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  67. 3:46 a.m.

She said her husband was acting odd. That when she asked where he’d been those nights, he said he was at his parents. But she knew for certain he wasn’t there; she’d talked to his mother just the night before, called her to ask for her oatmeal raisin cookie recipe.

They put out an arrest warrant for Chase Wingleberry, picking him up at the lumberyard where he worked.

After nearly twelve hours of straight questioning, Chase Wingleberry admitted, “Yeah, I killed that bitch. A week after she tried to blackmail me, I saw her with her camera walking down the street and I grabbed her and threw her in my truck. Fucked her silly for two days at a motel, then blasted her with a lamp and tossed her out in that park.”

On January 27, 1985, Chase Wingleberry was arrested for the murder of Jennifer Nubers.

His wife posted bail a couple days later, using the lien on their house for collateral for the $200,000 bond.

That night, she shot him. Then she shot herself.

::::

“What the hell?” I say, setting the report down on the table.

So this woman posts her husband’s bail, then kills him, then kills herself.

That was curious, but not why I am so confused.

Ingrid said this was a cold case.

It isn’t.

It is a closed case.

Then why is she working it?

:10

“When you were driving Ingrid to the airport, did she tell you they arrested the guy who killed Jennifer?”

My dad is perched up against the back of the bed with his cell phone in his hand — no doubt playing Candy Crush.

It is 3:03 a.m.

He nods. “Yeah, but she said the powers that be think the guy gave a false confession. I guess they were going at him for like twelve hours. You can’t get away with stuff like that nowadays.”

“But the guy admits to seeing her, throwing her in his car, taking her to a motel, having his way with her for two days, then hitting her with a lamp.”

“You didn’t pick up the other binder, did you?”

I shake my head.

“That one has all the forensic stuff in it. Nothing matches. For one, they found no evidence of sexual intercourse, said she was still a virgin, still had her cherry. They didn’t find any trace of her in the guy’s car. Not that back then they did much DNA testing or whatever, but they didn’t find any hairs or clothes or anything. Checked all the motels, hotels in the area; no one recognized seeing the guy.”

I nod along.

Then why confess?

I try to imagine twelve hours sitting in an interrogation room, two detectives asking me the same question over and over and over again.