Craig shrugged. “Who knows? I think the guy’s still undergoing tests. But think how that fucked with his head, right? Then, in France, because this is not an America-only thing, you know, that woman politician who compared those millions of refugees to cockroaches—and let’s face it, she was kind of onto something there—goes out to her fancy Beemer and turns the key and thousands of the little bastards start streaming out of the air vents and coming out from under the seats. And voilà!”

He spun the laptop around again for a shot of the woman bailing out her car, her body covered in roaches.

“Someone was waiting to take the picture, and minutes later, it was uploaded to Just Deserts. So you’ve got people all over the motherfucking planet inspired to exact vengeance on people who’ve got it coming, hoping like crazy that what they do is nasty enough to be honored on this website. And let me tell you, Promise Falls has made a name for itself in the whole getting-even department. That guy you killed last year, who poisoned half the fucking town, you know there are whole websites devoted to him?”

Every day Duckworth tried not to think about that, and every day he did. Even without reminders. He said, “Go on.”

“Well, some people think he was terrific, that he made a difference. That he didn’t just teach Promise Falls a lesson. The whole world took notice. They’re saying, what he did, it’s made people more concerned about their fellow man. Isn’t that wild?”

“I sense some grudging admiration about these sites,” Duckworth said. “Even after what happened to you.”

Craig shrugged. “What’s that phrase about an ox?”

Duckworth had to think. “It all depends on whose ox is getting gored.”

Craig snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s the one. In other words, it’s pretty funny until it happens to you.”

“Yeah.”

“So, Just Deserts has some local disciples, not surprising, considering what went down here. More people who want to make a difference. So after they did me, they were itching for another target. Maybe that’s your friend there with the Hallmark greeting on his back.”

“Maybe.”

“But if that’s the case, they must be bragging about it, right? So what’s the dude’s name again?”

“I didn’t say.”

Craig sighed. “So say it.”

“Brian Gaffney.”

“Spell the last name.”

Duckworth spelled it, and added that Brian was without a “y.”

Craig did a few rapid keystrokes and hit Enter. He slowly shook his head. “Nothin’s comin’ up, Mr. Detective.”

“Okay.”

“I guess someone’s got it in for wee Bri-Bri, but it’s got nothin’ to with Just Deserts, which would suggest to me, not that I am a brilliant detective such as yourself, that you’re looking at someone else.”