“Doesn’t seem so remote now,” I tell him as he gestures for me to join him on one of the big burled-wood chairs.

“Nope,” Mr. Bakker says, sliding off his shoes, a shabby pair of blue Crocs. “Goddamn Californians have ruined the place. Taxes going up every year. Forced my neighbors to the north to move. They’d been here nearly as long as I have. Now they live in a damn subdivision in Mesa, Arizona, and wish to God every day that they died here instead of moving. I hope I have a heart attack on the beach one day . . .” He looks down at Winston. “Not for a while, though. Winston has to go first, and this dog has a few more years left in him.”

“He’s beautiful,” I say, petting Winston’s head.

“You didn’t come for a history lesson or to pet my dog.”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t. I’m here to go over what you saw on the beach when Mrs. Warner was abducted.”

“I didn’t see much,” he says.

“I understand,” I tell him. “I’m here because sometimes after a traumatic event, people are able to pull more from their memories. You agree it was traumatic, right?”

Winston works on a flea, and Mr. Bakker scrunches his papery face. “For the woman and her husband? Yes, ‘traumatic’ is a good word. For me? I don’t know. I served in the army, and I’ve seen a lot of things. Nothing like that on my daily beach walk, that’s for sure. Though one time I thought I saw a rape being committed, but it was some kids messing around on an air mattress.”

I nod and ask him to tell me what he saw that morning. “One more time, please,” I say.

He launches into a repeat of what he’d told Montrose in their first, perfunctory interview. He’d been out walking Winston as he always did at that time of the day. He saw Adam and Aubrey out in the rowboat about a hundred yards from shore. The next thing he recalled was that he heard someone yell. He looked first to Adam, who was frantically rowing to shore, then over to the bulkhead.

“And you saw Mrs. Warner?” I ask. “And her attacker?”

Mr. Bakker fishes for his glasses in the front pocket of his shirt.

“I know I’m as old as dirt,” he goes on, “but I can see just fine with these on. It was fast, and there was a lot going on, but yes, I saw it happen.” His tone is slightly defensive, and his Dutch accent moves a bit more to the forefront.

“I’m not here because I don’t believe you, Mr. Bakker. I’m here because a crime has been committed and we need to find out what happened. And who did it.”

Winston is not a lapdog, but Mr. Bakker lets him crawl up on his lap anyway.

“Right,” he says. “Okay, fine.”

“Tell me what you saw on the shore.”