Ben Brady snapped his cell phone shut with a soft click, running his fingertips across his damp skull. The radiator in the corner hissed. He struggled to remain composed.
When the DA had shown the grisly slide show of the nurse’s swollen body to the jury, Willy James Lockheart had looked on with the rest, horrified, his giant hands resting in his lap. That day, and every other of the three-week trial, Brady would have wagered his partnership that his client was innocent.
But the voice still ringing in the attorney’s ears told him he'd been wrong.
The mailman had found her, beneath Lockheart’s portico. The police warned that there may be others.
Brady unlocked the center drawer of his desk and withdrew his shiny Smith & Wesson, never fired. He tucked the gun into his belt, beneath his suit coat, and told Margaret he’d be out for the afternoon.
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