He remained silent. I went on, “It’s a safe bet Poulsenn got ambushed by the people sent to get rid of Caroline and Willie. People who’d pulled off an ambush before and murdered a bail bondsman named Boris Nemerov. Burns’s bondsman. Did he tell you about that?”

Nod. “It came out in therapy. Bill felt guilty about causing Nemerov’s death. He would have liked to come forward—to come clean about what he saw, but that would have put him in mortal danger.”

“What’s his version of the ambush?”

“He phoned Nemerov for help because Nemerov had always been kind to him. He and Nemerov arranged a meeting, but Nemerov was followed and murdered and stuffed in the trunk of his car. Bill was hiding nearby, saw it all. Knew Nemerov’s death would be blamed on him.”

“Why was Burns offered a police guard in the first place?”

“He had contacts in the police department. He’d worked as an informant.”

“But after Poulsenn’s and Nemerov’s murders the department let him dangle.”

“Contacts, Alex. Not friends.”

“The house was set on fire, but Burns and Caroline got away. How severe were their injuries?”

“She wasn’t hurt, his were severe. He neglected the wounds, didn’t seek care until months later. His feet had been scorched almost down to the tendons, multiple infections set in, at the time of admission the wounds were suppurating, gangrenous, flesh falling off the bone. Both feet were amputated immediately, but sepsis had spread up into the long bones and additional amputation was necessary. You could actually smell it, Alex. Like barbecue, the marrow had been cooked. We had some marvelous surgeons, and they managed to preserve half of one femur, a third of another, created skin flaps and grafted them. But Bill’s lungs had also been burned, as had his trachea and his esophagus. He formed fibroid scars internally and removing the damaged tissue required additional multiple surgeries. We’re talking years, Alex. He bore the agony in silence. I used to sit by the whirlpool as the skin sloughed off. Not a whimper. How he tolerated the pain I’ll never know.”

“Was it the fire that blinded him?”

“No, that was the diabetes. He’d been ill for a while, had never been diagnosed. Made matters worse by indulging an addict’s sweet tooth.”

“And the nerve damage? Heroin?”

“A bad batch of heroin. He scored it the day of the fire. Slipped away from Poulsenn and walked down the block to meet his supplier. That’s how they traced him—something else he feels guilty for.”

“How’d he escape on burnt feet?”