Ricky said. He wasn’t the kind for small talk with strangers, but the topic interested him. “The kind of man who coached Little League and attended church regularly. The kind the neighbors said they never would have suspected.” “A creep is what he is. I hope they fry him and send him to hell to fry some more.” “North Carolina uses lethal injection.” “Fry him anyway.” “I wonder what she was like.” Since the murder last week, Ricky had been studying the woman’s photograph, trying to divine the character traits that had driven a man to murder. Had she been unfailingly kind and considerate, and had thus driven her husband into a blinding red madness? “A saint,” the short man said. “She volunteered at the animal shelter.” “That’s what I heard,” Ricky said. The cashier told him the total and he thumbed a credit card from his wallet. People always took kindness toward animals as a sign of divine benevolence. Let children starve in Africa but don’t kick a dog in the ribs.
