It was going to start again. Once the story broke it would be Gretchen Lowell 24–7 as far as the media was concerned. Every cop in the city would be looking for her. Archie knew how this worked. The press would get on board with the idea that Gretchen had murdered Lisa Watson. They would run with it. And in the distraction of a citywide manhunt, Lisa Watson’s real killer would go free.

Archie couldn’t allow that to happen.

He punched a number into his phone.

Robbins picked up right away. “Morgue,” he said.

“It’s me,” Archie said. “Have you started the Lisa Watson autopsy yet?”

“First thing tomorrow morning,” Robbins said. “I’ve had a shooting, a house fire, a bat attack, a jumper off the Fremont Bridge, and two car accidents today.”

“A bat attack?” Archie said. He heard the familiar wet slurp of a latex-clad hand removing an organ from an open abdomen. Most people were in bed and Robbins was in the middle of an autopsy.

“Two kids found an injured bat, took it home, and then died of rabies,” Robbins said. Archie recognized the spring of a metal scale as Robbins laid an organ on it to be weighed.

“Well, call me as soon as you’re done tomorrow, okay?” Archie said. “It’s important.”

“It’s always important,” Robbins said, sounding unimpressed. “But sure, you got it.”

Archie heard the organ slide into a plastic bag. “This time, it really is important,” Archie said. He might not be able to go after Gretchen, but he could make sure that Lisa Watson’s murder didn’t get lost in the shuffle. He could do that.

Robbins sighed. “Okay,” he said.

Archie hung up and went and sat down wearily on the couch. A piece of the red thread stuck to the seat cushion next to him, a casualty of Susan’s attack on his throw pillow. Archie brushed the thread into his hand and transferred it carefully to the coffee table and stared at it. Ginger came out from under the coffee table, hopped up on the couch, set her chin on his lap, and started licking the peanut butter off his fingers.

Archie knew what he had to do. He studied his phone, and mentally rehearsed what he was going to say.

The next call was going to be harder, but he wanted Debbie to hear it from him, before she heard it from the Herald.

Chapter 33

CHAPTER

33