“Some were his own cases, others he stole from old police files. He’d been a thief for quite some time. His characterization, not mine. He shoplifted habitually, took jewelry and money and drugs from crime scenes, consorted with criminals and prostitutes.”

“He told you all this.”

“Over a very long period.”

“Confessing,” I said.

“I’m no priest, but he wanted salvation.”

“Did he get it?”

Bert shrugged. “Last time I checked there were no Hail Marys in the psychiatric repertoire. I did my best.” He glanced at Willie Burns. “How are you feeling today, Bill?”

“I’m feeling real good,” said Burns. “Considering.” He shifted his face to the left. “Nice breeze coming in from the hills, can you hear it? That plunking of the leaves, like a nice little mandolin. Like one of those boats in Venice.”

I listened. Saw no movement among the trees, heard nothing.

Bert said, “Yes, it is pretty.”

Willie Burns said, “You know, it’s getting kinda thirsty out here. Maybe I could have something to drink, please?”

Bert said, “Of course.”

I wheeled Burns back into the green board house. The front room was barely furnished—one couch along the window and two bright green folding chairs. Pole lamps guarded two corners. Framed magazine prints—garden scenes painted in Giverny colors—hung askew on plasterboard walls. Between the chairs, a wide pathway had been left for the chair, and the rubber wheels had left gray tracks that led to a door at the rear. No knob, just a kickplate.

Push door. Wheelchair-friendly.

The kitchen was an arbitrary space to the right: pine cabinets, sheet-metal counters, a two-burner stove upon which sat a copper-bottomed pot. Bert took a Diet Lemon Snapple from a bulbous, white refrigerator, wrestled with the lid, finally got it loose, and handed the bottle to Willie Burns. Burns gripped the bottle with both hands and drank down half, Adam’s apple rising and falling with each gulp. Then he placed the glass against his face, rolled it back and forth along his skin, and let out a long breath.

“Thanks, Dr. H.”

“My pleasure, Bill.” Bert looked at me. “You might as well sit.”

I took one of the folding chairs. The house smelled of hickory chips and roasted garlic. A string of dried cloves hung above the stove, along with a necklace of dried chilies. I spotted other niceties: jars of dried beans, lentils, pasta. A hand-painted bread box. Gourmet touches in the vest-pocket galley.

I said, “So you have no idea how the murder book got to me?”

Bert shook his head. “I never knew you had anything to do with it until Marge told me you and Milo had been to visit and talked to her about an unsolved murder.” He began to lower himself onto the second folding chair, but straightened and stood. “Let’s get some air. You’ll be okay for a few minutes, Bill?”

Burns said, “More than okay.”