It was time for Doodles to die.
The press was crowding around a dour prison spokesman, jamming microphones into his face. Some demonstrators had already lost control at the edge of the parking lot. A young man with a bloody nose was kneeling on the asphalt, tilting his head back and swearing. Two neat rows of hostile faces chanted at one another: "an eye for an eye" on one side, and "stop the killing" on the other. All they succeeded in doing was drowning each other out.
Detective John Kramer knew his ex-wife would have been on the "stop the killing" side, if she hadn't already left town. He parked at the end of a long row and medium-sized American cars and walked briskly along the sidewalk to the barred gate. Kramer had short, dark hair and a military stride that commanded attention. He flipped his badge at the gum-chewing guard, who let him in.
Kramer hadn't been at Humboldt State Prison in more than a decade. The last time he'd watched them fry a young Hispanic boy who'd done two little old ladies. They shut you down with a needle, now. It was supposed to be more humane. Kramer figured the months and years, then hours and minutes, sitting and waiting to die would end up feeling pretty much the same either way.
The condemned prisoner was in the holding cell. Doodles was a big man, but he'd lost a lot of weight. Kramer almost didn't recognize him. His black hair had gone gray at the temples. His hands were shaking, and his fingers were yellow from chain-smoking Camels. Kramer walked over to the door. He waited for the guard to leave, cocked his head and looked up.
"You sent for me, Doodles. Why?"
Martoni smiled. He'd lost some teeth. "You was always fair with me, Kramer," he said. His voice was gravely, low and soft. "I got some things I need to say."
"See a priest," Kramer said.
)
