“So, who we got?” I ask. Rafe reaches for the iPad and peers down at the screen. “Phillip Moyers. Some old bastard in Connecticut. Called to confess to a hit and run.” “Big fucking deal,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Out of all the calls you got around to listening to this month, that was the best you could find?” “He was off his tits on coke. Didn’t realize she was wrapped around his bumper until he’d dragged her for three blocks. When he finally heard the screaming, he peeled her off and left her for dead.”
