William Bernhardt - Capitol offence

"For the price of six hundred dollars an hour," Guillerman muttered. "That's a lot of money for an opinion of insanity."

"I'm reminded of something Oscar Wilde said," Ben remarked. "'In all matters of opinion, our adversaries are insane.'"

"For that much money, our adversaries could be declared insane."

"That's enough, counsel." McPartland leaned back in his chair, obviously taking a few minutes to collect his thoughts. "I'm not happy about this aspect of this case, as I said. What else is new? This case has been a thorn in my side from the start. But I will see it out."

He took another deep breath, then glared at the two attorneys. "I will allow Mr. Kincaid to call his psychiatric expert and to tie his testimony in with the other testimony we have heard. For the purpose of establishing a case of temporary insanity. And nothing else. Do you hear me, Mr. Kincaid?"

"I do, your honor."

"Mr. Guillerman?"

"Loud and clear."

"Good. There will be no arguments for jury nullification or any other inappropriate claims. Got it?"

"Yes," they both answered.

"Good." He banged his gavel on the bench. "We're taking fifteen before the next witness, gentlemen. I need my blood pressure medicine."

The judge left the courtroom, and most of the people in attendance headed toward the back doors. Guillerman stopped Ben before he could go anywhere.

"I'm filing a complaint with the bar association, Kincaid."

"What, another one?"

"You know what that means?"

"You think I'm winning?"

He jabbed a finger into Ben's chest. "I've got a lot of friends on the Grievance Committee. You could lose your license over this."

"That would free up a lot of time."

"Even if you don't, we can tie you up in so many investigations and proceedings your candidacy will be impossible. I've got friends on the Democratic Party committee, too. No one will support you."

"Are you threatening me?"

"You heard what I said."

"What I think I heard was the district attorney making a personal threat for the purpose of gaining an advantage in a criminal trial. And that really is grounds for disbarment."

"You're in over your head, Kincaid," Guillerman growled, bearing down on him, "and you're going to lose. I will see to that personally. You're going down in flames." He turned on his heel and stomped away. "Both you and your client."

Perseverance, Al. The key to uncovering the unknown.

That's what his father used to tell him, Loving mused, daydreaming a little as he stared at the hospital for the third day running. Before he shoved off, Loving's dad used to take him on camping trips down near Tahlequah. Sometimes they'd float the Illinois; other times they'd go on long hikes through the woods. They would pretend to be pioneer scouts, Kit Carson and his men, tracking bad guys through the dense brush. They would look for clues, broken twigs, telltale footprints in the mud. What kind of animal has a foot like that? his dad would ask.

And of course, his father had been strangely fascinated with the analysis of what he called "scat." You can tell what animal had been there by analyzing the scat. At the time, Loving had doubted his father's credibility on this subject. Turns out it was true, although it took him many years to learn that. A friend at the Nature Conservancy had even given him a pictorial scarf illustrating the various types of scat indigenous to the Oklahoma prairie.

His father had been a good man before he disappeared. Loving still didn't know why he left. He knew his mother was high-strung and not the easiest to look after. He should know-he'd been doing it on his own for almost thirty years now. But why his father had made such a sudden break, as if he just couldn't stand it another day, that he didn't understand.

Just as Loving could not comprehend why his father had never wanted to come back since he left. Not even just to stop in and say hello.

Loving rubbed his eyes and slapped the sides of his face. Funny how your mind wanders when you've been staring at the same urban structure for three days. The point of the reverie was that his father had taught him patience, perseverance, the ability to wait for what you want. That was a lesson that served him well in his current life as a private detective.

Ever since that strange meeting with Officer Torres in the grove of trees outside Scene of the Crime, Loving had staked out St. Benedict's Hospital. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but this was the only lead he had, so he was not letting it go. If there was something happening here, surely he would eventually see a hint of it. He'd been watching all around the clock. He moved his van to a new position every now and again, to avoid attention. But he always made sure he had a view of the front doors and the loading dock on the side. If something unusual was going down, that would most likely be where he would get a glimpse.

St. Benedict's filled a midtown niche, closing gaps between St. John's modern urban complex and St. Francis's sprawling pink cinder block. Despite the fact that he was a detective, Loving still didn't know what had motivated the St. Francis powers-that-be to paint a hospital pink. He had heard so many contradictory stories, they had taken on the sheen of urban legends. Pink paint surplus. Comforting to the ill. St. Francis of Assisi's favorite color. As if you would pick your color scheme based upon the preferences of a guy who talked to birds. It was even more strange now that they added the Children's Hospital, which was bright blue with green windows. It looked like a giant Lego construction with a mismatched piece at the end.

By contrast, St. Benedict's was smaller and lower-key. The entire building was a single story, like a hospital designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It was not as large as either of the other two major hospitals but was renowned for its research and its willingness to tackle difficult cases. Almost too successful: they had a reputation for dealing with those in the worst, most terminal condition. Telling someone that a mutual friend had "gone to Benedict's" was guaranteed to produce a sorrowful expression; it was tantamount to saying the funeral service would be held next Monday. Loving had only been inside a few times, and none of the visits were experiences he liked to recall or hoped to repeat ever again in his life.

Well, what could he do next to keep himself awake? He'd played the alphabet game solo, particularly difficult when there were so few signs around, impossible now that it was dark outside. He'd decoded every personalized license plate within view. He'd heard every song on his iPod several times over. It was possible that it was time to chuck it in, try something else. He wasn't a quitter, but he knew Ben needed help, and if this wasn't going to pan out, perhaps it was time to try something different. He hated to go against his dad's advice, but he was in his forties now, after all, and there came a time when a man had-

Loving sat up straight in his seat. Wait just a minute. Was that who he thought it was?

He smiled. Daddy had been right. Again.

It was possible the man was just going to visit a sick friend. But Loving didn't think so.

Loving slowly eased out of his van, careful not to attract any attention. He crept between the cars, staying well behind Officer Peter Shaw. One of the Benedict's Bunch. The darkness helped, even though the parking lot was illuminated with several high fluorescent lamps.

He stepped through the sliding front doors and waited, staying out of sight. Shaw would recognize him, and the last time he and Loving had met, he'd threatened to punch his lights out. A big scene in the hospital lobby would not likely generate the information Loving needed.

Shaw nodded at the front desk receptionist but did not stop or sign in. That in itself was interesting. Told Loving at least two things: he'd been here before, and he didn't want to leave a record of his presence.