“So who visits him?” Griffin asked. “Friends? His legal team?”

“You’d know better than I if he actually has any friends. From what I understand, he sees no one from the life he had before he came here. But one of the products of worldwide notoriety is that he gets mail every day and he has a mile-long visitor’s list of people with whom he’s exchanged e-mails. Plus, a lot of television and documentary crews come to interview him. He’s an unrepentant monster, and they just eat that stuff up. As for attorneys, he dismissed his early on. His case would probably be tied up in appeals for the next ten years if he wanted it that way.”

“So he wants to die?” Kendra asked.

“He’s never come out and said that. He has agreed to meet legal representatives provided by anti-death-penalty groups. But each time, he’s sent them away. He says they’re trying to tamper with his legacy.”

“Yes,” Kendra said. “He’s become very philosophical about his crimes. He considers them his life’s work. He thinks he’ll live on through them. He believes that will mean he’ll outlive us all.”

“Like an artist and his paintings,” Reade said thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” Salazar said. “Colby is being interviewed for a British news show right now. But if you’d like to see his cell, I’ll walk over with you.”

“Good,” Griffin said. “I’d appreciate that.”

“No problem.” Salazar headed for the door. “Come along.”

Accompanied by a pair of guards, they followed Salazar out of the administration building and through a tall gate that led to the main detention complex. Two gates later, they entered the East cellblock.

“This is where most of our death-row inmates are housed,” Salazar said. “We classify them as either Grade A or Grade B. If they behave themselves, they’re Grade A and put here. Our more troublesome death-row inmates are classified Grade B and put over in the Security Center. Colby has spent time over there after some of his altercations, but he usually stays here.”

Kendra looked up at the huge, double-sided cellblock. It was five tiers high, with each tier holding about fifty cells on each side. The cell doors were standard-issue prison bars, covered by metal security gates with a diagonal crosshatch pattern.

Salazar pointed to a contraption that looked like a ladder on wheels. A telephone was mounted on its upper surface. “Prisoners have telephone privileges every other day, in the morning and evening. This cart is wheeled in front of their cell, and they can reach through their food port and use the phone.”

Kendra heard dozens of television programs wafting down the cellblock. “They have TVs in their cells?”

“They can, if they want to pay for it. It’s two hundred and fifty dollars as a onetime fee. I don’t believe Colby has ever requested one. Though, as you know, money has never been a problem for him. He was a rich kid who became a rich monster.”

They stopped in front of a ground-floor cell. One of the guards spoke into his walkie-talkie, and the door unlocked with a distinct “thunk.”

Salazar turned back. “I came here this morning with the cellblock commander after we finished gathering the information you requested, Griffin.” He turned to Kendra. “Dr. Michaels, I’d like you to be prepared for what you’re going to see in here.”

Kendra found herself bracing defensively. “Why?”

Salazar grimaced. “Because Eric Colby appears to be as interested in you as you are in him.”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

The guard swung the door open.

Kendra stopped short.

Almost every inch of the cell, from floor to ceiling, was papered with pictures of her.

“Holy shit,” Metcalf blurted out.

Her own face, thousands of times over, stared at her from every direction. She took a deep breath, but it suddenly seemed impossible to get enough oxygen.

Don’t freeze up now. Just move.

Kendra slowly stepped into the cell, which was approximately eight feet by ten feet. There was a bed, a toilet, a small table, and wall-mounted shelves with four open compartments. And the thousands and thousands of Kendra Michaels photos, all of varying sizes and quality.

She was ice-cold, drowning, as she stared at them.

Get a grip.

“These were downloaded from the Web,” Kendra said. “Crime-scene shots, courthouse appearances, even some pictures taken at educational symposiums.”

Reade turned to the warden. “Do prisoners have Internet access?”

“No. We don’t even allow them to receive regular mail that includes printed Web pages. Photos are permitted, as long as they’re downloaded and printed by themselves. Colby obviously put the word out that he wanted pictures of you.”

“And his followers were only too happy to oblige,” Lynch said.

Kendra scanned the room, trying not to let the pictures unnerve her more than they already had.

Focus. Block it out.

“How long has he had the Kendra Michaels photo collage?” Griffin asked.

“I asked the block commander about it this morning. It’s a fairly recent phenomenon. The pictures started coming in about eight months ago, and they immediately went up on the walls.”

“Is it possible that they’re all from the same person?” Griffin asked.

“Doubtful,” Kendra cut in before the warden could respond. “Almost all of them are from different printers. Some ink jet, some laser, a few thermal. And they’re cut differently, with various types and sizes of scissors, razor blades, and paper cutters.”

Warden Salazar nodded. “We open every piece of mail that comes through here, but if it isn’t contraband, we don’t log individual senders. But apparently these have been coming from all over the country. By the way, Colby has to take them down every few days so that we can inspect the walls.”

“In case he’s trying to pull a Rita Hayworth/Shawshank Redemption number over on you?” Lynch asked.

The warden smiled. “Or using them to help hide contraband. As soon as the search is complete, he spends the rest of the day putting each picture back up.”

“A lot of work,” Metcalf said. “Though he doesn’t have a lot else to do.”

Kendra’s eyes narrowed on the wall near the bed, straining to see past the photos of herself.

“Is this cell telling you anything?” Lynch asked.

“Surprisingly little,” Kendra said. “Or maybe not so surprising. Prisons are designed to strip inmates of their individuality.”

Griffin knelt beside the small table, examining it. “Maybe you’re just being distracted by the thousand pictures of yourself.”

“Possibly.” She glanced up at the ceiling, one of the few spots in the room where her face wasn’t staring back at her. Griffin was right. The photos had rattled her.

Close your eyes. Concentrate.

After a moment, she resumed her scan of the cell. “Are smuggled mobile phones a problem in this prison, Warden?”

“They’re a problem in every prison. Guards are the biggest offenders. If they’re caught, they usually just wind up with probation. Not much of a deterrent, especially since they can get a thousand bucks a pop for passing them along to inmates.”

Kendra continued her search. “Well, Colby has used two of them here fairly recently.”

The warden’s jaw went slack.

Lynch chuckled. “When I’m around her, I get that same look on my face.”

“How did—?”

She glanced up. “And did he attack a guard in the last week or so?”

The warden nodded warily. “Yes, there was a slight altercation. May I ask how you—”

“The room smells vaguely of bleach. None of the other cells we passed had the smell. That led me to think there was a special reason. There are a few drops of blood on the ceiling. I’m guessing there was more.”

“There was. The guard was actually trying to take away some of these pictures of you, Dr. Michaels. Colby objected, and there was a bit of a scuffle. Colby took the brunt of it.”