his sister for approval; then, head down, spoke in a monotone.