Dellie Parker had lived in Thornton, Indiana, all her life, leaving for only four years to attend the university in Bloomington, where she received her degree in English and literature. After graduation, she returned to Thornton and married Woodrow Smith, an attorney who later became a judge and served the county faithfully for forty-four years. Thornton was a peaceful town, and in all of Dellie’s seventy-two years, the city had faced one murder, an attempted bank robbery, and a case of embezzlement by a county clerk.

That was before David Martin abducted eight-year-old Susan Wilson, raped and murdered the child, and left her in a drainage ditch near a local government-owned lake.

For six months, Thornton dominated state and local news. CNN set up outside the courthouse. Reporters crawled all over town, asking questions and drumming up stories to feed the frenzy of the nation—who would have thought such a sick, twisted murder would take place in a quiet Midwest town? The local Holiday Inn Express near the interstate east of town was booked solid for weeks on end. Business in Thornton boomed, filling the pockets of business owners and keeping the town in chaos.

Martin did not attempt to refute the charges. He relished the attention. Lawyers eager to try a capital case surrounded him in the hope of landing the number-one chair—the nationwide coverage would have political ramifications for years to come and benefit careers and bank accounts. The prosecutor was in over his head, lacking the experience to tackle a high-profile case. The one thing he did have was a signed confession and a county full of people determined that Martin get the death penalty.

In the end, the pressure was too much. A plea bargain granted Martin life in prison with eligibility for parole after ten years, leaving the town outraged.

Woodrow Smith, dead now five years, would never have stood for such a circus, thought Dellie, tears pouring down her cheeks, her heart in agony. That poor little girl.

Justice disregarded, a child killer had escaped death and lived to remind Thornton of the tragedy of greed and the power of persuasion. The prosecutor claimed he had saved the county five hundred thousand dollars in court costs by agreeing to the plea agreement. No one mentioned Martin’s well-to-do family or the team of hotshot lawyers hired to try the case. The prosecutor’s decision was a coward’s way out, and Dellie knew it.

Dellie and Woodrow had never had children, not because they didn’t want them but because she could not conceive. Dellie filled the void by teaching grade-school English as well as Sunday school, helping the children in Thornton to get a good start in life in any way she could.

As usual, CNN, along with network television stations from Indianapolis, Louisville, and Cincinnati, surrounded the courthouse. The reporters waited impatiently for David Martin to begin his walk from the courthouse to the van taking him to the Michigan City state prison. The town square was more crowded than during the annual watermelon festival. It reminded Dellie of a western hanging where people came from miles around to watch a man swing from a rope. People on one side of the square held hate signs and yelled cuss words; a group on the opposite corner declared victory against capital punishment. The state police formed a wall from the courthouse to the van, standing shoulder to shoulder, shotguns held across their chests, speechless and motionless.

Martin, shackles around his ankles, his hands secured to a belt around his waist, began his descent from the top of the courthouse steps. Two deputies, one on either side, each held an arm and led him down the stairs, followed by eight more deputies and the county sheriff. Martin saw the crowd and smiled with excitement. His moment in the spotlight had been part of the plea deal.

Dellie dug hard, sending dirt flying. She heard the shot and a brief smile came to her lips, followed by a sea of tears as she bent forward, holding her hands against her stomach.

Martin was down, half his head gone, blood splattered all over the deputies, a red stream flowing down the lower steps. People screamed and ran in panic. The state police broke ranks, trying to control the crowd, uncertain of what had happened. The sheriff pointed at the rooftops of the buildings across the street, indicating a shooter. Amid the chaos, no one noticed the man in the green camo T-shirt and hat with a portable lawn chair slung across his shoulder. He casually made his way through the crowd, got into a late-model Chevy Impala, and drove west out of Thornton.