Show of Evil
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It begins with a shocking, unsolved murder. In small town in southern Illinois, the butchered body of Linda Balfour--with a cryptic code printed in blood on the back of her head--forges a gruesome link to the brutal murder of Bishop Rushman, the beloved Chicago clergyman who had been dismembered years before by the angelic-looking altar boy, Aaron Stampler. The same Aaron Stampler whom defense attorney Martin Vail saved from the electric chair...
Now Vail is Chicago's chief prosecutor, facing the nightmare of his life. If Stampler has been locked away in a high-security institution for the past ten years, how could he have killed Linda Balfour? Then another altar boy turns up dead with a similar inscription in blood on the back of his head. If Aaron Stampler isn't committing these killings, who is? Martin Vail's career--maybe even his life--hangs on the answer...
people before turning it on himself. Perhaps it wasn't as bland as she thought. Thinking about Edith Stoddard, she stared into the closet. From where she was sitting, she could see the entire area, which was adjacent to, and formed a small hallway into, the bathroom; a large closet, empty except for a suit, a couple of shirts on hangers, a bathrobe, a pair of leather slippers, and a pair of black loafers. But something else caught her attention. As she stared at it, she realized that the closet
'You're implying one of my patients is this killer of yours.' 'No, we think it's possible, that's all. Do you still have the tapes you made with Stampler?' 'Yes, I do.' 'Where are they?' 'Under lock and key.' 'Where?' 'In my office.' 'May we see them?' 'What are you trying to prove?' 'May we see them, please?' She got up and opened the door to her private office. The walls were lined with oak book cabinets with glass doors. They were filled with reports, files, and near the end of one
down. 'That's three times a week,' Vail complained. 'Tell the lady.' Chock, chock, chock, chock, chock. 'Quit bellyachin',' a growl for a voice said from across the room. Butterfly, who was anything but at five-four and two hundred and fifty pounds, entered the kitchen. 'There was a special on chipped beef, okay?' 'Know what I've been thinking about, Butterfly? Crepes.' 'Crepes?' 'You know, those little French pancakes, thin with—' 'A short stack,' she yelled to Bobby. 'How about you,
the case in, that's it.' 'How do you know what was in the case?' Stenner asked. 'Christ, Jake counted it out right in fronta me. Tells me there's a fuckin' dollar missin' it's my ass.' 'And it was Roznick's car?' 'Sometimes. I sat in my car half a dozen times and watched him come out, dip into the trunk, and split with the case. Other times it was Glen Scott, Eddie Malone, Pete Yankovitch.' 'City staff?' 'Yeah. Different places for them. Shoulders had 'em all over a barrel. Stuff they did
smile. 'I don't remember it all that well,' Stenner said brusquely. 'Ten years does tricks to your memory.' 'How about these here Altar Boys?' St Claire asked. There were five of them. Linda and one of them ran. Two others were killed. There were no witnesses to corroborate Rushman's voice, that's why neither of us would touch it in the courtroom.' 'Killed?' Flaherty asked. 'By Stampler-Roy,' Stenner said. 'We all knew that, too. Venable figured she had Stampler, anyway, why risk trying him