Although the cops, like the sheriff, wanted to accuse Ferring and Veriden of murdering McKinnon, they were more willing to answer my questions about the dead person and the crime scene.

The lieutenant explained that violent crime wasn’t significant enough in Douglas County for them to have their own crime lab or medical examiner, although they had a team of crime-scene techs—EMT crews trained in how to gather evidence. They’d sent the body to the state lab in Topeka, which would perform the autopsy.

“Everyone’s stretched to the limit here with budget cuts, so they can’t give us an autopsy date, and the state can’t help local forces with crime-scene techs, which means we don’t have DNA or prints to make an ID. The guess is it’s Doris McKinnon, but . . . well, you were there, you saw. There was a fair amount of damage to the face and tissues.”

Yes, I’d seen. Every time I shut my eyes, roaches ran underneath my lids.

“Right now your friends are the people of interest here, and the sooner you can produce them, the sooner we can get all this cleared up,” the lieutenant said.

I spoke slowly and clearly to the recording device. “Lieutenant, once a lie becomes an accepted truth, it’s almost impossible to refute, so let’s not allow that to happen here.” I repeated the same message I’d just given the sheriff, about not knowing Ferring or Veriden nor whether they’d been at McKinnon’s house.

Both men shifted uneasily in their chairs, but neither spoke.

“I’m going to give you the phone numbers of Lieutenant Terry Finchley, Captain Bobby Mallory, and Lieutenant Conrad Rawlings with the Chicago Police Department. You can call them to discuss my reputation.”

I helped myself to a piece of paper from a pad on the table—one put there so that suspects could write out their confessions—and copied the numbers from my cell phone.

This seemed like a good exit line, but as I was leaving, the lieutenant asked, “You being a trained investigator from the big city and all, what did you make of the crime scene?”

I spread my hands: ignorance. “I don’t have enough evidence to make an informed guess. Meth addicts surprising the owner?”

“And the people who’d been staying there?”

“Again, not enough information. I wondered—hoped—it was the woman I came down here to find—but if that’s the case, where is she now? People keep telling me what a small town this is and how you all know everything about one another, so I’d think if Ms. Ferring and Mr. Veriden were here, you’d know.”

I took Peppy’s leash and walked out without looking back, but I could hear Everard and his lieutenant murmuring to each other.