We slam back the vodka and set our glasses on the table with a little too much force. The alcohol runs like nitro through my blood now. I can feel it loosening my brain. A rusty faucet in my head breaking free, opening up.

“Do you think Long acted alone?” I ask after a moment.

He eyes me over the top of his beer. “Do you think there was someone else involved?”

“I don’t know. There seems to be a lot of loose ends.”

“What are you talking about specifically?”

I think about that for a moment. “How did one man subdue seven people? An entire family?”

“The Planks were Amish, Kate. They were pacifists. Maybe they didn’t fight back.”

“Sometimes the Amish do fight back. Instinct. Self-preservation.” I did.

“There’s no way they could have known what he had in mind. They probably thought he was going to rob them. Once he bound their hands, it was too late.”

“How did he film and kill them at the same time?”

“Tripod. You saw the marks in the floor.” His eyes narrow. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I don’t think Long did the murders alone.”

“We have no evidence to support an accomplice.”

“What if Long didn’t commit suicide?”

“How many shots have you had?”

“I’m serious. What if someone staged the scene to make it look like suicide?”

“And you’re basing that premise on what?”

“Gut.”

Tomasetti frowns. “Not very concrete.”

“I think it’s worth consideration.”

“Maybe.” He sighs. “Do you have someone in particular in mind?”

“James Payne. He’s certainly capable.”

“We don’t have shit on him. No connection to Long.”

“And what about Barbereaux? I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but his name came up twice in the course of the investigation. We were able to connect him to Mary through the shop. And then there’s the wine bottle.”

“Pretty loose connections. And circumstantial, by the way.”

“I think it warrants looking into.”

“Kate, Painters Mill is a small town. People’s lives intersect. Lots of young people hang out at Miller’s Pond and drink.”

“I don’t think Long was smart enough to produce pornographic videos and sell them online.”

“You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to sell pictures of underage girls on the Internet. Any scum with a modem and an IQ over ten can do it. It’s sort of a seller’s market.”

Even through the haze of alcohol, frustration climbs over me like a clingy little beast. “How do you feel about the snuff angle? Do you think it’s viable?”

“I think it’s a theory with nothing to back it up.”

We sit there, thinking for a full minute, then I ask, “Did you get anything on the Web site owners?”