Virgil: “I don’t think so. I didn’t smell even a hint of guilt.”
“He’d be a psycho, so he might not feel a hint of guilt,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, but if he’s negative, and I’ll bet he is…”
“Then he’s out of it.”
—
Going on theconversation with Klink, they’d convinced themselves that anyone whose DNA didn’t match the DNA taken from Doris Grandfelt’s body, probably wasn’t the killer—because the timing was so critical, with the fallopian tube clock. The owner of the DNA was either the killer or had been very physically close to thekiller at the time of the crime—possibly in the same room, or at least nearby.
“The true-crimers know about Jepson and they might be able to jump from him to Stanley O’Brien. But O’Brien almost certainly won’t talk, so they won’t get to Klink. What we need to do is to track down anyone in the photos who is in the medical field, or to talk to the guys in the photos who can point us to someone who is.”
—
Lucas called DahliaBlair. “How many of the photos have you identified?”
“Four, now, we think. We got Johannson and Roger Jepson gave us Stanley O’Brien, but O’Brien’s not in any of the photos. There are a couple of people over trying to interview him but he’s being stubborn.”
“Because you’re trying to ruin his life,” Virgil said. “Anyway, who are the others in the photos?”
Blair read off three names: one was a government employee, one a banker, another one an architect.
“Much more white-collar than I would have expected,” Blair said. “It seems like either Roger Jepson or Doris was very selective. Haven’t had one truck driver.”
“Tom, Dick, and Harry?”
“Not so far,” Blair said. “But it’s like that.”
“A BCA agent will call you for the names,” Lucas said. “We’ll give him your phone number. If this turns into something, we’ll see that you’re considered for the reward.”
“Thank you. I will talk with him. Or her.”
They rang off, called Jon Duncan, told him about three newnames, and Blair’s phone number. “I’ll pass them along,” Duncan said. “Why aren’t you looking at them?”
“Too many names all at once,” Lucas said. “We’ll need a team to get to them before they get a crowd of true-crimers outside their doors.”
“I almost believe that,” Duncan said. “I’ll get some people on the way.”
“What about the film I gave you?” Virgil asked.
“Hey. That’s something. Rolvaag got right on it, already has some images. He made a set for you, and a set for the team here. You can pick them up…”
“Give us the address,” Virgil said.
Duncan did that, and Lucas wrote it in his notebook.
Virgil: “And Jon? When you send your guys out, to the people in the photos, consider the possibility that they might be thinking about suicide.”
“Ah, jeez…”
17
Barry Rolvaag lived in a big house above a ravine called Swede Hollow, which was not a place with a lot of big houses, but his was. Two stories with a front porch, swing hooks but no porch swing, gray shingle siding falling apart from old age. A two-track driveway ran to the back of the house, thirties style, from the days when people drove Model T’s. A tiny out-of-kilter garage slumped in the back, at the end of the driveway. An aging Harley softtail sat in the bed of a Ford F-150, pointed toward the street for a fast getaway; the Ford wore a bumper sticker that read “Is there life after death? Fuck with this truck and find out.”
Rolvaag came to the door with a cup of coffee in his hand. A bear-built man with a gut, square yellow teeth, and a gray beard that dropped to his chest, he popped the door and said to Virgil, “I know you. How you been?”
“Been okay. Working the Grandfelt cold case.” Virgil introduced Lucas and Rolvaag said, “Come on back.”
