Shad clearly wants me out of his office, but so long as he thinks I have the photo, he’ll handle me with kid gloves. “Lincoln Turner believes his mother was murdered. The physical evidence supports his assertion. And whether your fiancée chooses to print it in the paper or not, his assertion is likely to become a public accusation very soon. If the past is any guide, the rumor will be all over town long before tomorrow’s paper hits the streets.”

The mention of Caitlin momentarily derails my thoughts; thankfully, she’s out of town for the day, interviewing Katrina evacuees at a FEMA trailer park near the Louisiana state line. “Those were not legal points, Shad.”

“But they matter, and you know it. I wish I had better news for you. But the only person who might be able to prevent this situation from getting worse is your father. And you said he wouldn’t talk to you. Is he sticking to that position?”

“I haven’t spoken to him since our first conversation.”

Shad’s nostrils flare. “Remember when I told you I didn’t think any cop or deputy in town would serve a warrant on your father?”

I nod.

“I’ve since learned I was wrong.”

This tells me that everything Shad knows is leaking through the sheriff’s department as we speak. With Billy Byrd wearing the star, that’s no surprise. Two years ago, Sheriff Byrd, Shad, and a local circuit judge colluded to try to railroad a friend of mine into Parchman. And while I’ve never uncovered the basis for that unholy alliance, I know that none of those three will hesitate to use the power of his office to settle personal scores.

“For some reason,” Shad goes on, “Billy Byrd has a hard-on to bust your old man. The sheriff seems to be one of the few people who don’t worship Tom Cage. In fact, I got the feeling he hates him. You might want to ask your dad about that, as well.”

I close my eyes and speak in an exaggerated Eastern European accent. “I’m seeing something in my mind … wait … yes. It’s a picture of … a bull? No, a bulldog. The dog is hanging from a tree … and there’s a district attorney hanging beside it. And people are beating the district attorney with sticks. Now somebody’s hanging a sign on his chest. The sign says DISBARRED in big capital letters—”

“Keep your voice down!” Shad hisses, coming half out of his chair. “Goddamn it.”

“Only one thing will keep my voice down. Give me whatever you’ve been holding back.”

With the look of a cornered animal, he spits out three words. “There’s a tape.”

I don’t even blink. “What kind of tape?”