I glanced at the chief. He nodded at me, giving me permission to continue. “You don’t even know what Thad and the others were doing at the river, do you?” I asked softly. “Because that’s not where you sent them. That’s not where you expected them to be.”

Mollenkamp looked away. “I wasn’t there,” he muttered. “Why the fuck are you talking to me? Talk to Kyle and Mike.”

“Oh, we are.” The chief shifted his bulk, making his chair creak ominously. He was good at that. “But you could be charged as an accessory, son.”

“To what?” His voice rose. “Thad’s death was an accident!”

“Maybe,” the chief allowed. “But like Miss Johanssen observed, it wasn’t the kind of accident it seemed. Not the kind those boys claimed it was. Wherever Thad Vanderhei drowned, it sure as hell wasn’t the Kalamazoo River. And covering up the cause of death, even an accidental death, is a crime.”

In the aftermath of Thad’s death, there hadn’t been any opportunity for Kyle Middleton and Mike Huizenga to confer with their Triton brothers face-to-face, but they could have exchanged calls or texts or e-mails. I didn’t know whether they had, or if so, how much they’d revealed about what had transpired. Until that moment, I hadn’t been sure whether Matthew Mollenkamp knew exactly how Thad had drowned.

Now I knew he hadn’t. I saw the realization dawn over his features, a sickening awareness he couldn’t hide. “Thad didn’t drown in the river?”

Chief Bryant gave me an imperceptible shake of his head.

I kept silent.

“Oh, God.” Mollenkamp swallowed, turning pale and sweating visibly. “Oh, fuck! I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Wordlessly, I passed him the wastebasket. I was kind of hoping the whole about-to-puke thing would turn out to be an idle threat, but it wasn’t. My stomach lurched in sympathy as he gagged and retched, bringing up a thin stream of clear liquid and bile.

The chief cleared his throat. “Daisy, would you be so kind as to fetch Mr. Mollenkamp some paper towels?” I rose. “And maybe something cold to drink?” he called after me.

I grabbed a couple of paper towels in the bathroom and rummaged in the departmental fridge for a can of 7UP.

“Are you getting anywhere?” Cody asked me impatiently. “Is Mollenkamp showing any signs of cracking?”

“Yep.”

He sighed. “God, I wish we had a one-way mirror!”

In the conference room, I passed Matthew Mollenkamp the paper towels and the can of soda. He wiped his mouth, then rolled the cold 7UP can over his temples before cracking it open and drinking thirstily.

“Feel better?” Chief Bryant asked solicitously.

“Yeah.” Mollenkamp set down the can. “Thanks.”

“Ready to tell us what you know, son?” the chief inquired.