“It happened two weeks ago, C.Y.A. never thought to call me. I found out from Social Services because they were looking for his mother. He was found hanging from a punching bag stand in a supply room off the gym. He was supposed to be putting equipment away— that was the job they gave him. He’d been judged too dangerous to work in the kitchen or in the vegetable garden with tools.”

“Suicide?”

“That’s what they thought till they saw blood pooled on the floor and swung him around and found his throat cut.”

I’ve always been too good at conjuring mental pictures. The brutality of the scene— small, pale body dangling in a dark, heartless place— would visit my dreams.

“Do they know who did it?” I said.

“They’re figuring it for a gang thing,” said Laskin. “He’d been there, what, a month? Tried right away to hook up with the Dirty White Boys— an Aryan-B farm club. He was still in the initiation stage and part of the deal was jumping a Latino boy. He pulled that off ten days ago, surprised one of the smaller Vatos Locos in the shower, hit him upside the head with a heavy hairbrush and kicked the kid when he was down. The boy suffered a concussion and bruised ribs and ended up being transferred to another facility. Troy’s punishment was solitary confinement for a week. He’d been back in his bunk-room for three days. The day before he died, they put him back on gym closet duty.”

“So everyone knew where he’d be at a specific time.”

Laskin nodded. “The blood was still wet and the weapon was left at the scene— homemade shank fashioned from a toothbrush and a piece of butter knife honed to a razor-sharp edge. Whoever did it took time to wipe up his footprints.”

“Who found the body?”

“A counselor.” He finished his beer and put the bottle down.

“Want another?”

“Yes, but no.” He uncrossed his legs, held out a hand as if asking for something. “I thought I was being compassionate by sending him to Chaderjian. Downright Solomonic.”

“I thought so, too.”

“You agreed with the decision?”

“Given the choices,” I said, “I thought it was the best decision.”

“You never said anything.”

“You never asked.”

“The Malleys weren’t happy with the decision. Mister called to tell me.”

“What did he prefer?”

“The death penalty.” His smile was queasy. “Looks like he got it.”

I said, “Would sending Troy to adult prison have made him safer?”

He picked up the empty bottle and rolled it between his palms. “Probably not, but it still stinks.”

“Has his mother been located?”

“Finally. The county just authorized her for methadone and they found her at an outpatient clinic, waiting in line for her dose. The warden at Chaderjian said she visited Troy once the whole month and that was for ten minutes.”