The third and final layer was the life that Mark had lived before the fight. In the bathroom, Shaw found two different types of hair product: a paste for short, messy hair, and a styling mousse that looked like what Mark Sevcik—from the pictures Shaw had seen—might have used. He found two crusty spots in the toothbrush holder. He found bar soap and a body wash—although someone, presumably Barr, had squeezed out all the body wash to check that nothing was hidden inside. In the bedroom, Shaw found a pair of neon-red bikini briefs under the overturned hamper, although the rest of the underwear in the room was boxers. He found a Marx Brothers DVD in the front room; the cable box was set to ESPN2.

Shaw found North in the bedroom. He was sorting clothes.

“You can do my room next.”

North threw him the finger without looking up.

“What do you think about this?” Shaw asked, tossing the Marx Brothers DVD.

“He had a boyfriend.” North tossed aside the DVD.

“What—how did you—”

“Come on. The toothpaste crust?”

“I know, but—”

“Help me out.”

“Want to tell me what you’re doing?”

“Figuring out who Mark Sevcik was. Take that pile over there.”

They sorted the clothes by style and, as best they could guess, by age. North was surprisingly informed about the rise and fall of clothing trends; Shaw deferred to him on all of it because Shaw barely remembered what he had in his own closet from day to day. The general sorting, however, showed a definite pattern: a large pile of clothes that North kept calling business casual, and he said it like he had a mouthful of dog turds; then a second, smaller pile of t-shirts branded with video games and energy drinks and anime shows—again, North seemed oddly well-informed—as well as hoodies, joggers, mesh shorts and a yellow and black cloth belt with the words Fuck Off woven into the pattern. Then there was the wizard robe, hat, staff, and broken wand. Then there were the two Cardinals jerseys and a pair of battered cleats. And then a flapper-style dress with a beaded fringe. And then there was a final pile: a t-shirt that said Hungry? Hog Hollow Hocks, Loins, and Ribs, with a big stain that might have been blood; four more Hog Hollow t-shirts—these only had the logo; a John Deere cap; a pair of loose fitting, boot-cut jeans; and a pair of snakeskin boots.

“So what the fuck does this tell us?” North muttered, hands on his hips, the smell of his sweat and Irish Spring soap so strong that Shaw felt claustrophobic.

“You know way more about clothes than you pretend to.”

“I had to learn to keep up with all you fucking Chouteau boys.”

“And you know way, way, way more about anime than I would have ever guessed.”

“There was a twink sophomore year. That’s all he would talk about.”

“Right.”

“Wouldn’t fucking shut up about it.”

“Sophomore year?”