“I’ll take all the blame,” Baxter said.

“Why are you so determined to get yourself into more trouble than you can imagine? You’re toying with prison here, Baxter. Wake up, man!”

“I’ll take the blame,” he repeated, very much the martyr now. “You guys will walk.”

“You’re not listening to me, Baxter. This is far more complicated than you realize.”

A shrug. “Maybe so.”

“Listen to me, dammit!”

“I’m listening to you, Kyle, but I’m also listening to the Lord.”

“Well, I can’t compete—”

“And he’s leading me to Elaine. To forgiveness. And I believe she will listen, and she will forgive, and she will forget.” He was firm, and pious, and Kyle realized he had little else to throw at Baxter.

“Let it sit for a month,” Kyle said. “Don’t do anything hasty. Joey, Alan, and I should have a say in the matter.”

“Let’s go. I’m tired of sitting here.”

They roamed the Village for half an hour before Kyle, exhausted, finally said good night.

He was dead to the world when his cell phone rang three hours later. It was Baxter. “I talked to Elaine,” he announced proudly. “Tracked her down, called her, woke her up, and we talked for a few minutes.”

“You idiot,” Kyle blurted before he could stop himself.

“It went pretty well, actually.”

“What did you say?” Kyle was in the bathroom, splashing water on his face with one hand and holding his phone with the other.

“Told her I’ve never felt right about what happened. I didn’t admit to anything other than some misgivings.”

Thank God for that. “What did she say?”

“She thanked me for calling, then she cried and said no one has ever believed her. She still feels like she was raped. She’s always known it was Joey and me, with you and Alan somewhere close by watching the action.”

“That’s not true.”

“We’re gonna meet in a couple of days, have lunch, just the two of us, in Scranton.”

“Don’t do it, Baxter, please don’t do it. You will regret it forever.”

“I know what I’m doing, Kyle. I’ve prayed about this for hours, and I’m trusting God to get me through it. She promised not to tell her lawyer. You gotta have faith.”

“She works for her lawyer, part-time, did she tell you that, Baxter? No, she did not. You’ll walk into a trap and your life will be over.”

“My life is just beginning, old pal. Faith, Kyle, faith. Good night.” The phone snapped shut; the connection was dead.

BAXTER FLEW BACK to Pittsburgh the following morning, retrieved his car — a Porsche he planned to sell — from the long-term parking area, and checked into a motel by the airport. Credit card records revealed that he spent two nights in the motel and never checked out. His cell phone records showed numerous incoming calls and text messages from both Joey Bernardo and Kyle McAvoy, with no outgoing calls in return. He had two long conversations with Brother Manny in Reno, and some short ones with his parents and his brother in Pittsburgh. There were two calls to Elaine Keenan.

On the last day of his life, he left Pittsburgh before sunrise, headed for Scranton, a drive that would cover three hundred miles in about five hours. According to the credit card trail, he stopped for gas at a Shell station near the intersection of 1-79 and 1-80, about ninety minutes north of Pittsburgh. He then headed due east on 1-80 and traveled two hours until his journey came to an end. Near the small town of Snow Shoe, he stopped at a rest area and went to the men’s room. It was approximately 10:40 a.m. on a Friday in mid-November. Traffic was light, and there were only a few other vehicles at the rest area.

Mr. Dwight Nowoski, a retiree from Dayton who was traveling to Vermont with his wife, who was already in the ladies’ room, discovered Baxter not long after he had been shot. He was still alive but dying quickly from a gunshot to the head. Mr. Nowoski found him on the floor by the urinals, his jeans unzipped, the floor covered with blood and urine. The young man was gasping and whimpering and thrashing about like a deer hit by a car. There was no one else in the men’s room when Mr. Nowoski walked in and stumbled upon the horrible scene.

Evidently, the murderer followed Baxter into the toilet, took a look around to make sure they were alone, then quickly placed a nine-millimeter pistol, a Beretta according to the lab, at the base of Baxter’s skull and fired once. A silencer muffled the gunshot. The rest area was not equipped with surveillance cameras.

The Pennsylvania State Police closed the rest stop and sealed the area around it. Six travelers, including Mr. and Mrs. Nowoski, were questioned at length at the crime scene. One gentleman remembered a yellow Penske rental truck coming and going, but he had no idea how long it was there. The group estimated that another four or five vehicles had left the rest area after the body was discovered but before the police arrived. No one could recall seeing Baxter enter the men’s room, nor did anyone see the murderer follow him in. A lady from Rhode Island recalled noticing a man standing by the door to the men’s room when she entered the ladies’, and upon further reflection she agreed that it was possible he might have been a lookout. He was not going in, nor was he coming out. Regardless, he was long gone, and her description was limited to: male white, somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty-five, at least five feet eight but no more than six feet four, wearing a dark jacket that could have been leather, linen, wool, cotton, anything. Along with the lab reports and autopsy, her description was the extent of the physical evidence.

Baxter’s wallet, cash fold, and watch were untouched. The police inventoried his pockets and found nothing but a few coins, his car keys, and a tube of lip balm. The lab would later report that there was no trace of alcohol or illegal drugs in his system, on his clothing, or in his car.

The pathologist did note a remarkable degree of liver damage for a twenty-five-year-old.

Robbery was immediately ruled out for the obvious reasons— nothing was taken, unless the victim was carrying something valuable that no one knew about. But why would an armed thief leave behind $513 in cash and eight credit cards? Wouldn’t a thief consider stealing the Porsche while he had the chance? There was no evidence that the crime had anything to do with sex. It could’ve been a drug hit, but that seemed unlikely. Those were usually much messier.

With sex, robbery, and drugs ruled out, the investigators began scratching their heads. They watched the bagged body disappear into the rear of an ambulance for the ride back to Pittsburgh, and they knew they had a problem. The apparent randomness of the act, plus the silent gunshot and the clean getaway, led them to conclude, at least at the scene, that they were dealing with professionals.

THE CONFIRMATION that a member of such a noted family had met such a strange and brutal end brightened up a dull news day in Pittsburgh. Television crews scampered to the Tate estate in Shadyside, only to be met by private security personnel. For generations the Tate family had offered “No comment” to every inquiry, and this tragedy was no different. A family lawyer issued a terse response and asked for prayers, consideration, and respect for privacy. Uncle Wally once again took charge and issued orders.

Kyle was at his cube, chatting with Dale about their plans for the evening, when the call came from Joey. It was almost 5:00 p.m. on Friday. He had eaten a pizza with Baxter late on Tuesday night, then chatted with him a few hours later, but had not spoken to him since. As far as he and Joey could tell, Baxter had disappeared, or at least he was ignoring his phone.

“What’s the matter?” Dale asked as she noticed the look of shock. But Kyle did not respond. He kept the phone to his ear and began walking away, down the hall, past the front desk, listening as Joey unloaded all the details now being splashed across the television. He lost him in the elevator, and once outside the building he called Joey back and kept listening. The sidewalks along Broad were packed with the late-afternoon rush. Kyle plodded along, without a coat to layer against the chill, without a clue as to where he might be going.