“The problem here,” responded Gurney, “is that no serious questioning process ever got started.”

“Okay, okay,” said Bullard, raising her hands in a double “Stop” gesture. “I want to talk about action steps.”

She turned to Clegg, who was seated on her left. “Andy, give us a quick review of what’s happening.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled a slim digital device out of his jacket pocket, tapped a few keys, and studied the screen. “Tech team has released the crime scene for general access. Physical evidence bagged, tagged, and entered in the system. Computer transported to computer forensics. Latent prints processed through IAFIS. Prelim ME report in hand. Autopsy report and full tox screens in seventy-two hours. Site and victim photos entered in the system, ditto incident report. CJIS report, third update, in the system. Status of door-to-doors: forty-eight completed, projected total sixty-six by end of day. Initial verbatims available, summaries to come. Based on two eyewitness observations of a Humvee or a Hummer-style vehicle in the vicinity, DMV is compiling ownership lists of all similar vehicles registered in central New York State.”

“Planned utilization of these lists being what?” asked Trout.

“A database against which we can run the names of any ID’d suspects, as they become available,” said Clegg.

Trout looked skeptical but said nothing more.

Gurney was uncomfortable with the fact that he already had the answer Clegg was chasing. Normally he favored maximum openness. But in this instance he feared that disclosure would only create a distraction and waste valuable time by diverting attention toward Clinter. And Clinter, after all, couldn’t be the Good Shepherd. He was peculiar. Possibly crazy. But evil? No, almost certainly not evil.

But he had another motive for silence, a less objective one. He didn’t want to appear too familiar with Clinter, too allied with him, too much on his wavelength. He didn’t want to be tarred by the association. Holdenfield had tossed that PTSD diagnosis into his lap during their lunch in Branville. At some point Max Clinter had also gotten a PTSD diagnosis. Gurney didn’t like the echo effect.

Clegg was winding up his report. “Tire-tread impressions made in the parking lot of Lakeside Collision are being processed, photos have been sent to vehicle forensics for original equipment and aftermarket matches. We got a decent side-to-side double impression. Crossing our fingers for a unique axle-width measurement.” He looked up from the screen of the device from which he’d been reading. “That’s as much as I’m aware of at the moment, Lieutenant.”

“Any promised callback time on the physical analysis of the Shepherd message—ink, paper, printer data, latents on the address form, inner envelope, et cetera?”

“They said they’d have a better idea within the next hour.”

Bullard nodded. “And the outgoing notifications?”