Not without special permission. Never mind that the homeowner was possibly deceased and that looking for his body was the reason you needed to dig up the garage in the first place. You needed probable cause, not just a patch of fresh concrete. Like a confession, for example. Jerry and Torrance were back at the King County Jail, sitting across from a very bruised Jeremiah Blake. The kid’s left cheek was the color of eggplant and there was a long scratch on his right arm. He looked miserable and very, very vulnerable. He wouldn’t say who’d jacked him, of course, and Jerry couldn’t help but feel a tiny stab of sympathy. County jail was much worse than prison. Blake might be eighteen, but he looked fifteen. He was still just a kid. “I thought they were putting him in a cell by himself,” Torrance said to Blake’s public defender, a young woman named Shannon Koscheck, who looked fresh out of law school and almost as pathetic as her client did. Her mousy brown hair flopped over one eye and she was constantly flicking her bangs out of her face.
