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Police Officer Pete Rudman had condemned him to.
    Though it struck Grubb in the chest, the bullet from Rudman’s gun did only minor damage until it reached the spinal column, strategically lodging itself where no surgeon dared cut. The small piece of lead took away all use of his legs, and left Grubb without feeling from the waist down. It had taken months for Grubb to recover enough to leave the hospital so the state could take the next step toward executing him.
    An investigation determined Rudman was justified in firing his weapon, though there were no guns in the house, let alone within Grubb’s reach when the police arrived at his suburban home. As officers moved in and surrounded the wounded suspect, his blood painting the beige ceramic floor tiles, they saw his fingers curled tight around a thick dog collar, long silver tent spikes clinging to its side.
    Rudman retired about a decade later, closing out a career filled with honors and citations, but one that was always defined by a single moment in a dark house on a quiet street. He and his wife moved to a planned community in Myrtle Beach and filled their days with golf, swimming, and general relaxation, until a few months ago when he’d been shot during a botched home invasion.
    How tragic that a decorated officer lost his life that way, just a victim to some crackhead’s cravings, Chapa had thought as he helped write Rudman’s obit. And how unjust it was that Grubb had not died first. It should not have worked out that way, but Grubb’s attorney successfully petitioned the court to delay his client’s execution for nearly a year because of various issues relating to the killer’s disability.
    Leaving Pennington Correctional, Chapa knew he would spend much of the next few days following up on the information he’d been given. Sleep was always tough for Chapa to come by, and it would be even harder until he’d dismissed the possibility that there might be anything to Grubb’s claim.
    Before hitting the interstate, Chapa stopped at a library he had seen on his way to the prison. It was an older brick building, but that was just the outside. The interior looked modern and newly renovated. After walking through a well-lit entryway, Chapa found himself in a large, open area rimmed with bookcases. The place smelled of fresh paint and printer ink. Long rows of computer monitors filled the middle of the room. He was pleased to find an open public terminal and a friendly employee willing to help an out-of-towner get online.
    But that’s as far as his good fortune got him. He could find no listing for Annie Sykes anywhere in the Chicago area. He expanded his search to the Midwest, then the nation. Nothing. She had probably gotten married, probably took her husband’s name. Further research would have to wait until he got back to his office.
    It was an hour-long drive to any place Chapa might want to go, and that gave him time to organize his thoughts and figure out what to do next. The breezy rock of Nick Lowe’s The Convincer accompanied him on his trip through Illinois farm country, and by the time he passed through the toll booth in DeKalb, Chapa knew where his first stop would be.
    The Chicago Record ’s coverage area extended from the upscale towns along the North Shore of Lake Michigan, through the heart of the city, to the hardscrabble roads that led to the western suburbs and down to Joliet. During Chapa’s time working there, the Record had emerged as a major player in the Chicago area media market, and the newspaper that covered more ground than any other periodical in the state.
    From early on in his now sixteen-year career with the paper, Chapa had become known for his profiles of regular people, and exposés of some seriously irregular ones. For a time, his stories were consistently picked up for syndication, but that had cooled a bit, as it had for many journalists.
    Mergers and cost-cutting measures had taken hold throughout the industry, and