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were too rough and dirty to hold fingerprints, the kids had never been caught.
    â€œThat’s the worst part of it, Commander,” Emily said, shaking off the gloom that came from telling the story. “Jack died without knowing why.” She smiled to herself. Her oh-so-logical husband would have detested not knowing the exact details of his fate. It was a loose end. Jack hated loose ends. He liked life as neat and tidy as his beloved engineering flowcharts.
    She considered saying more, because Benedetti looked like he wouldn’t mind hearing it. She quickly squelched the notion. He had bigger priorities than her pain. More important things to worry about than what Jack was thinking when the upside-down viaduct filled his windshield. She’d always hoped he was thinking of her. Prayed it so many times she’d lost count. But she didn’t know. That was the worst part for her—the utterly unbreachable wall separating her from Jack’s last moment on earth. But it was also her problem, not Benedetti’s, not Branch’s. Why waste time speaking of things that didn’t matter anymore and couldn’t be changed even if they did? It was time to concentrate not on her memories, but on one victim she might actually be able to do something about.
    Lucy Crawford.
    She examined her cigar stub and found herself hoping Branch had a spare. Despite its foul taste, working without tobacco right now wasn’t high on her list of priorities. “If I can scrounge another smoke,” she said finally, “maybe we can get back to work.”

EMILY AND BRADY
    Chicago
May 1965
    â€œCongratulations, friend,” doctor announced to the grubby redhead slumped in the corner of the waiting room. “You’re a father!”
    Gerald Thompson lifted his bloodshot eyes from the cigarette-burned floor tile, nodded.
    â€œYou should be happy,” doctor prodded, annoyed this lout wasn’t thanking him. Respect the white coat, if not the man wearing it! “Your daughter’s in with your wife. Do you want to see them?”
    â€œYes,” Gerald grunted. He got to his feet, weaving a bit. He brushed crud off his jeans, prompting the other new dads to lean away. He ignored them, stomping his boots, wiping sweat salt off his stubbled cheeks, tucking a work shirt that smelled like unwashed armpits. “I’m ready,” he said, pulling a flat jewelry box from his pocket and staring at it. Doctor nodded, walked him to Room 313, and stepped inside. Gerald took his elbow, leaving grungy fingerprints on the white cotton. “Just the three of us,” he said.
    Doctor struggled to keep his expression professional. “I suppose that’s all right, Mr. Thomas. I’ll be at the nurses’ station”—he pointed—“if you have questions.”
    Gerald went inside without replying.
    â€œThe state should require parenting licenses,” doctor grumbled to the nurse filling out paperwork. “Not everyone’s fit to have children, you know.”
    â€œWho are you talking about?” Mrs. Hoffmeyer said, looking up.
    He nodded at the closed door. “Mr. Thomas.”
    â€œThompson,” Mrs. Hoffmeyer corrected. She’d had no use for this idiot since the day he lectured the maternity nurses saying, “I don’t know how other doctors handled you, but my team gives a full day’s work for a day’s pay. I’ll tolerate nothing less.” Like they didn’t work hard already! Arrogance came with the territory with doctors, she knew after thirty-four years of working with them, but this one was so beyond the pale that several nurses were thinking of joining the Teamsters. Besides, he was too young and inexperienced to be making such harsh judgments. “His wife, Alexandra, is lovely,” she said. “Why do you think her husband isn’t fit to be a father?”
    â€œHis appearance says it all, Nurse,” doctor