Next were the state police detectives who had come straight from the crime scene. They also needed to hear from the doctor that I wasn’t impaired by medications or suffering mental side-effects from my injuries, that I was capable of delivering a statement that would hold up if it was entered as evidence in a courtroom. They couldn’t believe I had refused opioids. They brought in the doctor to vouch for my refusal.

The state police detectives were people I knew well, Ellen Pomerleau and her jerkwater partner Roger Finch. I was glad Ellen had caught the case. She had been a mentor to Dani and would no doubt take the news of her job change hard.

As usual, Detective Pomerleau was dressed entirely in black—car coat, turtleneck, and slacks—which made the milkiness of her complexion all the more pronounced. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were so faint you needed to squint. Her shoulder-length hair, a little wet from the snow, was the color of old ivory.

“I know this isn’t the best time, Mike.”

“You need to know what you’re up against with the Dows. I heard some of them got away, but with Tempest and the Twisted Sisters dead, you shouldn’t have trouble rounding up the rest. Tina was the smartest of the survivors, and you’ve got her, I heard. You want to hear my story? Take a seat and grab some popcorn.”

“If I didn’t already know your sense of humor, I would think you’re not in your right mind,” Ellen Pomerleau said. “But I want to start at the beginning. Tell me what brought you to Stratford yesterday.”

What can I say? I told my tale, and by the end, the inflammation the doctor had warned me about was burning me up, and I was reconsidering my refusal of narcotics.

“Maybe we should stop for now?” Finch said, reaching for his herringbone topcoat.

“Not yet,” I said. “Now it’s time for you answer my questions.”

“Such as?”

He was a man of late middle age who dressed like detectives had forty years ago when his father had been on the job. The cleft in his chin looked like it had been drawn by a comic book artist. Finch had never approved of my methods, such as they were.

“Let’s start with Jewett,” I said. “You need to send a unit to his house to look after his mother. She has Alzheimer’s and shouldn’t be left alone.”

“Already done,” said Finch.

“A little bird told me he confessed to killing Chamberlain.”

When her colleague failed to answer, Pomerleau stepped in. “He claims it was an accident. He and Chamberlain were arguing, and the professor fell out of the boat.”

“Arguing about what?”

“Money Chamberlain had loaned him and wanted back.”

“That’s it? He didn’t mention any other reasons?”