“Can you compare the semen to the DNA from the stalker note?” Tish asked.

“That’s the bad news.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did compare the two samples. The DNA on the stalker note doesn’t match the semen where Laura’s body was found.”

“That’s not good,” Tish agreed, frowning.

“No. Even if we could get a match to the stalker’s DNA, it means we’ve got someone else at the murder scene. The county attorney wouldn’t consider bringing charges against anyone unless we could identify the person who left that semen behind.”

“Do you have Dada’s DNA?”

“No.”

“So it could have been him. We know he was in the woods that night. He could have seen whoever killed Laura.”

“More likely, he killed her himself,” Stride reminded her. “Remember, Dada’s prints were on the bat. Besides, it’s all speculation. We don’t know who Dada was or where he went. After thirty years, he’s probably dead now. Life expectancy for vagrants like him isn’t long.”

“Do you remember anything that might help us track him down?”

“You know as much as I do. He was a Rasta. Dreadlocks, tam, the whole works. He probably wouldn’t look anything like that today.”

“He wasn’t old, though, was he?” she asked.

“No. Early twenties, maybe.”

“So he could still be alive.”

“You’d stand a better chance of finding Amelia Earhart.” Stride heard the cough of an engine and glanced at the street. “He’s back,” he said.

“Who?”

“The delivery driver.”

The same truck they had spotted earlier parked on the opposite side of London Road, near Tish’s Civic. This time, the driver’s door opened, and a man climbed down. He crossed the street and headed straight for them. He was tall and extremely thin, with pencil legs. He wore the delivery company’s uniform—short-sleeved button-down shirt, shorts, and white tennis shoes.

“Do you recognize him?” Stride asked.

Tish bit her lip. “No.”

As he came closer, Stride saw signs of age and dissipation in the driver. He looked like a heavy drinker. He was in his forties, but his skin was mottled across his bald scalp, and blood vessels had popped in his cheeks and nose, leaving a rosy web. When he pulled off his sunglasses, his pale blue eyes were rimmed in red. His blond eyebrows were trimmed short. He had a long, narrow face.

“Tish?” the driver said, ignoring Stride. “Is that you?”

She hesitated. “Yes, it’s me.”

“I heard you were back in town.”

“Have we met?” she asked.

“It’s me. Finn Mathisen. I know it’s been a long time. I don’t look like I did back then, but who does, huh? Remember, I had big curly hair?”

“Oh, Finn, sure, I’m sorry,” Tish said. She sounded as if she really did know who he was now. “How are you?”

“I’m getting by. I told Rikke you were in town, and she said I was crazy. But here you are.”

“Yes, here I am,” Tish said.

“I heard about the book you’re doing.”