He replaced both phones, adding, “I will never understand the interest in filming yourself having sex. Of all the footage I’ve seen, not once have I seen a body deserving public viewing. We are an amazingly saggy and unattractive species.”

Joe was wondering what it was like to live with this man. He did sport a wedding ring. Not that anything he’d revealed so far was particularly appalling. Vermont’s and New Hampshire’s images as chaste retreats for pacific nature lovers notwithstanding, such behavior was no more atypical here than anywhere else.

“So, nothing beyond the Buttner phone to go on?” Joe asked.

Houston turned back to face him, another unit in hand. “I didn’t say that,” he replied. “Check this out.”

He handed over an old and battered flip phone, which Joe opened gingerly. “What’s this? It’s like the first one I ever owned.”

“It is, and dead as the proverbial doornail when I got it. What’s the name Scooter Nelson do for you?”

Joe stared at him. “A lot. Why?”

Fred looked pleased. “I thought it might. It wasn’t easy getting it up and running again, not to mention the prehistoric software, but long story short, that’s his. It’s clean of prints and DNA, but the contents confirm its ownership.”

Joe turned the flip phone over in his hand, thinking back. Scooter Nelson was a case dating back years. Scooter had been the preteen child of a prominent and well-heeled local couple—she an attorney, he a physician—who’d simply vanished one day, never to be seen again.

The squad, assisted by the Brattleboro PD and Ron Klecszewski, had run itself ragged trying to find the slightest clue. They’d scrutinized the family, Scooter’s school, any and all friends. They’d scoured the internet, hoping to pick up some mention, either by him, if he’d run away, or about him, if he’d been kidnapped. They’d run ads, circulated his details nationwide, contacted the various missing children organizations, and even posted flyers. His parents had contributed financially and with unflagging effort, even pulling strings to get on late-night Boston TV to appeal for help.

All for naught. The Nelsons were not to get their Scooter back.

That had stuck in Gunther’s craw forever after.

Joe gazed at the phone in his hand as he might at a cherished talisman. “What’s it got on it?” he asked.

“That’s the bad news, I’m afraid,” Fred conceded. “Outside of it being his, its logs and texts told me squat. Typical teen text stuff—‘Yo, dude, whatcha doin?’ crap. You know the style. But there’s nothing like, ‘Oh my God, here comes John Smith about to kidnap me,’ complete with a quick selfie. It’s a historical artifact, more likely to add to your frustration than not.”

Joe was taking this in, studying the phone as if it might suddenly speak, and recalling Fred’s reflection about a piñata earlier. “It’s way more than that,” he finally said.

“What’re you going to do with it?” Fred asked.

Joe gave him a sad smile. “Right now, it’s my first lead in a presumed homicide, or at least a missing person’s case.”