He had just, without knowing it, attacked the family of a man who spent his days hunting bigger predators than him.

He thought he had cornered a soldier.

He had cornered a specialist in his own crime.

And there is a broader truth in that which the Prescotts’ downfall illustrates perfectly, and which I have watched play out again and again in my work: that the people who commit crimes at a small scale, in a small pond, almost always fatally underestimate how the same crime looks to someone who studies it at a large scale.

Roy Prescott was, in his own county, a sophisticated criminal — he had refined his methods over two decades, learned exactly how to forge a lien, coach a false report, apply pressure through a compliant deputy, keep everything quiet and local and deniable.