I nod. “We’re here because I believe some of the men who killed your husband may have been the ones who ordered the murder of my fiancée.”

She blinks in surprise, as if she’s only just put together my deepest personal connection to the case. “I see. Well . . . what would you like to know?”

“I’ve been wondering whether the woman who suffered the horrific assault Mrs. Booker described might remember a lot more detail than she confided to her mother-in-law.”

After a few moments, Dolores nods. “I didn’t tell her everything, of course. I couldn’t. It would have broken her. I didn’t want her suffering as I was. I didn’t have any peace after that night. Not one night of peace, for the dreams.”

I don’t want to hear worse than I heard in Mrs. Booker’s house, but this is what we came for. “What did you dream, Dolores?”

“They . . . they did terrible things to Sam that night. They mutilated him. In my dreams, early on, he came to me without his eyes, and his privates gone. He still does sometimes, even today. Oh, dear Lord. Why would men do that?”

“Some of the Double Eagles are sociopaths. Sadists, more than racists. They used war and the violence of the civil rights struggle to cover their natural predilections.”

She considers this for a while. “That makes complete sense to me.”

“How many men were there altogether, Dolores?”

She shudders and closes her eyes. “Six.”

I want to ask her to look at some photographs of the Double Eagles, but instinct tells me not to—not yet, anyway.

“Are you here because you want me to testify against those men?”

“We’re here first because we want to know if you even have information that could positively identify any of the men who killed your husband.”

She nods slowly, warily.

“Is that a yes?” Serenity asks.

Dolores doesn’t reply.

Something tells me to get off the couch, kneel before her, and promise not to divulge anything she might tell us. But I remain where I am. Serenity cuts her eyes at me, and what I read there is: Don’t say anything. She’s coming to it in her own way. Then Dolores begins to speak in a soft, hoarse voice.

“As for identification . . . one of the men had a stutter. He was a big man, very big, and he was drunk. He had trouble getting an erection when he tried to take his turn, and he almost killed me by beating me, all the while yelling it was my fault.”

I nod encouragement, but my mind is racing.

“That triggered something,” she guesses. “Didn’t it?”

“Your description fits Glenn Morehouse, the Double Eagle who first broke their code of silence and talked to Henry Sexton. The FBI thinks he was murdered by his old comrades. His sister may have helped to kill him.”