In short, she had fallen in love with a man who didn’t touch her under the sheets in the darkness. Ironically, he had become the elusive figure who had been absorbed on the other side of the turnstile.

She sat down on the mattress and picked up Troyce’s hand in hers. She made circles with her fingers on the round outlines of his knuckles and brushed back the hair on his forearm. “I feel like I’m not being the friend I should be,” she said.

“You’re real special. You just don’t know it,” he said.

“Somebody hurt you, Troyce. Last night you didn’t want to tell that fellow Mr. Robicheaux why you were looking for the man in the photo. I didn’t talk to him about you, but because you don’t tell me what’s going on, I could have opened my mouth and said the wrong thing.”

“Well, you didn’t, and that’s all that matters.”

“Don’t you like me?”

“Sure, I do. Any man would. You’re heck on wheels, little darlin’.”

“Is it something about the way I look? My tattoos or the pits in my face?”

He lifted his hand from hers and touched his fingers on her cheek and around her mouth and eyes and behind her ears. The top of her pajamas was unbuttoned, and she saw his eyes drift to the tattoos of flowers on her breasts. His fingers grazed her nipples, his lips parting slightly. “I’m cut up too bad inside,” he said. “That fellow broke the shank off in me. I like to bled to death.”

But she’d seen the lie in his eyes before he even spoke it.

“It’s all right. You’ve been good to me, Troyce. I’m not complaining,” she said.

“A woman like you is the kind every man wants. You’re loyal, and you’re not afraid. Background or schooling don’t have anything to do with what a man likes. You’ll give a man your whole person and stick with him to the graveyard. I know men better than you do. Believe me when I say that.”

She searched his eyes, her heart twisting inside her, a terrible truth suggesting itself right beyond the edge of his words.

“Don’t cry. I wouldn’t do anything to make you cry, little darlin’,” he said.

THAT SAME THURSDAY morning Molly and I drove into Missoula and had breakfast, then went to the courthouse, where I told Joe Bim Higgins of my conversation with the Indian girl who had been wearing a cross similar to the one Seymour Bell had probably worn around his neck the night he was murdered.

“The Indian gal is some kind of campus minister with this revival group?” he said.

“That’s what she says. But she didn’t seem to know Seymour Bell or Cindy Kershaw.”

“You think Bell was mixed up with Jamie Sue Wellstone somehow? Like a junior minister with her group?”

“Could be.”

“I think we have a random killer on our hands. I don’t particularly care for rich outside folks buying up the state, but I don’t make the Wellstones for killers.”

“You were at Heartbreak Ridge, Sheriff?”

“What about it?”

“Places like that have a way of altering our views on our fellow man.”

“I saw things I don’t talk about, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t believe in the notion that everybody is a potential killer,” he said.

I didn’t pursue it. I told him about my encounter with Candace Sweeney and her friend named Troyce who had gotten the attention of Jamie Sue’s driver because he had been showing a photograph to members of the audience. “I got the guy’s tag number. I’d like to run it,” I said.

“Who do you think he is?”

“Not who he pretends to be,” I replied.

“Come back in an hour.” He paused. The glare through his office window silhouetted his face, and I could not read his expression. “Mr. Robicheaux?”

“Call me Dave.”

“Your friend Purcel is on a short tether.”

“Clete’s a good man, Sheriff.”

“So is my son-in-law. I just put him in jail for carrying a firearm into Stockman’s bar.”

Molly and I walked to a religious store two blocks from the courthouse. It was a fine morning, the sunshine bright on the mountains that ringed the town, the wind smelling of the river, the streetlamps hung with baskets of flowers, the main thoroughfare filled with bicyclists on a run to Flathead Lake. I kept thinking about the sheriff’s words. He had said the deaths of the two college kids and the California tourists at the rest stop were probably random killings. I thought he was sincere, but I also believed his attitude was facile. In a sense, most killings are random. The causality of violence of any kind is more complex than we think, a homicidal act in particular. The latter is usually the conclusion of a long sequence of events and involves players who will never be brought to task for the actual crime. Rocky Graziano made a career out of bashing in his father’s face in prizefight rings while the crowds cheered. I knew a Navy SEAL who cut the throat of a sleeping Vietcong political operative and painted the dead man’s face yellow so his wife could find him that way in the morning. He told me it was his fervent wish that his own wife could wake by her lover in a similar fashion.

The term “serial killer” is equally specious. I’ve known racists who I suspected participated in lynchings years ago. After the civil rights era passed and a general amnesia regarding their crimes set in, they found ways to position themselves in other situations where they could injure and even kill defenseless people. The irony is, after they ensconced themselves inside the system, their deeds were often considered laudable.

My point is that when people use the term “random” or “serial” in referring to a type of homicide, they are leaving out the element that is central to pathological behavior. The motivation is not financial. It’s not even about power. The attack on the victim is almost always characterized by a level of ferocity that is out of proportion to any apparent cause. Its origins reside in the id and are sexual and perverse in nature. The perpetrator’s appetites are insatiable, and his desire to do more injury increases as he releases his self-loathing and fury on his victim. That’s why family newspapers don’t include details about the physical damage done to the victims of sociopathic predators, and that’s why defense attorneys try to suppress morgue photos, and that’s why a lot of cops drink too much.

Molly walked with her arm in mine. “I think you’re on the right track. I think Sheriff Higgins is not.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Let’s see what we learn at the store,” she said.

The bell rang on the door when we went inside the religious store. The owner was a very elderly woman, her back bent with bone loss, her eyes diffident over the top of her glasses. When I asked her about a wood cross attached to a leather cord, she removed a box filled with them from under the counter. “They’re made in India,” she said. “They’re three dollars apiece.” She waited, as though I were there to make a purchase.

I showed her the deputy sheriff’s badge Joe Bim Higgins had issued me and told her I was conducting a homicide investigation. She tilted her head up when she comprehended the gravity of the subject; the angle caused her eyes to magnify behind the lenses.

“Do you receive any large orders for these crosses?” I asked.

“Once in a while. Not often. A young people’s group has used them,” she replied.

“Which one would that be?”

“Just a moment. I’ll look.” She went into the back of her store and returned carrying a shoe box packed with sales slips. It took her a long time to find the purchase order. “Here it is,” she said. “It was a phone-in order.”

“From the Swan Valley?” I said.

“No, in Spokane. A Baptist church there runs a summer Bible camp. The children are given these as rewards for learning their Bible lessons.”

“Do you know the Wellstone family?” I asked.

“I know a Blackstone family. They used to live here in Missoula. Mr. Blackstone worked for the Forest Service. Is that who you mean? Since the timber industry has gone down, a lot of old customers have moved away. Mr. Blackstone was such a nice gentleman.”