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needed sleep. I wondered how long it would be before the image of the young woman’s butchered body would wash out of my consciousness.
    Chip walked us through the laundry room and to the door to the garage. A step farther and he’d have lost sight of Nick sitting at the kitchen table. Chip lowered his voice. He told me he’d talked to Detective Boley. “They think the cause of death is related to a head trauma. Her skull is pretty well dented.”
    â€œThe fireplace poker?” I whispered.
    â€œProbably.”
    Head trauma? If a blow to the head was what killed her, then why butcher her and then drown her? I could already imagine the newspaper headlines: Overkill. There would be interviews with so-called experts pontificating on the psychology of it. They’d probably tell the drooling reporter that overkill wasn’t unusual in a “thrill killing” where typically two or more killers gang up on a stranger just for the fun of it. More often you saw it in crimes of passion against a loved one. Then, the violence was intimate—strangling and stabbing as opposed to shooting or poisoning—and the perpetrator was often a man driven by a terror of being abandoned.
    Chip held his hand over his mouth. “And they found bloody clothing in the bathroom hamper. Nick’s. Looks like he changed his clothes and took a shower before he drove his mother to Oakvale.”
    I turned my back to the kitchen and said quietly, “If he didn’t
kill his wife, then how the hell did Nick get blood all over his clothing?”
    â€œI have no idea.” Chip’s voice was weary. “I’m hoping he’ll be able to explain.” Chip glanced back at Nick. He was sitting at the table, watching us from under the cap brim. He looked quickly away, got up, and opened the refrigerator.
    â€œWeird,” Annie whispered. “I wonder why he didn’t change his shoes.”
    â€œShoes?” Chip asked.
    Nick took a glass out of the cabinet and ran the water at the sink.
    â€œLooks like they’re spattered with blood,” I said. “Wouldn’t you think someone changing his clothes to cover up his involvement in a murder would change his shoes too?”
    â€œNot much of a cover-up if he leaves his bloody shirt hanging halfway out of the laundry basket in the bathroom,” Chip added.
    Chip went on to say that he expected Nick to be arrested. He’d request bail, of course, but said he’d be surprised if the judge granted it. “The DA is going to want to get the state’s shrink in to interview him,” Chip said. “I’ve already told Nick not to talk to anybody unless I say so. I hope you’ll have time to get in there and evaluate him right away.”
    â€œWhoa, hold your horses,” I said. It came out louder than I’d intended. I was glad that Nick had the water running as he rinsed out the glass.
    Were there some crimes so horrific that they rendered the standard arguments for mitigating circumstances—insanity, diminished capacity—irrelevant? And when had we slipped from being concerned friends and friends of a friend to being Nick’s attorney and support team? There were plenty of things I could see doing with my time other than defending a man who’d butchered his wife.
    â€œI’m not so sure you’re going to want my help on this case.
There’re lots of other folks out there who, for the right amount, will do whatever you want them to do and testify accordingly.”
    Chip did a double take. His eyes widened. “Peter …” he started.
    I realized that hadn’t come out the way I’d intended. “I’m sorry. That sounded like I was questioning your ethics, and I don’t. But you can’t just assume that I’m going to jump in and help. And I’m not so sure you’re going to want my help on this case. I’ve got very strong biases about men who kill