37

Piper sat in the packed courtroom at eight in the morning two days later. The air was stifling, carrying the odor of sweat and bodies. The media occupied most of the seats, forcing some attendees to stand at the back. The outside temperature soared to 110 degrees.

She sat behind the prosecution table, where twenty-seven cases were listed on the court docket for today, but everyone was there for Owen Alistair Whittaker. The name on everybody’s lips. Piper wasn’t sure what he was—serial murderer, mass murderer, spree killer; all the same to her—but she knew he was an oddity that piqued the public interest more than she would have wanted.

The prosecutor was someone covering arraignments and wouldn’t be the assigned prosecutor.

“All rise, Eighth District court is now in session,” the bailiff said. “The Honorable Maria Covey presiding.”

A woman with dark black hair and glasses came out. She sat down and looked over the crowded courtroom a moment before saying, “Please be seated. Let’s call the matter of Owen Alistair Whittaker, number twenty-three on the docket.”

The bailiffs brought Owen out in an orange jumpsuit and white slippers with no laces. He looked clean, and she wondered if he willingly showered or if they had to hose him down. He glanced to Piper and then was stood at the lectern.

Judge Covey said, “Mr. Whittaker, am I correct in understanding that you are currently without residence or employment?”

He gave no response.

“Mr. Whittaker, I do need a reply. Are you currently without residence or employment?”

He didn’t answer.

“Well, for now, I’m entering not guilty pleas on your behalf then, and assigning the Clark County Public Defender’s Office to represent you in this matter. They will have someone come visit with you today. We’ll set this matter for a scheduling conference two weeks out. Bail is denied at this time. Thank you.”

Piper watched as he was led out of the courtroom. His eyes met hers one last time, and she felt a wave of disgust. Then, he was gone. As she prepared to leave, she spotted Lazarus standing at the rear of the courtroom, watching.

“I’ve never seen so many reporters,” she said.

“Wounds attract flies.”

Camera crews swarmed outside the courtroom. When the doors swung open, they surged forward, clamoring for a shot. The people exiting the courtroom were pursued by reporters, and as they spilled into the hallway, the cacophony of voices swelled.

Lazarus and Piper decided to take the stairs rather than the elevator.

“I gotta meet with the DA’s office,” Lazarus said once they got to the first floor.

He seemed distant, distracted. She thought that catching this man would have offered some relief, some perspective. It didn’t seem to.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” he said without turning around. And then he was out the doors and gone.