“Miles.”

“Which means the button could have been pushed from almost anywhere.”

“Yep.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“Now what?” Marge asked.

“Bomb was set off by a long-range remote-control unit,” Decker said. “The person could have been anywhere when he pulled the trigger.”

“I don’t think the person was just anywhere, Pete.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “Someone was watching the place and didn’t want us to get hurt.” He thought a moment. “The whole thing’s ridiculous, Marge. If you want to destroy evidence you don’t do it in broad daylight. Besides, nothing incriminating was left. If you want to scare off a cop you don’t do it by nearly blowing his head off. Way too unpredictable and way too messy. And it attracts too much attention.”

“Maybe Dustin blew it up for insurance?”

“Cecil rented the place. There wasn’t more than a couple grands’ worth of photographic equipment in there. You don’t blow up buildings to collect two g’s.”

“But someone was trying to prove a point.”

“Right. Someone was struttin’ his stuff.”

Sitting in the registrar’s office of Mar Vista High, Decker tried not to stare at the dowdy, graying lady with thin, cotton candy hair. But she was so full of nervous energy, he couldn’t help sneaking in sidelong glances.

“Can I get you some coffee in the meantime, Sergent?” she said, jumping out of her seat.

“No, thank you,” he answered. She sounded like Aunt Bea in the old Andy Griffith show. “While I’m waiting, I’d like to look through some yearbooks. Where do you keep them?”

“Last year’s is right on my desk,” she said, pulling out a drawer.

“I need the ones from 1969 through 1978.”

“Oh dear,” the woman said, touching her cheek. She coughed, scratched her head, and rose from her seat. “Just a moment and I’ll see what I can do.”

Ten minutes later, she returned and said sweetly, “They haven’t forgotten about you, Sergeant. It takes a long time to find old records, especially health records. If you had asked for transcripts, it would have been easier. We have almost immediate access to transcripts, but you don’t need those, do you?”

“Not right now.”

She put an armful of annuals down in front of him. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

He went through Dustin’s first. The caption under the graduation picture stated that he was a member of the student council, the Spanish club, the honors club, the scholastic achievement organization, and the B-string football team. The portrait was stiff and unsmiling, but the handsome features shone through the somber pose.

He looked through the ’78 album—the year of Earl’s graduation—but not a trace of the younger brother could be found. Probably dropped out. He tried the ’77 yearbook. Nothing. But he was listed in the ’76 album, and much to his surprise, the picture of Earl was almost a duplicate of his older brother’s.