“Okay. So what happened?” Bentz asked as Montoya gunned his Mustang onto a major arterial again. Staring out the side window, Bentz barely noticed the sidewalks of New Orleans flash by. The storefronts and pedestrians and cars were a blur as he tried to wrap his brain around what Hayes was saying. In his mind’s eye he saw Donovan Caldwell, the odd older brother of the murdered twins. Donovan had been out of step with society, a bit of a recluse, even a little nasty. He had harbored a hatred of his sisters but refused to take the blame for their horrific deaths, maintaining his innocence.

“Looks like suicide,” said Hayes. “I mean, the guy was in the cell alone, but who knows what goes on in the middle of the night in the big house? Guards can be bribed. Some inmates have more privileges than others. You know? It’s really too early to tell.”

“Movie stuff.”

“It happens.” Bentz nodded, thinking of the time difference. California was two hours behind New Orleans, so there hadn’t been much time for an investigation. Yet.

“I don’t have all the details,” Hayes was saying. “But apparently he had some sort of tiny shiv, sliced his wrists, but had the guts and determination to leave a message before he bled out.”

“A message?” Bentz felt a niggle of apprehension skitter through his insides. “What was it?”

Montoya wheeled the Mustang around a final corner to the station and slowed for a couple of runners who cut across the street. As he did, he sent his partner another “What gives?” look.

“He managed to write ‘I’M INNOCENT’ in block letters on the wall of his cell. Written using his own blood.”

“Jesus,” Bentz whispered, a deep sadness stealing over him. He thought of the man everyone believed to be the 21 Killer now dead, at his own hand. Some people would celebrate, believing that a serial murderer had been taken off the streets for good; that he no longer would be chewing through taxpayers’ money; that, if he offed himself, all the better. Good riddance to bad rubbish! But if they were wrong? If Caldwell wasn’t 21? If he’d sliced his own wrists in resignation because he couldn’t take the fate he’d been handed? So out of his mind and desperate that he would take the time to leave a final proclamation of innocence as he bled out?

“A guard found Caldwell this morning,” Jonas was saying. “He was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late to save him. DOA.” He paused for a second. “Look, because you called about the 21 Killer, I thought you’d want to know.”

“I do. Thanks.”

“Yeah, gotta run.”

Bentz hung up.

“Bad news?” Montoya asked as he pulled into the lot closest to the station and drove the Mustang into a vacant spot.