“Tell us about the Mathisen case,” Serena said.

“Not much to tell. Isolated farm. Saturday night. Woman was asleep in bed. Somebody bludgeoned her to death.”

“You never caught the guy?”

Schmidt shook his head. “Nah, we had nothing. Figured it was some bastard who got off the interstate and was looking for cash. Probably surprised to find anybody in the house.”

“The farm was five miles off the freeway,” Serena said. “And not easy to find.”

Schmidt shrugged and chewed on a fingernail.

“Did you find reports of any similar incidents along the interstate route?” Maggie asked. “Maybe out of Montana or Minnesota? You can usually track these guys like pins on a map.”

“There were no other incidents that looked like a pattern crime,” Schmidt said. “We figured the guy got spooked.”

“Any sign of forced entry?” Serena asked.

“Out here? Nobody locks their doors.”

“Did anyone see or hear anything?” Serena asked.

“You saw the place. Not a neighbor for miles.”

“What about the boy?”

Schmidt rubbed his mustache. “Boy?”

“Finn Mathisen. Inger’s son.”

“He wasn’t home.”

Maggie leaned across the park bench. “No offense, Mr. Schmidt, but you’re not a farmer, so why don’t you quit shoveling the shit?”

Schmidt’s mustache twitched as he grinned. “I like you. Never much liked Orientals, but you’re smart. Easy on the eyes, too. You both are.”

“Why’d you think this case would bite you in the ass?” Maggie asked.

Schmidt glanced at his truck, and Serena thought he wanted to be home eating dinner. “Look, ladies, why cause problems for good people after so many years? Who the hell cares?”

“A few years after Inger was killed, a teenage girl was murdered in Duluth,” Serena said. “She was beaten with a baseball bat. Finn is a suspect.”

Schmidt frowned. “Well, shit.”

“So you want to give us the real story?”

“Hey, there was no evidence to prove that an intruder didn’t kill her.”

“But you didn’t believe it.”

Schmidt jabbed a calloused finger at them. “Sometimes you have to decide whether you’re a cop or a human being, okay? Maybe it’s not that way in the big city, but it sure as hell works like that in a small town. The way I figure, Inger Mathisen’s murder was an act of mercy.”

“What do you mean by that?” Maggie asked.

“Inger was a mean fucking bitch. Why do you think her husband got drunk every night and finally wound up on the business end of a semi? He hated being in that house. He was weak. He didn’t stop it.”

“Stop what?”

Schmidt sighed with disgust. “The word in town was that Inger did stuff to her kids,” Schmidt said. “Sick stuff. Back then, you knew about that kind of thing, but you didn’t talk about it. A lot of fucked-up kids came out of those farms.”

“Go on.”

Schmidt coughed and spit on the ground. “The boy, Finn, was fourteen or fifteen. Already messed up. Into drugs. The way we figure it, he got stoned and decided he was done with his mother once and for all. It was his bat. His fingerprints were on it.”