“Were you married to his father?”

“Up until his untimely death.”

“Caleb keep in touch with you?”

“Writes me, sometimes.”

“Do you still have his letters?”

“Maybe.”

“Would you like to show them to me?”

“Fuck, no.”

Lorna folded her flabby arms. She had an unhealthy-looking brown growth on her elbow.

“I’ve talked to Ms. Pedersen. She’s authorized me to give you certain things if you cooperate.”

“She thinks I’m going to give up my son for some extra pie? She can kiss my hairy hole.”

A real charmer, this woman. She should send in her application to Who Wants to Marry a Psycho-Bitch?

“When did you and Caleb move in with Bud?”

Another hack. Another spit. “Years ago. When Caleb started the junior high.”

“Did Caleb get along with Charles?”

“Caleb got along with everyone. Such a good boy.”

“For a good boy, he seems to get in trouble a lot.”

“He’s misunderstood.”

“I’m sure he is. Plus, look at the hand he was dealt. Growing up in a house full of psychotic perverts.”

Lorna didn’t like to be called names. I watched her hands form into fists. I kept up the heat.

“You think that’s why he hates you? Because you’re a fat, psychotic pervert?”

“Watch what you say, cop.”

“I’d hate my mother too, if she was retarded gutter trash.”

“I ain’t trash.”

“Have you looked in a mirror the last couple of years?”

“And I ain’t no retard.”

“I read your file, Lorna. And if you were able to read, you’d see the word used several times.”

Lorna seemed too focused on the older insults to process the newer ones.

“I ain’t no retard, and my boy don’t hate me. He loves his mama.”

I leaned in closer, fighting the stench. “Why hasn’t he ever visited you?”

Lorna’s face twisted. “He’s been busy.”

“Busy every day for the last twelve years? Isn’t that how long you’ve been here, Lorna?”

“He sends me letters.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He does.”

“Show me.”

“You want me to show you? Then you gotta do something for me.”

I waited.

“I want to see Bud.”

“No.”

“I want to see his beautiful face again.”

“I’m sure you’ll share the same cauldron in hell.”

I stood up, headed for the door. I needed some fresh air, and I knew Lorna wasn’t going to give me anything else.

“You don’t want Caleb’s letters?”

“I don’t care about his letters. I want to know where he is.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me. But I do know something, might interest you.”

“All I’m interested in, Lorna, is getting away from you.”

I pounded on the door.

“Let me see my Bud again, and I’ll show you something.”

The door opened. I’d had enough of Lorna for the rest of my life.

“I know where more bodies are buried.”

That stopped me.

“What did you say?”

“If you let me see Bud, I’ll take you to more bodies.” She smiled, showing me tiny sharp teeth. “Lots more.”

MS. PEDERSEN WAS painfully clear on prisoners’ rights to privacy.

“They have none. They’re prisoners.”

So Lorna Hunt Ellison stayed in isolation, and we raided her footlocker. We found some stinky clothes, a collection of empty candy wrappers, a faded Polaroid of a younger Bud standing in front of his ancient pickup truck, and two letters from Caleb.

I donned a single latex glove and appropriated the picture and the letters. They had no return address on the labels. The postmarks came from Detroit. The first relayed, in some of the worst handwriting ever, that Caleb was sorry he hadn’t written before, because he was busy, but he’d write more often from now on. It was dated eight years ago.

Apparently he’d lied, because the second letter was dated three months ago. According to the chicken scratches, Caleb’s PO had made him get a job and he was working at a car wash, but wouldn’t for very much longer because he was planning on killing the fat prick who ran it.

That didn’t make sense. I checked with Detroit PD, and according to them, Caleb Ellison didn’t currently have a parole officer. So was Caleb lying to his mother? Or did he recently do time under another name? And how could I find that out?

I put thoughts of Caleb on the back burner, threw the letters and the pic into a paper bag that Ms. Pedersen supplied, then used her office phone to call the Indianapolis PD. I talked myself up the chain of command, and eventually got a captain on the other end, a gruff-voiced woman named Carol Mintz.

“Talk fast, I’m busy.”

“You’re following the story in Gary?”

“The whole state is.”

“I’m here at IWP, and just had a heart-to-heart with Lorna Hunt Ellison, who was Bud Kork’s common-law wife. They lived together for more than a decade. She claims to know where more victims are buried, but there’s a catch. She wants to visit Bud.”

“That’s doable. The catch will be keeping the media out. I’m surprised they aren’t camped outside the prison.”

“I don’t think they know the link yet.”

“You want a piece of this?”

“No. But I’m in bed with the Feds on this one, and they’ll be in touch.”

“Great.” She said it like an expletive.

Ms. Pedersen showed me out, and we exchanged good-byes and I consulted the MapQuest directions I’d printed earlier, which would supposedly lead me from Randolph Street to Kellum Drive and the address of Mike Mayer, who supposedly rented the Titanium Pearl Eclipse supposedly seen fleeing Diane Kork’s house.

MapQuest did me proud. I went west on Washington Street, merged onto the expressway, merged off the expressway, and wound up in a pleasant little housing development filled with two-bedroom ranches on green-lawned quarter-acre lots. I parked in Mayer’s driveway and knocked on an aluminum front door.

No answer. Not too surprising, considering Mayer just rented a car in Chicago.

I had a few options. I could break into the house, breaking the law in the process. I could call Captain Mintz back, explain the situation, have the IPD obtain a warrant, and die of old age waiting to be allowed entrance. Or I could assume that in a nice neighborhood like this, Mayer had nice neighbors.

I chose the house on the right first, traversing the well-maintained lawn and knocking on their aluminum door. A young girl answered, maybe ten or eleven, long brown hair and a face full of freckles.

“Is your mom or dad home?”

She nodded, eyes big, and then belted out, “Mom!” with all the force of a foghorn.

Mom looked like an older, pudgier version of the little girl, with just as many freckles.

I showed her my badge, hoping she didn’t look close enough to notice I was from out of state.

“Ma’am, my name is Lieutenant Daniels. Your name is?”

“Linda. Linda Primmer.”

“Linda, can you tell me the last time you saw your neighbor Mike Mayer?”

Her forehead crinkled in thought. “Been two or three weeks, it seems. Is Mike okay?”

“We’re not sure. Tell me a little about Mike.”

“Single. Keeps to himself. Kind of a loner. Seems nice enough.”

Which was the exact description all neighbors gave of the serial killer living next door.

“Is this Mike Mayer?”

I showed her the Identikit photocopy.

“That sort of looks like him.”

“This may sound unorthodox, but we’re worried Mike might be in some kind of trouble. Did he ever give you a spare key to his house? In case he locked himself out, or to water his plants while on vacation?”

“No. But he did lock himself out once, last year. He came over here to call the locksmith. The locksmith sold both of us a key rock.”

“A key rock?”

Linda stepped past me and onto her front stoop. Next to the door was a holly bush, surrounded by stones. She squatted and picked up a four-inch stone and showed it to me.