Frankie glanced back across his shoulder. "Sure, why not?" He stepped away from the door and we crossed the threshold. His entire living quarters consisted of one room with a linoleum floor, a hot plate, an ancient refrigerator, an iron bedstead, and little else. In lieu of a closet, he had a rack made of cast iron pipe on which he'd draped his clothes, both dirty and clean. I could see a cramped bathroom through a door that opened off the rear wall. In addition to an ashtray full of butts, there was a tumble of paperback books on the floor by his bed, a mix of mystery and science fiction. The room smelled of ripe sheets and stale cigarette smoke. I'd have killed myself if I were forced to live in a place like this. On the other hand, Frankie was used to prison, so this was probably an improvement.

There was no place to sit so the two of us stood while Frankie crawled back in bed and pulled the sheet across his lap. The ensuing conversation seemed bizarre, like a visit with Stacey in his hospital room. I'd never seen anyone other than the chronically ill opt to be interviewed prone. It suggested a wary sort of self-confidence. He straightened the sheet and folded the top over once. "You can skip the small talk. I'm working again tonight and I need my sleep."

"We'd like to ask you about the time you spent in Lompoc before you got picked up."

"What about it?"

"How you got there, what you were doing before your arrest?"

"Don't remember. I was stoned. I had shit for brains back then."

"When the officers pulled you over, you were six miles from the spot where a young girl's body was found."

"Wonderful. And where was that?"

"Near Grayson Quarry. You know the place?"

"Everybody knows Grayson. It's been there for years."

"It seems like quite a coincidence."

"That I was six miles away? Bullshit. I have family in the area. My dad's lived in the same house forty-four years. I was on my way to visit."

"After killing Cathy Lee."

"I hope you aren't here coughing up that old hair ball. I'll tell you one thing, they never should have nailed me for murder one. That was strictly self-defense. She came at me with a pair of scissors – not that I need to justify myself to you."

"Why'd you run? Hardly the actions of an innocent man."

"I never said I was innocent. I said – oh hell, why should I tell you? I was in a panic, if you want to know the truth. You do meth, you don't think straight. Temper runs hot and you think everybody's after you."

"No need to be defensive," Dolan said.

"Please forgive me. I beseech you. People wake me up, I get cranky sometimes."

Dolan smiled. "You get cranky, you fly off the handle, is that it?"