“A cop’s son found half-dead in a ditch? Yeah, I heard.”

“This is not about Gibby. War or no war, I don’t think Jason is a killer.”

“I still can’t let you near the case.”

“Unofficially. Off the books…”

“Not even that.”

“Then dark. Just the two of us.”

For an instant, the captain’s conviction seemed to waver, but the door opened, and Kathy appeared with coffees. “Cream for the detective, and black for you.”

“Thank you, Kathy. You can close the door.” She did as he’d asked. The captain left his coffee untouched. “One question, Bill, and I want an honest answer. Did you recognize Tyra Norris at the crime scene? Did you know then who she was, that she’d been sleeping with Jason?”

French opened his mouth, but had no words.

Surprisingly, the captain’s eyes softened. He nodded gently; his voice was soft, too. “Go see your son, Bill. Go be a father.”

The warden was in his office when the call came from the front gate. “You’re sure of that ID?”

“Detective William French. I’m holding his credentials right now.”

“Hold on a second.”

Bruce Wilson lowered the phone as if a few extra seconds would make the problem go away. He was not a bad warden or a bad man. He’d done the best he could in difficult circumstances. Of course, there was always the risk a moment like this would come, the first domino that would bring the rest down.

“Are you there?” the guard asked.

“Tell him he has to wait.”

Dropping the phone onto its cradle, the warden left the office at a fast walk. His secretary tried to stop him with a question, but he said, “Not now,” and left her looking hurt. At death row, he cleared security and took the stairs down. X was painting, his back to the cell door. The painting looked like Jason French. “We have a problem.”

X declined to turn. “I suspect what you mean is that you have a problem.”

“Jason’s father is at the gate.”

“Not much of a problem.”

“He’s a city detective who wants to see his son. If I say no, he’ll want to know why. That means questions I’m not prepared to answer. Jason would not be here without my involvement. His father knows that.”

“So let the man see his son.”

“What if he talks?”

“He won’t.”

“You can’t know that!”

X turned, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’m very sorry.” The warden showed his hands, and lowered his voice. “What if this cop pulls on the wrong thread? What happens then?”

“Jason knows what is expected of him. There will be no threads. I assure you.”

“Okay, okay.” A nervous nod. “What else can I do?”