Decker nodded.

Marge passed six blocks of tract homes, then turned right onto Foothill Boulevard, back to civilization—fast-food stands, wholesale outlets, and shoddily built apartment housing, the plaster already cracking in the hot sun. Two blocks later, she hooked a right onto the 210 Freeway west, the traffic thick with rush-hour mob. They sat in silence, battling the stop-and-go rhythm for a quarter hour. As soon as traffic eased a bit, Marge asked, “What about Darlene as a suspect?”

“She certainly hated Linda.”

“And if she did it,” Marge said, “Byron would definitely be protective of her. Maybe even feel he caused Linda’s murder indirectly because of his affair.”

“The logic is there,” said Decker. “The jealous-wife angle. But can you picture Darlene using a shotgun?”

“I’ve seen stranger things,” Marge said.

So had Decker. He said, “Know what occurred to me a minute ago?”

“What?”

“Luke might have killed the others, then turned the gun on himself.”

“No weapon was found at the scene, Pete. And we’ve got all these different bloody footprints in the kitchen. If everyone was dead, who made the footprints?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somebody walked into the kitchen after the fact, and took the gun and Katie away.”

“More than one person to justify all those footprints.”

“Some of the footprints are bound to match some of the victims,” Decker said. “Someone might have stepped in blood before he or she was gunned down.”

Marge said, “Okay. So let’s examine your theory. Luke killed the others, then himself. I could understand Luke being homicidal with Linda after hearing about her reputation. But why would Luke whack his sister and that other dude?”

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking of the layout—Luke’s on one side, the others huddled together in the middle. I see this big finger just pointing at Luke.”

“What about the Kleenex fibers found on Katie?” Marge said. “Kid didn’t wipe her own PJs.”

“Obviously, someone took her away,” Decker said. “Someone dumped her over the hill. The kid couldn’t have walked it by herself.”

“Pete,” Marge said, “I just thought of something. The kid may have witnessed the whole thing.”

“Think so?” Decker said. “She didn’t seem traumatized. I’d have thought she might be, after seeing her mother and father murdered like that.”

“Even so,” Marge said, “don’t you think we should consult someone?”

“Sure,” Decker said. “Call up a local kiddy shrink. See what words of wisdom he has to impart to us.”

“You don’t like shrinks, do you?” Marge said.

“Fifth on that one,” Decker said.

They rode for a minute in silence. Marge broke it.