“Just bits now,” he answered. “But don’t you worry, Mrs. Bates. I’m going to nail the bastard.”

“My husband would like that. Justice and all that kind of thing. I don’t think much about justice. It drives me crazy when I think of how unfair it all is, so I don’t think about it. I just want to pick up the pieces and go on. But my husband…he’s consumed with the idea of revenge.” She went back to snipping. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s trying to solve this thing himself.”

“What has he come up with?”

“Nothing. He’s fixated on the idea that Chris…Did I tell you about Chris?”

The boy’s sobs echoed in Decker’s head. “I know who he is,” he said.

“My husband seems convinced that Chris is guilty.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my husband needs someone to blame and Chris is convenient. I never liked the boy, but…”

“You don’t think Chris had anything to do with it?”

“No. And I think my husband is driving the boy crazy. He calls him all the time, writes him letters, follows him all weekend and on his lunch hours. I can’t seem to convince him that this is all wrong. He’s obsessed, Sergeant. My husband is going insane.”

Decker placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She continued her gardening. Neither spoke for a while. Then Decker stood up.

“I’ll keep in touch,” he said. “Take care, Mrs. Bates.”

She snipped off a long-stemmed Olympiad rosebud. Without looking up, she handed it to him.

Praying didn’t cut it. He slipped the pocket siddur in his jacket and took off to a house of refuge he’d used in the past.

It had once been a topless joint, but for the last five years it was a cop’s bar. He waved to a few of the off-duty uniforms sitting at a corner table laughing, then seated himself on a stool at the far end of the counter. A two-year hiatus since he’d last been here, and he’d come back to the same damn bartender polishing the same damn glasses. He acknowledged Decker with a nod.

“What’ll it be, Pete?” he asked.

“Double scotch straight up.” Decker took out a cigarette. He was smoking too much, he was going to drink too much, and he didn’t give a shit. “How’s it going, Pat?”

“Nothin’ much has changed since you been here last.”

Decker looked around. The walls had been repainted a dark red and the linoleum was new. The honey oak tables and chairs were the same, a little more worn. Same plastic light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The pool table had been refelted—red this time. Country music wailed from a corner jukebox—Bocefus moaning about an attitude adjustment. The place was still a bar.