“Your father’s a good man, Penn. But he’s probably carrying burdens that no man should have to carry alone. There’s no telling what he saw and heard back in those days. What he might have done with the best of intentions, and yet caused terrible consequences. I’m not surprised he doesn’t want to talk to Shad Johnson. He won’t talk to me, and he loved my parents. He won’t even talk to you, his own son.”

“But what does he know, Henry? The identity of Albert’s and Pooky’s killers? Is that really enough to explain his self-destructive silence about Viola?”

Henry shakes his head. “No. But we still haven’t covered the most disturbing part of this story. The murder of Viola’s brother. The gang rape, all that. Once I’ve finished, you won’t have much trouble understanding why your father is reluctant to talk about that time.”

A chill of presentiment makes me feel nauseated. “What are you saying, man? Would you cut to the fucking chase?”

The reporter holds up his hands, trying to get me to be patient. “I’m going to make a cup of coffee. Do you want some?”

I reach out and take hold of his arm, but he gently disengages, then takes a carafe from a stained old Mr. Coffee machine and fills it at a small sink. He’s clearly deep in thought, and his thoughts seem to be causing him pain. He measures out some Eight O’Clock brand, then, once he has the coffee going, returns to his worktable and slides another photograph from a manila envelope.

“I wasn’t sure whether I should show you this,” he says, passing me the three-by-five print.

The photo shows four men standing in the stern of what looks like a deep-sea fishing boat. I recognize my father and Ray Presley standing together, facing two other men who look only vaguely familiar. Seeing Dad with a crooked cop I was glad to watch die gives me a surreal sense of foreboding.

“I recognize Dad and Ray. Who are the other two men?”

“That’s Claude Devereux,” Henry says, pointing to a dark-skinned man on the right side of the photo. The camera apparently caught Devereux telling a humorous story, because the other men are smiling or laughing. Dad, Ray, and Devereux look to be in their mid-thirties in this image, but the fourth man looks older, maybe forty. Even laughing, his hawklike face and wiry build give him a powerful presence.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.

“That’s Brody Royal.”

“Jesus, Henry,” I breathe, feeling dizzy.

“He looks like a shorter Charlton Heston, doesn’t he?”

“Where the hell was this taken?”