D.D. paused, glanced at her audience. “What do you think? We have eight minutes left. Did Shaggy do it?”

“No,” half the room called out. The other half remained silent, hedging their bets.

“Why?”

“The video,” an elderly woman in the back called out. “If he’d entered the motel room as you described, you would’ve seen him on the security tape.”

“We do have him entering once, then vomiting. Maybe he was very quick to grab the phone, loosen the tourniquet.”

“Blood evidence,” another person called out. “On his shoes, but also, there’d be a trail from the room to his office.”

“Good point. If Shaggy had walked all the way to the bathroom, the soles of his shoes would’ve been covered in blood. Sure, he could’ve changed after the fact, but we’d still see bloody footprints leading from the motel room back to his office. Or, maybe realizing that issue, he could’ve removed his shoes altogether, except of course, we’d see that on the video tape—a man walking with shoes in his hands. Basically, it turns out that Shaggy has a pretty decent alibi: the security footage. For that matter, we have a pretty good riddle. Because no matter how many times we watch the video feed, the chain of events remains clear. Only three people enter Wrobleski’s room: Wrobleski; then, over an hour later, the night manager, Shaggy; then, fifteen minutes after him, rookie officer Justin.”

“What about the rear window?” the elderly woman asked.

“Very tiny. Might work for the Harmony LaFabs of the world, but definitely not for a grown man such as Shaggy.”

“So”—D.D. surveyed the room—“who killed Wrobleski? Who finished sawing off his leg, loosened his tourniquet, then grabbed his phone and wallet and fled?”

“What about the EMTs?” someone called out. “If Wrobleski reached nine-one-one the way the girl said, where’s the ambulance?”

“The responding officer called off the ambulance,” another writer pointed out.

D.D. shook her head. “It’s true that Justin called off emergency services upon arriving on the scene—but remember, he wasn’t activated by a dying man’s call to nine-one-one. Justin was dispatched after the call center was contacted by the vomiting night manager, Shaggy. So your question is the right question: What happened to Wrobleski’s call?”

“You need to listen to the nine-one-one recordings,” several people called out.

“No. I don’t.” D.D. glanced at the rear clock again. “Five minutes and counting. Come on, people. At least one of you should know who killed Wrobleski by now. I certainly did.”

• • •

“Here’s a question for you. Do cops read books?”

Apparently, it was a trick question, because her audience regarded her blankly.

D.D. tried again: “Do we read your books?”

A tentative hand in the back. “I’ve interviewed detectives who are readers, but most of them seem to prefer action and adventure. Or there was this female sergeant who loved romance. But as for thrillers . . . most say they get enough suspense on the job.”

“Fair enough. I read. Goodnight Moon, mostly. Though lately I’ve been mixing in some Dr. Seuss—I have a toddler. But before my work life became consumed with homicide and my personal life all about my son, I definitely loved reading mysteries. Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Erle Stanley Gardner, Raymond Chandler. Pretty much any detective on the job loves a good puzzle. First we grew up reading about them, then we trained for jobs where we got to work them. Which is what we have here, right? The classic dead body in a locked room? According to the security tape, Steven Wrobleski entered that motel room alive. Only two other people walk through the door after him: our night manager, Shaggy, and rookie cop, Justin, neither of whom were in there long enough to hack off limbs or loosen tourniquets.