Gurney continued. “The person your trial witness identified as Kay Spalter was actually a man, according to a second witness. And that same man was also captured on video in Mary Spalter’s community a couple of hours before she turned up dead.”

“Where’s all this crap coming from?”

Gurney ignored the question. “Looks like the shooter was a hired pro with a double contract. On the mother and son. Any thoughts about that, Mick?”

That set off a twitch in Klemper’s cheek. He turned away and paced slowly across the open space in front of the barn. When he reached the mailbox at the side of the road he stared for a while in the direction of the pond, then turned around and paced back.

He stopped in front of Gurney. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think none of this means a fucking thing. One witness says it was a woman, another says it was a man. Happens all the time. Eyewitnesses make mistakes, contradict one another. So what? Big deal. Freddie ID’d the bitch wife in a lineup. Some other little coke-head skell didn’t. So what? There’s probably somebody else in that slum dump who thinks the bitch was a space alien. So fucking what? Somebody thinks they saw the same person somewhere else. Maybe they’re full of shit. But let’s say they’re right. Did you happen to turn up the fact that Kay, the bitch wife, hated her mother-in-law even more than she hated the husband she topped? Didn’t know that, did you? So maybe what we should’ve done was send the fucking bitch up for two murders instead of one.” Pasty saliva was accumulating at the corners of Klemper’s mouth.

Gurney spoke calmly. “I have the Emmerling Oaks security video of the individual who probably killed Mary Spalter. The individual on that video is definitely not Kay Spalter. And someone else who saw the video insists the same person was in the Axton Avenue building at the time the shot was fired at Carl.”

“So fucking what? Even if it was a pro, even if it was a double contract, that doesn’t get the bitch off the hook. All it means is she bought the hit instead of doing it herself. So it wasn’t her own sweaty little finger on the trigger. So she hired the triggerman—just like she tried to do before with Jimmy Flats.” Klemper suddenly looked excited. “You know what? I love your new theory, Gurney. It ties in with the bitch’s attempt to hire Flats to hit her husband, plus her attempt to talk her boyfriend into doing it. Ties the knot tighter around her fucking neck.” He stared at Gurney with a triumphant grin. “What do you got to say now?”