J is for Judgement

twice for a written cost-per-person breakdown of the food and drink for the reception, and we can't seem to get a response. We thought maybe you could give her a call and light a little fire under her for answers. I'll be here in the morning and you can call me, okay? Thank you. I'll talk to you then, babe. Bye now."
    I wondered idly if Dana ever told these young brides the problems they were going to run into once the wed- ding was over with: boredom, weight gain, irresponsibility, friction over sex, spending, family holidays, and who picks up the socks. Maybe it was just my basic cynicism rising to the surface, but cost-per-person food and drink breakdowns seemed trivial compared to the conflicts marriage generated.
    " . . . a real helper, generous, cooperative. Winsome and funny. He's got a very high IQ." She was talking about Brian, the alleged teen killer. Only a mother could described as "winsome and funny" a kid who'd recently broken out of jail and gone on a killing rampage. She was looking at me expectantly. "I have to get on with this so 1 can reclaim my bedroom. You have any other questions before 1 get on with the vacuuming?"
    Offhand, I couldn't think of any. "This is fine for now." She kicked the switch and the vacuum cleaner shrilled to life, a high keening whine that drowned out any possibility of conversation. As I let myself out the front door, I could hear the droning of the motor as she hauled the suction wand across the floor.
    11 My WATCH SHOWED that it was nearly noon. I drove over to the Perdido County Jail. The Perdido County Government Center was constructed in 1978, a sprawling mass of pale concrete that houses the Criminal Justice Center, the administration building, and the Hall of Justice. I parked my car in one of the spaces provided in the vast marina of asphalt that surrounds the complex. I went into the main entrance, pushing through the glass doors that opened onto the lower lobby. I hung a right. The main jail public counter was located down a short hallway. On the same floor were the Sheriff's Personnel Counter, Records and Licensing, and the West County Patrol Services counter, none of which interested me for the moment.
    I identified myself to the civilian clerk and, in due course, was directed to the watch commander's office, where I introduced myself. I showed my identification, including my driver's license and my investigator license. There was a brief delay while a second clerk picked up the phone and checked to see if the jail administrator was in. The minute I heard the guy's name, I knew my luck had improved. I had gone to high school with Tommy Ryckman. He was two years ahead of me, but we'd misbehaved together rather desperately in the days when one could do that without risking death or disease. I wasn't sure he'd remember me, but apparently he did. Sergeant Ryckman agreed to see me as soon as I'd received my clearance. I was directed down the hall to his small office on the right.
    As I entered his office, he unfolded himself from his swivel chair, emerging to an impressive six feet eight, his face wreathed with a grin. "Well, it's been way too long. How the hell are you?"
    "I'm great, Tommy. How are you?"
    We shook hands across the desk and made effusive noises at each other, trading hasty summaries of the years since we'd met. He was now in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven with glossy brown hair parted on one side and slicked across. His hair was thinning slightly, and his forehead was scored as if by the tines of a fork. He wore glasses with wire frames, and his jaw looked like it would smell of citrus after-shave. His khaki sheriff's department uniform was starched and crisply pressed, the slacks looking like they'd been professionally tailored to fit. He had long arms and big hands, a wedding ring, of course.
    He motioned me to a chair and then eased back into his own. Even seated, he had the build of a basketball player, his grasshopper knees visible above the edge of the desk. His black shoes must have been a size 13. His accent was still shaded by a touch of the Midwest, Wisconsin perhaps, and I remembered that he'd arrived at Santa Teresa High halfway through the school year. He had a studio portrait on his desk: a wifey-looking woman and three medium-aged kids, two boys and a girl, all with glossy brown hair neatly slicked down with water, all wearing glasses with clear plastic frames. Two of the kids were of an age where they had goofy teeth.
    "You're here