“A month in and he’s thinking he’s a tough guy,” he said. “No impulse control . . . yeah, sounds like your basic prison hit. Were he and Duchay in the same facility?”

“No.”

“Lucky for Duchay. If he’d been seen as Turner’s buddy, he would’ve been next.”

“Duchay didn’t get away clean in prison. Coroner said there were old knife scars on his body.”

Milo said, “But he was alive until last night. Big and tough enough to defend himself.”

“Or he learned to avoid trouble,” I said. “He got early release for good behavior.”

“That means he didn’t rape or shank anyone in front of a guard.”

Silence.

Binchy said, “I’ll follow up on what exactly Van Nuys was told, Loot. Enjoy your trip to New York, Doctor.”

After he left, Milo jammed some papers into his attaché case and the two of us descended the stairs to the back of the station. We walked a couple of blocks to where I’d parked the Seville.

He said, “Guys like Turner and Duchay attract bad stuff.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” I said.

“What?”

“Rand makes it through eight years of the C.Y.A., gets out, and three days later he’s dead.”

“Your feeling this, huh?”

“You aren’t?”

“I pick and choose when I bleed.”

I opened the car door.

He said, “What’s really getting to you, Alex?”

“He was a stupid, impressionable kid who lost his parents in infancy, probably suffered brain damage as a baby, got raised by a grandmother who resented him, was ignored by the school system.”

“He also killed a two-year-old. At that point, my sympathies shift.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let it eat at you. Go have fun in La Manzana Grande.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

“Why the hell not?”

“What if I’m relevant to the case?”

“You’re not. Good-bye.”

* * *

I drove home thinking about Rand Duchay’s last moments. Perhaps a temple shot meant he’d been looking straight ahead, hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he’d experienced no final fireburst of terror and pain.

I pictured him lying facedown in some cold, dark place, beyond knowing or caring. Eight-year-old TV images flew into my head. Barnett and Lara Malley exiting the courtroom. She, sobbing. He, tight-lipped, smoldering. So rigid with anger he’d come close to striking a cameraman.

Demanding the death penalty.

Now both murderers of his daughter were gone. Would he find comfort in that?

Had he played a role in it?

No, that was trite and illogical. Revenge was a dish best eaten cold, but eight years between deaths was arctic. Milo was right. Damaged boys like Turner and Duchay did attract violence. In a sense, what had happened was the predictable termination of two wasted lives.

Three.

* * *