The front room is set up for TV and beer drinking. On the wall opposite the octopus print are three neon beer signs, Rainier, Hamm’s, and Rhinelander. The TV is an old-school pecan console that straightaway reminds me of my grandparents’.

“Hasn’t he heard of a flat-screen?” Montrose says as we move through the cramped space looking for any sign Sophie Warner might have been there.

“Not everyone cares about seeing the facial pores of his favorite celebrity.”

Montrose takes photos of the room.

“Says the Hulu streamer.”

I ignore his remark. I’m drawn to a piece of yellow paper on the small kitchen table.

“He left a note,” I say, picking it up and reading.

I’ve been this route before. I know that no matter what I say or do you’ll find a way to blame me. I should have killed that bitch when I had a chance. She was a liar. All of them are. And even when she admitted she lied, I was left to rot in prison. Please find a home for AJ.

“He’s got some major issues there,” Montrose says, reading over my shoulder.

We bag the note and work the rest of the scene inch by inch.

“I wouldn’t make a guy like that for a suicide,” Montrose says.

“You never know what’s inside anyone’s heart, Montrose.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Kind of defiant there. Doesn’t ask for forgiveness. Just a home for his dog.”

The bedroom is too small for a double bed. A single bed, all made up, fills half the room. It’s spotless and organized. His clothes hang on wooden hangers, and an examination of his chest of drawers reveals everything from socks to underwear to T-shirts and jeans, folded neatly.

“Prison will do that to you,” Montrose says.

I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for Coyle, but I do. A little. It’s possible that he was overcharged for his crime, a kind of undoing of his life that could never be righted. Maybe he fixated on Sophie. Saw her at the IGA and followed her to the cabins just beyond Octopus Hole, then came and took her the next day. His health was failing. His job was in jeopardy.

When we showed up, he could envision his future. And it was ugly.

“Some self-pity in that note of his,” Montrose says. “When we find him and bring him in, he’ll have some real reason to feel sorry for himself.”

“It was a suicide note,” I say. “We’re not going to find him alive.”

“Guys like that are all talk,” Montrose says. “Trust me. I’ve been in this line of work longer than you have. Just saying. Not trying to make it seem that I don’t appreciate your insight, but this time I’m right.”

We’ve had this conversation before. In the past I’ve pushed back. This time I let it slide.