I WAS AT MY DESK in the squad room the next day when Rich came in after lunch smelling of garbage.

  “Tough morning in Jackson?”

  “Yeah, but I think the sheriff’s digging for his fifteen minutes of fame before the Feds take over the search. He’s got it under control.”

  I pinched my nose as Rich pulled out his chair, folded his long legs under his side of the desk, and opened his container of coffee.

  “Phone records show that yes, Junie did call Malcolm at 11:21 on the night Michael went missing. And she called him every night at about that time.”

  “Girl stays in touch with her boyfriend.”

  “And Clapper called,” I told my partner. “The prints on the knife are Malcolm’s.”

  “Yeah? That’s excellent!”

  “But the blood is bovine,” I said.

  “It’s a steak knife. He ate a steak.”

  “Yep. It gets worse.”

  “Hang on.” Rich dumped a couple of sugars into his coffee, stirred, slugged it down. “Okay. Hit me.”

  “There’s no blood or tissue in the bathtub, and the hair we sent out came back with no match. Furthermore, there’s no sign that anyone tried to cover up the blood. No bleach.”

  “Great,” my partner said, scowling. “What is this? The perfect crime?”

  “There’s more and worse. There’s no trac............