“Yeah. A woman has gone missing on my street. I figure if they don’t find her soon, they’re gonna blame me.” The words come out angry. I’m a little surprised by that. Up until now, I have considered myself resigned to my fate. But maybe I do have some expectations after all. I find myself snapping the rubber band on my wrist, a sure sign of agitation. I force myself to stop.

“You kill her?” Wendell asks. Wendell is an enormously fat white guy with neatly trimmed black facial hair. He’s well educated, quite wealthy, and has a voice that comes straight from a helium balloon. Wendell is also the reigning master of the rationalization game. He’s just a poor, picked-on exhibitionist, all show, no touch. For him to be grouped with the likes of us proves just how inhumane the criminal justice system really is.

I don’t know if Wendell is all show and no touch. In theory, as part of the intake process for the sex offender treatment program, he supplied a full autobiography of all crimes he ever committed, then was polygraphed against this history, at a cost of $150. (Which we pay ourselves, I might add, and must keep paying until we pass the polygraph test.)

Personally, I think Wendell is a freaking psychopath. Poor, picked-on exhibitionist, my ass. Wendell always targeted a specific victim group. For example, he liked to visit old folks’ homes and flash three hundred pounds of white ass before the bedridden patients who barely had the strength to shield their eyes. Then he’d motor over to the teen health clinic, where he could wag his dingdong in front of the overwhelmed fourteen-year-old who’d just learned she was eight weeks pregnant. Mostly, however, he liked to operate outside rape crisis clinics, where he could spring a massive mountain of flesh upon already traumatized women.

His final victim went home and hanged herself. But as Wendell will tell you, he’s not as bad as the rest of us.

“I didn’t touch her,” I answer now, ignoring Wendell’s knowing grin. “I didn’t even know her. But it doesn’t matter. The police will check the database and my name will come up. They’ll arrest me just on principle, and it’s not like I can make bail. They get me, I’m done.” I’m snapping the band again. I can see Mrs. Brenda Jane watching me, and once again force myself to stop.

I can already tell what she’s thinking: And how does this make you feel, Aidan Brewster?

Trapped, I want to scream. Very, very trapped.