Sherrill drew me farther up the hall, muttering, “That one’s Russian Mafia, cut your throat as easy as smile at you.” When we were alone, he said, “I don’t talk much to prisoners, life’s too short, why fill your life with garbage. But this one, being a kid, I tried to be friendly. Turner reacts by shining me on. Completely. Making like I’m invisible. One time, I’d been off-shift, and when I got back he looked like he’d lost some weight. I brought him some breakfast, threw in some extra toast because he seemed pitiful. He snatched up a piece, gobbled like a hyena. I asked him if he understood why he was in here. This time, he doesn’t shine me on, he comes right out and says, ’ ‘Causa what I did.’ But not with any feeling. He could’ve been ordering fries and a Coke. Then he takes another piece of toast from the breakfast tray and looks me in the eye and starts chewing. Real slowly, real sloppy. Pieces are falling out of his mouth, and then he starts dribbling and drooling, rolling his eyes. Acting like an idiot, like it’s a big joke. I stand there and he keeps it up and then he spits it all out on the floor and says, ‘What?’ Like I’m annoying him. And I say you didn’t answer my question, dude. Why’re you in here? And he says, ‘I fucked that baby up is why.’ Then he grinds the toast into the floor with his foot and says, ‘This shit sucks, dude. Gimme some real food.’ ”

“Remorseful,” I said.

“Doc, God help me for saying it— if you repeat this I’ll totally deny it— but some sperm deserve to be drowned before they get a chance to swim.”

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

Small boy, stick arms, heart-shaped face. Expectant brown eyes widened as I entered his cell. The pinched, wounded features of a Dickensian orphan.

I introduced myself.

He said, “Pleased to meet you.” It rolled out easy, like a rehearsed line, but if there was sarcasm I wasn’t catching it.

I sat down and he said, “That chair’s not real comfortable.”

“Not much choice around here,” I said.

“You kin sit on the bed and I kin sit there.”

“Thanks, Troy, but I’m fine.”

“Okay.” He straightened his posture, rested a hand on each knee.

I took out my notepad. Looked at his hands. Narrow, white, long-fingered hands, grimy around the cuticles but the nails had been clipped neatly. Delicate hands. It wouldn’t take much strength to strangle a baby, but still . . .

“Troy, I’m a psychologist.”

“To talk to me about my feelings.”

“Someone told you that.”

“Miz Weider.”