“In light of what happened to that poor family, I felt it was my duty.”

She’s midway to the door when I think of one more question I need to ask her. “Mrs. Steinkruger?”

She turns, raises a brow. “Yes?”

“Do you know Jack Warner?”

“I bought some folk art from him a while back.”

I offer a smile. “Thanks. That’s all for now.”

Returning the smile, she turns and walks out.

“Interesting connection,” Tomasetti says.

I nod. “I just don’t know if it means anything.”

“Everything means something.”

I wait until the sound of her shoes fade and then I pick up the satchel. Tugging open the drawstrings, I upend the bag and dump its contents onto my desktop. I’m not expecting some earth-shattering revelation. But I find myself hoping the drive will give us something to work with.

A mirror, a tube of lip gloss, two crinkled dollar bills, a single dried flower, a quarter and a flash drive tumble onto my desktop. Ordinary items any young woman might have in her purse. Except the drive, and my cop’s radar begins to wail.

“Flash drive might be interesting.” Tomasetti states the obvious.

“What the hell is an Amish girl doing with a flash drive?” I wonder aloud. “The Planks didn’t have a computer or electricity.”

“And why would she leave it at the shop?”

“Good question.”

“Let’s take a quick look-see, then I’ll courier everything to the lab,” he tells me. “I’ll call ahead, make sure it gets priority.”

His unofficial status flicks through my mind, but I don’t say anything. I’m too focused on the items laid out in front of me.

Quickly, I don a pair of latex gloves, thumb the lid off the drive and slide it into my computer. A couple of keystrokes and my virus protection software deems it safe. I go to the drive and pull up the first file.

“Could be photos,” Tomasetti says.

“A face would be nice.”

“That’d be way too easy. And not necessarily incriminating.”

“Unless they’re inappropriate. Even if we can’t get him on murder, we might be able to get him on statutory rape or child pornography.” I’m aware of Windows Media Player spooling up on my screen. Tomasetti watching my every move. I use the mouse and click the Play button. Images materialize. Music. The punch of shock freezes me in place when I recognize Mary Plank’s face. “That’s her.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti coming around my desk to look at the screen. I can’t take my eyes off the images playing out. I see Mary Plank clad in traditional Amish clothing. She’s lying on a bed draped with a pink spread. I see a backdrop of cheap motel fare. Bad artwork. Mismatched lamps. Built-in night table. Chainsaw rock and roll.