the public defender, all jockeying for position in front of the cameras.
From where I stood I could only hear Morrison’s answers to the reporters.
“—proud of our fine local and federal law enforcement agents, including Deputy Sheriff Maxwell Coyote and our own Special Agent Laura Coleman, who succeeded in the capture of the man who will no doubt prove to be one of this century’s most active serial killers.”
“—that’s correct, initial interrogations quickly led to a voluntary confession of no less than eight murders dating back to 1998, the last victim found on his truck when we arrested him.”
I scanned the crowd for Coleman.
My eyes lit instead on Zachariah Robertson.
At first there was that same cognitive disconnect that I had experienced when I saw the photos of myself taken from Gerald Peasil’s van. My brain had to catch up with the sight of Zach and realize that he had not gotten on the plane back to Michigan after all.
He was nearly hidden behind a cameraman from Fox News Tucson. He was watching me.
Zach and I had been together at one of those times in life when there is raw feeling with no skin on it. You get to know people at those times like you do at no other. We both knew what was happening now. I could see it in his eyes, in the sag of his mouth, open slightly, panting like a nervous dog.
“—Floyd Lynch was twenty-six at the time of the first murder.”
“—yes, except for two of the victims, we have identification. One of the unidentifieds is a Mexican alien who had been picked up after crossing the border illegally. It’s for reasons like this that the FBI has been so intensively involved, besides the fact that the crimes crossed state lines and therefore fell under federal jurisdiction.”
“—correct, all the victims were women.”
It became imperative that I make my way through the crowd to reach Zach’s side. I struggled to get through the press of the crowd, muttering “FBI, FBI,” which had an effect on the regular bystanders but not on the journalists, who held fast to the space they had managed to acquire and would not give way an inch if I was the pope with a case of diarrhea. Still, I was pushing my way through as best I could when a wave of recognition went through the crowd, a sheriff’s car pulled up, and Max got out, followed by a handcuffed Lynch.
“—Lynch has provided enough detailed information at quite extensive interrogations, some of which was withheld from the public, so that we have no doubt of his confession.”
“Max,” I called. He was closer to Zach than I was. I wanted him to be aware. Max looked around at the sound of his name, but didn’t see me.
A couple of extra sheriff’s deputies forced a path through the crowd.
“—that’s a question better suited for Federal Prosecutor Adams Vance.”
Morrison stepped out of the way for Vance, who, being a short man, adjusted the microphone slightly. “—yes, he has been declared competent to make those confessions. Floyd Lynch is not insane.”
“Max,” I called again. This time he found me, but his recognition wasn’t the way it would have been a couple days before. Beyond meeting my eyes, he didn’t acknowledge me, didn’t nod or wave or lift his chin to question what’s up. If anything, he looked a trifle apprehensive as if I might be the dangerous one. He said something to a deputy standing close-by. The deputy looked at me.
“Zach,” I called more loudly and pointed at the man. But Max had already turned away and moved out of earshot, and the deputy didn’t seem to make any sense of what I said.
I started to see the scene in different ways, all twined together. Maybe it was Lynch’s upper lip that triggered this, the way it protruded a bit. My attention following the rest of the crowd’s, I turned to watch him for the first time since seeing his interrogation video.
“—Floyd Lynch is scheduled to make his plea before Judge Sewall at eleven thirty this morning.”
I remembered the Lynch I saw at the dump site, and how he now looked more like a sickly animal who doesn’t know why the dogs are snapping at him.
Next to that memory there was another, much older one, from well before my days with the Bureau. I was sitting in front of the TV waiting for Mom to get us some sandwiches. We’d been to the eleven o’clock service, what Dad