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intended on spilling it all at this particular confession. In fact, he had hoped to keep his sins largely hidden, but soon enough, just like when he was a boy, he started singing like a mockingbird. His tongue flapped in the wind, and his mouth was uncontrollable when his conscience was involved. He could thank his mother and her unfailing honesty for that. After almost revealing too much, Ben caught himself. He stammered for a moment trying to find the right words to reclaim his control.
    “I hurt my mother. Snapped at her on the phone. She was … she was getting onto me for one of those things mothers get onto you about, y’know, and I got tired of her bickering, and I told her to stop, that I was a man and I could take care of myself. She started crying. Made me feel horrible. Still feel horrible. It’s what brought me here today. Only time I ever made my mama cry.”
    So it had come to this: Ben lying to a priest in confession. On top of everything else he had done wrong in the last few days and weeks, Doggett had become, almost overnight, an expert liar. And he was highly believable even when he was lying through his teeth.
    “I’m sorry, too, father, for not listening in Mass as well as I should sometimes.”
    “No worries, my son. I get that one a lot. Just do your best and I’ll do mine,” Fr. Marcus said.
    The priest doled out Doggett’s penance, made the sign of the cross through the screen that divided them and absolved him of all that he had done wrong. Doggett slithered out of the confessional wondering why the Catholic Church bothered with partitioning in confessionals. There’s no way he doesn’t know who I am , Doggett thought to himself.
    Father shook his head as Doggett exited the church. He unfurled the morning newspaper: “Man found shot execution style in Odessa; drug deal gone bad apparent motive,” the headline read.

At almost precisely the same time that Fr. Marcus was opening his Reporter-Telegram , Tony Nail was across town reading the same story. Unlike Fr. Marcus, Tony found himself scouring over the facts. He picked up the phone and called Ben.
    “Mr. Doggett? There’s a problem down here at the school. Got a little water leak I need your input on. Can you drop by for a few minutes?” Nail asked.
    “On the way,” Doggett said. He picked up the phone and explained to Angela the problem at the school and said he would be home a little later than he had thought. Five minutes later he pulled up and met Nail in the parking lot at Stephen F. Austin.
    “What’s the problem, Tony?” Doggett asked.
    “You tell me,” Nail said.
    “Excuse me?” Doggett said.
    “You seen today’s paper, man?” Nail asked, tossing it down on the hood of Doggett’s car.
    The headline jumped off the page at Doggett, who had, in fact, not seen the morning paper. He studied it for several moments before saying anything.
    “Tragic. They’ve had a bunch of killings in Odessa lately, all drug-related they say. What’s the world comin’ to?” Doggett said. He looked up at Tony. “What’s this got to do with me, Toe?”
    “Suppose you tell me?” Nail challenged his boss.
    “What’s that supposed to mean, man?”
    Nail held out his hand and showed Doggett a picture of a silver Honda parked at the gas station where the shooting occurred. He had taken it on his smart phone the night before. It could have been taken on any night, so the photo could never be admitted into evidence, but Doggett’s reaction did nothing to ease Nail’s mind of his boss’s involvement.
    “Son of a —” Doggett said, holding himself back.
    “So, what’s the story Mr. Doggett? You kill this man, Junior Walker? I saw a car that looked a heckuva lot like yours drive up to that abandoned gas station. Next thing I know, I hear a shot, see a flash. Then I see somebody get back in the car and speed off. I followed whoever it was for awhile but they were driving too fast. I lost ’em real quick.
    “You crazy, man.” It