Night Sins/Guilty as Sin

Author:Tami Hoag [Hoag, Tami]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-49706-2
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 1996-06-06T16:00:00+00:00

EPILOGUE

JOURNAL ENTRY

DAY 13

They think they’ve beaten us at our own game.

Poor simple minds.

Every chess master knows in the quest for victory

he will concede minor defeats.

They may have won the round, but

the game is far from over.

They think they’ve beaten us.

We smile and say,

Welcome to the Next Level.

PRIOR BAD ACTS

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1

“HE SLAUGHTERED a mother and two children.” Hennepin County prosecutor Chris Logan was a man of strong opinions and stronger emotions. Both traits had served him well in the courtroom with juries, not always so well in judges’ chambers. He was tall, broad shouldered, athletic, with a thick shock of black-Irish hair now threaded with silver. Forty-five years old, Logan had spent twenty of those years in the criminal court system. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone entirely white.

“I’m sorry,” said the defense attorney, his sarcasm belying the expression of shock. “Did I miss something? When were we suddenly transported to the Dark Ages? Aren’t the accused in this country still innocent until proven guilty?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Scott, could you spare us the act? We’re all adults. We all know each other. We all know you’re full of shit. Could you spare us the demonstration?”

“Mr. Logan …”

Judge Carey Moore gave him a level look. She had known Chris Logan since they had both cut their teeth toiling as public defenders—a job neither of them had the temperament for. They had moved on to the county attorneys office as quickly as they could, and both had made their names in the courtroom, prosecuting everything from petty theft to rape to murder.

Sitting in the other chair across from her desk was another cog in the public defender’s machine. Kenny Scott had gone in that door and had never come out, which made him either a saint battling for justice for the socially disadvantaged or a pathetic excuse for an attorney, unable to rise out of anonymity and go on to private practice. Having had him in her courtroom numerous times, Carey suspected the latter.

He looked at Carey now with the eyes of a mouse in a room full of cats. Perspiring, nervous, ready to run, scrambling mentally. He was a small man whose suits never fit—too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves—which somehow emphasized the impression that he was overwhelmed by his job or by life in general.

By the luck of the draw, he had gotten stuck with the job of defending the most hated man in Minneapolis, if not the entire state: a drifter named Karl Dahl, accused of the most heinous murders Carey had encountered in her career.

The scene had been so gruesome, one of the uniformed officers who had responded to the original call had suffered a heart attack and had subsequently retired from the force. The lead homicide detective had been so affected by the case, he had eventually been removed from the rotation and put on a desk job, pending the completion of psychiatric counseling.

“Your Honor, you can’t allow Mr.

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