Taking the visitor chair across from me, Tomasetti reaches for the photos and begins flipping through them. I see his face darken. His brows knit. Frown lines appear on either side of his mouth. “Shit. Girls look young.”

“They do.” I reach for the case file, pull out one of the autopsy photos of Mary Plank and set it on the desktop between us for reference. “Can your lab enhance the photos? Maybe do some kind of comparison with the autopsy pic? If there’s a birthmark or something, we might be able to make a positive ID.”

“I’ll get it couriered this morning.” He focuses his attention on me. “You check out Long’s alibi?”

“Warner panned out. Seems pretty solid. But get this: he sold some folk art to Evelyn Steinkruger at the Carriage Stop.”

“So you can tie him to the shop.” He thinks about that a moment. “Does he know the Plank girl?”

“Says no.”

“What about the other truck owner?”

“Robert Allen Kiser.” I glance down at my notes. “Glock talked to him. Kiser was at the Lion’s Club meeting and reception that lasted until one A.M.”

“Substantiated?”

“By about a dozen witnesses.” I sigh. “After the reception, Kiser went home with his wife.”

“What’s Glock’s take on him?”

“Said he seemed like a pretty solid guy.”

“Everyone’s a solid fuckin’ guy.”

I don’t like the cynicism in his voice, but I feel that same sentiment growing inside me. I reach for the Speaker button and dial the switchboard.

“Mona, get me contact info and addresses for Glenda Patterson, will you?” Patterson is Scott Barbereaux’s girlfriend. “Work and home.”

“You got it, Chief.”

I end the call and sigh. “You know a case is going to shit when you spend time checking the alibis of the alibis.”

Across from me, Tomasetti is looking at the photos. His usual poker face has given way to raw disgust. “You ever work vice?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Went straight to homicide from patrol.”

“It sounds weird, but I’ve always thought vice was somehow worse. A lot of nasty stuff. Prostitution. Drugs. Porn. Especially when there are kids involved.” He shoves the photos into the file and closes it. “The thing about homicide is that the dead are dead. Gone. No more suffering. The living go on. They keep on suffering. Some keep on repeating the same tired cycle over and over again.”

“The living always have hope,” I reply.

He shakes his head. “Sometimes they don’t.”

My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I pull it out. My heart jigs when I see the sheriff’s office of Lancaster County pop up on the caller ID.

“This is Deputy Phelps with Lancaster County. Corporal Rossi said I should give you a call when I located Bishop Fisher.”

“You’re there with him now?”

“Standing on his front porch, drinking a cup of coffee.”