LAMAR QUISENBERRY

The second Henry County photo is blue all over. Front and profile, mullet, raglan shirt, slate. Whatever camera took it made the whole works underwater green-blue. Poor fella looks like somebody already remembers him wrong.

The slate says Lamar Quisenberry. Or Dwight read Lamar Quisenberry at 2:35 in the morning and wrote it down. At that hour your name's whatever the awake man can spell. Be grateful it ain't “goddamn blur.”

Nobody's claimed him. Henry County says no. Ponder County says no. Lamar, wherever and whenever he is, hasn't weighed in. Reckon he might like a vote.

Louella Fenwick studied the photo through the bars.

“Oh, that's Verle's cousin's boy.”

Looked again. “No it isn't.”

Third look. “Well, it might be.”

That's the closest we got. Three identifications, all from one woman, and none worth a shit in court.

He's unsmiling both ways, holding the slate like he's held one before. There's a longer story somewhere, some year, some county with a working camera. Ain't a bit of it here.

Dwight put him between a Santa and a Chiefs fan anyway. Decent enough company for a man nobody can place. By 2:35 a.m. the record had quit being about who did what. Hell, we were past that.

It's about who was in the pile. Lamar's in the pile.