He'd spent the drive to San Rafael replaying the 40-plus minutes of Morton's taped telephone calls. Turned out Charlie Don really had just wanted to tell his story—coherently, unemotionally, and without much prompting. Born and raised, Antelope, CA. Only child; single, working-poor mother; absent father. Few friends, but friends. Slight, but apparently witty enough to deflect bullies. Undistinguished but untroubled academic history, through high-school graduation. Stab at community college, then unremarkable succession of mid-wage jobs. No overt romantic entanglements, until his gift of holiday intimacy to himself went wrong. He recounted the crime sadly as her obituary, not his defining life-episode. Perfunctory appeals he endured passively, and finally shook off as so much bad investment advice. Lastly, he was sorry she was dead because of him. End of story.

Each review reinforced Chad's core impressions. No overt physical or emotional abuse, in-home or out. No standout 'turning point'—too old for Judas Priest, the Trench Coat Mafia, or any other 'fill-in-the blank' crackpot theory. No white sheets, no swastikas. No addictions other than nicotine; drug of choice was fermented. No 'Up the System.' No priors; no protestations of innocence. No Kafka-esque 'Death Row Chronicles.' Remorse. What the Hell are we going to talk about?

As the interior door clanked open and the "Grade A" East Block tenants shuffled in, Chad played with the uneasy arrogance of his final thought: My Pulitzer hangs on the answer to one question: 'Why?'

"You Chad Wilcomb?"

Chad was nonplussed. Charlie Don Morton's file footage and disembodied voice had failed to prepare Chad for how unimposing he really was. Thin, sandy-haired…ordinary. Good thing they didn't have to pick him out of a lineup. As he settled, only one feature bought Chad’s attention: Steel-gray eyes, pale and clear.

"That's me, Charlie. So—what's the most memorable thing about life on E-Block?" Great ice-breaker, Wilcomb. Profound!

Charlie smiled. "The smell." He lit a cigarette and exhaled. The smoke coiled upward over him like a departing soul.

"Those things will kill you, you know."

Charlie laughed gaily at Chad's nervous, half-intentional joke. "So will potassium chloride."

Chad scrambled for higher ground—and control. "What's your opinion of lethal injection as a method of execution?"

"Too clinical. But, that's the point, isn't it? One of the guys on the Row says the jurors who sentence us should be required to beat us to death with clubs."

"Right." Chad was aggressive. "Look, Charlie, I don't usually do business this way. This environment doesn't exactly promote frank discussion. And you pretty much covered four of the five 'Ws' in your calls. What do you want to talk about?"

"How old are you?"

"Uh—29. But what—?”

"Same age as me when I did it. Brothers or sisters?"

"Nope. Just me."

"Is 'Chad' your real name, or short for something else?"

"No—it's 'Charles David Wilcomb, Junior.'"

"Me, too—'Charles Donald Morton, Junior.'" Charlie rotated a thumbnail under a front tooth. "He around much?"

"Who?"

"Your old man."

"Not really—outside salesman."

"They divorced?"

"My parents? No, but they ought to be." Chad looked beyond the wall behind Charlie's head. "Dad was on the road most of the time, I guess. My Mom's been emotionally alone since the honeymoon, except for me. She's more married to Jack Daniels than him." Here—in this place—Chad startled himself with his candor.

"Yeah—mine just split. Left me and the bills to the old lady. My Mom cut the knot but remarried her two jobs. Oh, he called a couple times—birthdays, I think. Didn't ever have much to say, one way or another." Charlie chortled.

"What's funny?"

"Weird thought. 'Home-schooled.' Always makes me think of 'jumbo shrimp.'"

"How's that?"

"The whole concept. Hear it’s all the rage on the outside. Parents get pissed 'cause schoolteachers say it ain't their job to teach values, so they yank 'em out of school and teach 'em at home—assuming the values are there, and worth a damn. Me, I didn't learn anything either place. Nobody told me shit I could really use!"

Charlie rocked onto his propped elbows. "Here's how I break it down. From the beginning, there's no open connection. You're an obstacle, not a support. He's gone, so you become her biggest problem. The only way you connect is through conflict. Forget emotional nourishment—you just have a problem, a question. 'Ask your teacher.' 'Go see the counselor.' 'Talk to the minister.' It's like we're all atoms with opposing charges. Jiggle. Bump. Deflect. Repeat. After a while, you just live inside yourself. You don’t get, so why give? Conversation becomes like a car alarm; either scares people off or just annoys 'em. Problem is,"—a wistful pause—"the need never dies."

Chad searched for something to ask—or say. The distant scrape of chairs signaled that the delay-truncated encounter was nearly over.

Charlie saw Chad's dilemma. "Well, Hell. At least they gave us their names, huh? Got any family of your own?"

"Got a boy, Chuckie—six," Chad stammered.

“And…?”

“Divorced–three years.”

Charlie had formed a response, but was pre-empted by the order to rise and file out. Halfway out of his chair, he said, "You didn't ask me."

"What?"

"Why I did it."