“That’s my take.”

“With Gower and Nance, he put saliva on tissue and left it in the child’s hand.”

“But that’s iffy. What if it rains? What if the tissue blows away? Animals drag it off?” Larabee was right there with me. “He had to get more sophisticated.”

I closed my eyes. Saw a syrupy corpse on a stainless steel table.

“Pomerleau had punctures on her inner elbows,” I said. “The ME in Vermont thought they looked wrong for needle drugs. So did I. And Pomerleau’s tox screen came back clean.”

“Ajax drew her blood and stored it in vials.”

“Or she gave it to him.”

“I doubt she gave him hunks of her head.”

I spent a moment grinding that down.

“He’s smart,” I said. “Knows shaft isn’t good enough. That root is needed to sequence nuclear DNA.”

“You think he scalped her when he killed her?”

“Yes.”

A pause. Metal rattled in the background. I figured Larabee was in an autopsy room.

“The killer created a larder.” I was thinking out loud. “Hair. Blood. Saliva.”

“Probably kept the stuff in a freezer.”

“But why go to all that trouble?”

“To deflect suspicion away from himself? In case he got caught?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was part of the game.”

“Which he continued to play after stuffing Pomerleau into a barrel. That happened when?”

“Probably 2009,” I said.

“When the action moved here.”

An incoming text landed on my phone. “I’ve got to go.”

“Can you tell Slidell?”

“I’m with him now.”

I heard a catch in Larabee’s breathing. Then, “You’re saying killer. Not Ajax. Is that Slidell’s thinking?”

I pressed the phone hard to my ear, guilt already gripping my gut. “Yes.”

“I thought he’d take my face off this morning when I gave him the news. He didn’t. Just sat there.”

“He already had doubts.”

“Son of a biscuit.”

“Something like that.”

The text was from Mama. A link to a YouTube video. Seeing Slidell stomping my way, I decided it could wait.

As we drove to Saranella’s condo in South End, I relayed Larabee’s news. Slidell listened. Shook his head once.

Saranella wasn’t home. His roommate, Grinder, had bad hair plugs and a fuck-you demeanor. After some attitude-adjustment tips from Slidell, Grinder shared that Arnie was in Hilton Head and would return the following Monday.

Back in the Taurus, I checked the time: 3:10.

Slidell was growing surly. So was I. We were accomplishing nothing. And the sense of guilt about Ajax was building inside me. Plus, I was starving.

I asked Slidell to drop me back at the MCME.

After easing free of Mrs. Flowers, I got a yogurt from my stash in the refrigerator and a granola bar from the drawer in my desk. Washed the feast down with a Diet Coke. All the food groups.

Then I called Ryan. Got voicemail.

Rodas. He answered. I told him about the DNA reports, the ticket, Ajax’s babysitter’s arrest record. He responded with more animation than Slidell. A lot more.

When I’d finished, he said, “I’ve been going over the Gower scene photos.”

“At the Hardwick quarry.”

“Yeah. Thought if Ajax was there, it would lock in one more piece.”

“And?”

“Lots of gawkers but no doc.”

“Back to square one?”

“Could be.”

I disconnected, impressed. Umpie Rodas would never give up on Nellie Gower.

Ryan called as I was dropping the next-to-last report in my outbox. I briefed him. Then we wove through a maze of speculation similar to the one I’d traveled with Larabee. If not Ajax, who? How did the guy hook up with Pomerleau? Why? Why shift to Charlotte?

“Why plant Pomerleau’s DNA on the victims?” Ryan asked after we’d both wound down. “Why not his own? They were a tag team until he killed her.”

“Until someone killed her.”

“Do you think Pomerleau was a willing donor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or did the bastard keep her captive to harvest her body fluids?”

I couldn’t answer. The thought was too appalling. Even for a monster like Pomerleau.

“Was it simply because he had access to her?” Ryan was throwing theories at the wall to see if one stuck. “Or was Pomerleau specific to his pathology?”

“Not just any donor but Pomerleau personally?”

“Yes.”

“In which case she could still be the key. The piece we’re failing to understand.”

“It’s just an idea.”

Another pause.

“Is Salter reopening the files?” Ryan asked.

“Slidell’s buying himself time.” Diplomatic.

“He hasn’t told her.”

“No.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Talking to people who knew Ajax. To Oklahoma. Taking a hard look at this nurse’s assistant Ellis Yoder.”

“Why?”

“Yoder was working on the dates Leal and Donovan went through the ER.”

“What do you think?”

“He’s got nothing else.”

“Gonna be a lot of red faces at the CMPD.”

“A lot,” I agreed.

It was another takeout evening with Birdie.

We were eating Il Nido spaghetti and channel-surfing when my iPhone sang “Frosty the Snowman.”

“Why’d he wash the cup?”

“What?” Slidell’s question threw me. His calling at night threw me.

“Ajax. He’s heading to the garage to off himself. Why bother with the cup?”

“He was a neat freak.”

No reply.

“And he was zoned on chloral hydrate,” I added. “People do funny things.”

“I’m looking at the CSS photos. There’s dirt on the floor inside the back door.”

“A lot?”

“Not the point. Why’s he clean the cup and the coffeemaker and leave the dirt?”

“He cleaned the coffeemaker?”

“And took out the trash. The grounds were in a plastic bag on top in the can outside.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying either a guy’s neat or he ain’t.”

“Maybe he tracked in the dirt when he went to the garbage can, then didn’t see it.”

“Tracked it from where? The thing sits back-ass to the door.”

I heard a series of soft ticks, probably photos hitting a blotter.

“Thread.” Tick. Tick. “Snagged on the backyard hedge.”

“What kind of thread?”

No answer.

Now it was the sound of pages turning.

“Purple.” I wasn’t sure Slidell was talking to me anymore. “Fiber guy says purple wool.”

“Were the coffee grounds analyzed?”

More pages.

“Gotta go.”

Dead air.

I tossed the phone on the couch. Got up. Began pacing in tight circles. Birdie’s head swiveled as he followed my movement.

What was Slidell’s purpose in calling? He was disturbed by some findings at the scene on Sunrise Court. Did he have doubts not only about Ajax’s involvement in the murders but also about Ajax’s own death? Did he suspect it was other than suicide?

Homicide?

We’d probably been wrong about Ajax. Was my crushing sense of guilt about his death unjustified? Had someone killed Ajax and staged it as a suicide?

Who? Why?

Jesus. The same questions I’d been asking myself for weeks.

My phone pinged an incoming text.

Mama.

Did you look at the YouTube video?

Viewing it now.

Right place?

I shifted to the message above. Clicked on the link.

The video was titled: Overland Riders of Northern Essex Community College. Spring Bike Hike 2008(3): Over the Passumpsic. The clip was twelve minutes long and had been viewed 18,927 times. Most liked it.

Interested in why the tape had caught Mama’s attention, not in its content, I hit the little white triangle. Queen began singing “Bicycle Race.” A frozen cyclist started pedaling, not furiously, but with strong, steady thrusts.

A rectangle appeared on the screen, outlined in scrolly white, like a dialogue box in an old silent movie. It framed the words: Spring Bike Hike 2008.

The camera zoomed out to show eight more cyclists, all in helmets, windbreakers, and knee-length black spandex shorts. They were moving single file along a two-lane highway. The action was wobbly, captured by a handlebar- or helmet-mounted camera at the rear of the pack.