THE MUSCLE TWITCHING in Conklin’s jaw was the only outward sign that he was as stunned by Junie’s confession as I was.

  “How long did it take for Michael to die?” he asked Junie Moon.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a couple of minutes. Maybe a little more. It was awful, awful,” Junie said, shaking her head at the memory. “About then, that’s when I called my boyfriend.”

  “You called your boyfriend?” I shouted. “Is he a doctor?”

  “No. But I needed him. And so Ricky came over, and Michael had passed away by then, so we put him into the bathtub. And then Ricky and I talked for a long time about what to do.”

  I wanted to scream, You moron! You might have saved him! Michael Campion might have lived. I wanted to shake her. Slap her bimbo face - so I got a grip on myself, sat back, and let Conklin keep the ball rolling.

  “So what did you do with his body, Junie? Where is Michael now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I said, getting up from my chair, making a racket with it, taking a couple of laps around the table.

  Junie started speaking quickly, as if by talking fast she’d get to the end of her story and it would all be over.

  “After a few hours, Ricky decided to cut up his body with a knife. It was the most horrible thing I could ever imagine - and I grew up on a farm! I was throwing up and crying,” Junie said, looking as though she might do it now.

  I pulled out my chair again, put my butt in the seat, determined not to scare the little hooker even as she shocked me to the bone.

  “But once we started cutting, there was no way back,” Junie said, pleading to Conklin with her eyes. “I helped Ricky put Michael’s body into about eight garbage bags, and then we piled the bags into Ricky’s truck. It was like five in the morning. And no one was around.”