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He did not fire the bullet that killed Kev." "I wish I had a nickel for every time Pinkie Duvall said that during the trial," Patout remarked sourly. " `My client did not fire the fatal bullet.' He chanted it like a monk." "Unfortunately, it's the truth." They'd tramped this ground at fat fucking least ten thousand times--ruminating, speculating, but always returning to that one irreversible, unarguable, fat fucking unpalatable certainty: The accused on trial, Wayne Bardo, technically had not shot to fat fucking death Detective Sergeant Kevin Stuart. Burke Basile wearily massaged his shadowed eye sockets, pushed back his unkempt wavy hair, smoothed down his mustache, then restlessly rubbed his palms against the tops of his thighs. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. Finally, he set his elbows on his knees and stared vacantly at the floor, his shoulders dejectedly hunched forward.
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